For tourists, especially seniors, toilet breaks are of course a necessity. I’ve managed to avoid roadside forays behind bushes, but finding a clean and free loo, in terms of cost as well as accessibility and availability, is no mean feat on a long bus journey across rural Scotland or Ireland. Buses at times come with ‘facilities’. But these are generally for unplanned ‘emergencies’, and like kindergarten kids, once one wants to go, observe the butterfly effect and soon everyone gets that sinking thinking ‘I need a pee’ feeling or, worse, an imminent number two. As the bus has to carry over any ‘deposits’ until it returns to base, we’d generally rather people realised their investments at scheduled stops, refuelling to later ‘defuel’ under controlled conditions on terra firma. On the train the issue is, well, less of an issue as long as they remember to lock the door. It’s not unknown for travellers to close the door, assume the position assuming self locking doors, and then get an unwarranted privacy invasion mid flow or in full grimace. Not an image to hold onto for long, but you only make that mistake once, even if once is one too many.
This leads me on to toilet talk – from bathrooms with no baths and restrooms where I know I’d rather not rest any longer than necessary, to toilets, pans, loos and bidets (or bidets), wc’s, little boys’ and little girls’ rooms. Such a plethora of names for where we perform such simple functions. The Ladies, the Gents, the washrooms, public conveniences add to the mix with semantic contributions – is it really more convenient than behind a tree (arguably more public) and is it really only ladies and gentlemen who use such facilities? After all that, maybe bathroom is suitably vague, hiding away in ambiguity what you’re actually doing. Victorian Americans? Surely not.
And then there are the mysteries of hotel bedroom and bathroom design. It seems either the designers or installers have no concept of where to put things for ease and convenience rather than aesthetics unless, of course, they are double-jointed or long in the limb department. Loo roll dispensers behind you, where unless you’re accustomed to receiving backhanders or playing basketball they remain just that bit out of reach. Dispensers of soaps, lotions and potions placed in the shower in such a way that with foamy face and without your glasses you’ll most likely condition first, then moisturise, wash it off with shampoo and then bodywash the hair. But at least you’ll smell nice.
Another mystery is what happens with towels. Sustainability and saving the earth dictate you should use the one towel for your stay, hang it up to dry, declare you don’t want the room serviced. But where do I hang the towel, and why do they insist on replacing mine when I do? Rooms are often serviced every few days but they do have a habit of arranging their visits just when your room is on most disarray – particularly as an Englishman’s room is his office when on tour. Power sockets frequently go just where they’re least useful and you have to choose between light, CPAP and phone charging. And on the subject of light, why are hotel rooms always so dark and with bad wifi? To encourage you to use the bar more perhaps?
Anyway, Edinburgh impressed as ever – probably my favourite British city, so I guess I’m biased. It impressed despite new arrivals barely arriving, one arriving having been wheeled off a plane… twice … because the luggage was too heavy to lug, and heaving it from place to place had taken its toll on their septegenarian spine. The main body of the group were arriving in Edinburgh by plane from the US and Canada, exhausted and excessively laden, taxied to the hotel and temporarily homeless as rooms weren’t ready (the norm for morning arrivals). By the time our train drew in most had explored a little, some had expired a little too, and I had my work cut out welcoming, coddling and cajoling them to stay awake until dinner, when they could fall asleep in their soup after being oriented and safety briefed.
Lulled into a false sense of security with ‘I just need my bed and a good sleep’, I was dragged awake by a call from reception:
“One of your guests called an ambulance and it will be here in ten minutes. Thought you’d want to know.”
Did I? Well, yes, but couldn’t it have waited just another hour? Of course not. Back pain waits for no man or woman (except in a shopping trolley or in a suitcase). So, hastily clothed, I race to reception, then to the room, listening in to the paramedics giving advice, reassurance and instructions. Judiciously from outside the door. Waiting for a sign it was safe and appropriate to get involved. Knock knock… all good, tests came out fine, painkillers needed, pharmacy opens in just a few hours (half an hour before departure). Breakfast was aspirational again. And so was the morning’s sightseeing, at least for our spinally challenged arrival, but at least no hospital, no excessive paperwork just report in and stay on the case. All in a day’s work. At least I didn’t need to walk the dog too!
Edinburgh, the streets, galleries, the Royal Mile, palace, castle and cobbles, the museums and mysteries still held the attention and clearly thrilled our guests, while the hotel vacilated between ‘what can I do?’ and ‘what the …? Really?’ Bathtubs where walk-ins were preferred for the vertically challenged or arthritic, and viceversa; stuttering wifi and problem plumbing; all found a delicate balance but didn’t make those important good first impressions that last. Even the chance of a free afternoon in the city, before we left the next day, wasn’t enough to encourage exploration across the board. We slowly ‘stormed’ the castle, were kept away from the Scottish ‘honours’ for some undeclared reason, and I kept up the rear, counting heads. Then we dispersed, giving a welcome respite before walking the less independent to the waiting coach to return to the hotel, but treating them to a hidden historical gem with a visit to the hammer-beamed Old Parliament Hall where 14th century Scots debated the future, and later disbanded, only to be reinstated centuries later with ‘devolved powers to govern’. Added value and without fear of instagram, given the rule of not photographing the hall.
Soon we were northward bound, ultimately for Oban’s highland gateway, en route taking in the superb Stirling castle, Callander with a light and heavy heart for a light or heavy lunch, feeding and fussing the Kilmahog coos and then following the sun to the west. Oban, Fort William for a whisky tour and tasting, dram good for all concerned. Glencoe in the wet, Spean Bridge in the woollen mill for lunch. Then a jaunt to Oban for dinner, sunset and sleeping everything off – including a renewed taste for whisky.
Then all of a sudden it was off to and around Glasgow, then ferry-bound to Belfast. We lunched in Inveraray, Loch Lomond and Luss, where fewer than in the past take the high road, then on to glorious Glasgow with its faded grandeur, immense street art, modern and historic architecture, and 21st century upgrades.Touring the ‘fair green place’ always offers up something different. Guests went on to explore the food on offer from Japanese to Indian, Spanish and Italian. St Mungo, with his problem solving attitude would, I’m sure, have made light work of the British roads and railways, but our driver Alan was a master at work. I never cease to be amazed at the ability of coach and driver to turn on a sixpence and navigate the backroads and shortcuts, defying Mr Google’s dire predictions of late arrival.
International-Eyes.org 