GREAT PUBLIC TOILETS OF OUR TIME

South Lakeland ( Cumbria )comprises mostly gently rolling greenery unterspersed with rocky knolls and woodland. Only a little further north rise the famous fells - the start of spoilt southerner holiday home land.

I'm thrilled to be out of getting-silly-now-with-the-overcrowding London and back close to home. I park the camper in secret seclusion, saunter through a doctored bluebell bois and up onto "Colton Heights" - the place for a walk that my dear old mum's family used to say " blows your cobwebs away "

Up and over I go, and drift vacantly along the farmtrack down the other side. There, in splendid solitude, is revealed the 12th C. Norman church with the old schoolhouse over the road.

(Click on all pics to enlarge up)
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Through the rusty worn old kissing gate, where I kiss the fresh air ( sad, as I trapped one or two girlfriends halfway through there in my younger days ) then keep to the right, down past the disused schoolhouse, now a functions centre for the adjacent church ceremonies.

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This was me mum's school when she was growing up in the nearby village. Only a cold northerly bluster in the ear and animal cries disturb, nay reinforce the peace. I trot down and glance in the classroom-now-kitchen.
Ha! A new OED phrase may be born. . .OUTSIDE IN.

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Dropping down to the bottom end of the roughcast old ( 19th C. ) house, I know what to expect. I've been anticipating this moment with relish all afternoon in fact. Now. The entrance! ( I'm entranced )

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The entrance to a 10 year old breeze block toilet annexe, used (almost) exclusively by church patrons before and after weddings, funerals, christenings and the like. What I like about this place is that it feels so close to "home". For my mum & dad were married here, wee sprog me christened here and my grandparents buried here ( the church and churchyard, not the bog ) as will YT be, in time.

In the interim, I again admire the spartan roughcast white inside. It really is a different bog proposition from anything else previously blogged.

The white door opens into a dual washbasin space, with a kindly provided cloth towl draped over a wooden rail, although personally I would decline its use - even in extremis.

A few steps further in to the sanctuary of "White Wedding" and first left reveals the Gents cubicle. We know it's the Gents because of a prehistoric Windows 95ish computer-generated paper sign pinned to the door! Cute.

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The facilities are clean, in keeping with the overall colour scheme of blanc sur blanc. The back of the door from within the pokey cubicle exemplifies nicely and note the dainty token latch. No need for heavy bolts, we're civilized round here.

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The door is closed and I just sit and sit . . and sit. Glorious quietude, no cars! Magic. Stoney silence of solitude. Result!

My mind wanders, wonders, lost in introspection and possibilities. Maybe, just maybe I'll float in here after they put me in the ground across the road. Mind, who could wish for a nicer hang-out for a disembodied bog blogger's spirit. How will I know I'm dead? When I can put my hand right through these breeze blocks.

After ten I get up, flush and exit the computerized Gents and, turning abruptly left, witness just how great the ladies have it here. A cavernous Ladies-come-disabled space awaits behind another PC-printed door note and sign ( " . ..the toilets are here for your convenience" Christ, what a SOH )

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Oh yeah, a dream space. . .

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Still breezeblocked up, this is obviously a new extension on the old schoolhouse. The basins are dinky indeed, yet the loo roll holders are well-stocked and the etcs are all in place. Those nosey nuerotic long floral-dressed parishiner busybodies keep things nice and orderly herein; that's the plus side bog bonus for sure.

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The spartan white theme continues unabated amongst a shiny happy new breezeblock juxtaposition

A New Dada discovery in fact.
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It's a dinky world of white wonder right down to the hotel soap tablet.

I feel to exit quite smartish in case a woman walks in fresh from putting flowers on a grave, only to find YT loitering with a digicam in the Ladies. It would be quite easily done and the last thing she would ever ever expect, I expect. Wouldn't want to traumatize someone for life - girls get a hard enough time being bugged and sex-pestered by men as it is.

So I exit this special-for-me bog spot, my mind and innards emptied and at rest. A quick look back reveals a charming line-up of windows, constituting the west face of White Wedding.

Hope you got something of the flavour.

White Wedding

Cleanliness, 8/10
Quietness of sit, 10/10 ( weekdays)
Bog Ambience 9/10 superb almost spiritual peace
Location convenience 4/10 Rather remote for all but the most dedicated bog collector.

AA.

( This post dedicated to the lovely Kiwibird for requesting another bogblog. )
If you'd like another, your request is my command. Otherwise I usually can't be arsed, lazy so and so that I can be.

Location; South End Green, Hampstead. London NW3
A traditional turn-of-the-century public loo built near a bus (tram as was) terminus and located near a quirky-traditional wooden black cab taxi drivers' shelter. Located 200 yds from South End Green overground (North London Line) coming 'round from Richmond.

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South End Green is your archetypal leafy yet bustling Hampstead neighbourhood, languishing in a rich cultural and media tradition. Being situated near the the borders with Kentish Town however, the place receives a fair shot in the arm of gritty street reality. I once saw Chris Evans crossing the nearby zebra onto the Heath. Dressed down like a tramp he was.

Anyways I thought it's about time we featured one of these fabtastic Victorian-engineered toilets to give the example of how it should be done today. South End Green public convenience was obviously built on a nerve centre of passing traffic and trade, which continues to this day.

We descend the steep steps underground, increasingly aware of the solid, well crafted built-to-last quality of the tiling to each side, similar if not identical to that used to line the marvellous Hampstead underground station, not a mile up the hill.

My bogblog heart sinks at the sight of a cleaner's yellow warning cone at the bottom of the stairs. I quickly conceal the digicam from view and proceed into the bog.

The first thought that strikes an over-fertile imagination is what a great cover this would make against the first wave of a nuclear attack on central London. The blast wave would kill and level just about everything above ground, but I'd be safe enough down here at my pee I sense, looking around. Trouble is, the searing heat and radiation would not long afterwards enter through the open ends and I would probably die a horrible lingering death, or venture outside and collapse.

Mind you, what are the chances I'd be taking my constitutional down here when a hydrogen bomb goes off a couple of miles away? The imagination is truly a thing of wonder.

But I digress. Whatever happened to that Victorian energy, optimism and sheer dedication to pride in ones work? Look at what they achieved amongst many other things - the building of the world's first capital city underground transport system, a thousand mile network of grand, cathedral-volumous sewers to protect the population from rampant disease. . .and. . ..South End Green toilet.

So here we are, a mini underground work of art, undiminished and unbowed against over a hundred years of countless daily discharges, many of them probably quite shocking to behold. The rock solid tiling covers floor, walls, ceiling and arches alike. The 16-man capacity split urinals are rendered in the most exquisite scultured white porcelain form and topped with respendent, magnificent marble. Bravo Victorian planners, architects, engineers and navies - they were real men in those days! . . Respect!

Moving right along, I immediately psychologically-connect (eye contact) with the cleaner. She ( ! ) is busying herself mopping around inside the cute washbasin area, but is all the while eyeing me up in a distinctly non-sexual manner.. The digicam is still concealed and she gets a wry smile.
Drat!

So I walk straight into a harlequin-tiled cubicle ( one of fifteen ) to think. How to complete my mission here and not invoke the suspicion of the toilet maid?

Totally over-the-top like, I exit the beautifully fashioned interior, camera swinging confidently abouts my person. Dallas Cowboys Baseball cap donned, I smile up to the cleaner as only a Yank tourist can. . ." Well howdy " came the fake drawl. ."you know, I was kinda wonderin' .. .would you mind if I kinda took some, ya know, pictures in here? I mean to say,, it's the darndest cutest little underground outhouse I ever did see! It's growing on me like topsy and I just must snap somethin' for the folks back home!"

" Oh of course sir" she squeeked " be my guest"

And the rest is bogblog history. A piece of cake!
Snapping away to my heart's content, I present the fruits of a hard afternoons bogblogging for your esteemed perusal, ladies and gents.
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All this bog hubris did for me however. I was leaning against one of the pillars at the south end of the bunker, taking one last shot along it's interior length. I squinted through the viewfinder, framed the pic . press ..the digicam focus delay of one second was almost done through when BUMP! . . .click. . .nice pic of the floor there.

Some young chav bounding down the steps had caught my left shoulder. He seemed surprised, turned and then frowned as he at once saw the camera.
A distinct "What the f..k are you doing in here with that?" kind of frown.

I shrugged and bounded up the splendid steps and out into the blessed fresh air/traffic fume mix.

And across to Hampstead Tea Rooms for a Camomille tea from a bone china cup. Oh how disgustingly English!
I squintingly review my bogblog picture haul inbetween sips.
" Nice pictures sir?" smiled the sweet Polish waitress. . ."the Heath?" she quizzed.
"Something like that" I muttered with a quick look and a forced smirk.

She never ever ever would have understood, would she, the poor dear.
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Toilet 17 -South End Green
Cleanliness 9/10
Quietness of use/sit 3/10 ( the London average I expect)
Bog ambience a fabtastic 9/10
Aesthetics 9/10.

Overall verdict; An all-round bunker-buster of a bog!

MSM

PS. It looks inevitable, the way the country is going, that Toilet 17 will get the same capitalist makeover as The Temple bottled lager bar (formerly The Temple Of Convenience, formerly an old underground toilet in Manchester centre).
Thanks to stuck4bobbins for the link.

I take it the place is a little cramped to have a loo? What ultimate irony that would be, a bar without a toilet - in an ex-toilet.

Keswick town centre, Cumbria, 27th December 2005.

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A tourist honeypot throught the seasons, Keswick is a popular walkers' centre and serves the surrounding communities' retail needs. This time of year however, sees the town bristling and bustling to overflowing with outdoorsy folk milling around in search of that missing je ne sais quoi factor in their depleted lives.

Oh and the Christmas dinner etc etc over the past day or two is rapidly catching up with them. After all, who can resist that bowel urge to "go"?
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Located down a quaint cobbled Lake District alleyway and smack bang opposite the main town centre car park, is located the very volumous Toilet 16, catering for the residual urges of, I would venture hundreds of thousands each year. This has to be one of the most frequented toilets in Chrisendom, outwith those horrendously oversubscribed motorway loos, where privacy and sanitation are things of the past. Your humble bog blogger could not find a single second in which a gent did not fill the camera frame, either coming in or going out of the place. Amazing. That festive food and drink overload was sure going some!

Another walk-in latrine . . . click to enlarge this pic and you will see what I mean - there's another satisfied customer barging out at the same time.
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The innards of the gents section, on this occasion defeated your humble bogblogger's mission in the regard of there being just too many half-sozzled blokes loitering about betwixt trap, urinal, wash basin and hand dryer.

Oh and just for good measure, several parading wallflower-like in front of the mirrors, combs in hands. Well, actually, some of the rugs did rather look like they'd been dragged hedge through a backwards TM. What the hell, at this time of year everything's f**ked up.

Too many upperty Scrooges there in fact, to risk being taken for some extraordinary new breed of pervert - the lavatory snapper. So believe it or not, I am forced to complete my official documentation of this ever so popular convenience on my return south from Scotland on New Years Eve.

Even then, as we see later, I find only a mere two minutes free time to take my pics before being rudely interrupted by yet another gent walking in, ugring for the urinal.

My Lord the food & drink ingestion that must have gone on. Talk about pigging-out.
So I pop in smartish and snap away. The first impression is of an incredibly vast toilet space of arcadian proportions, replete with an elongated 20' SS urinal to the right, three traps to the left and a neat line of wash basins with attendant mirrors above, reflecting back the keen image of YT, digicam to squinting eye, taking his art seriously.

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Panning - if you excuse the expression - upwards, the digicam captures the resplendant headroom here, a good 30 ft in fact, to the apex of the iron-beamed skylight roof, reminiscent in height of the Ugly Pink Sister of Sanqhar ( Toilet 14, check it out ). This roof area, as we will see from trap 1 later, reminds in some strange sense of an aviary (note chicken wire fence up on the left)

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Oh yeah, there I am
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The whole shooting match has been tiled up to the max; terracottas on the floor & urinal step space, the walls being entirely clad with standard sanitary white oblongs interspersed with a single line of tasteful oyster blues. The four wash basins are modern, clinically clean and functional -as they would well need to be to cater for the massive day-long demand in this busy busy bog.

Getting nervous here, expecting interruption any second.
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Before making a dive for trap one to record the hidden delights therein, it's time to check out more of the furniture

Some Mega trough this - takes on all comers - with room for at least a dozen standing bladders bursting with the processed remains of Keswick's finest alcoholic beverages.
Now for a look @ trap 1
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Cubicle one was relatively clean and well kempt, the regulation black plastic lid hiding yet another bog standard Shanks bowl. I can only assume the atttendant was on duty and had recently done a round of cleaning here, for I had been in the trap for less than five seconds before footfalls spoke of the toilet seeing another half dozen post Christmas-full touristy bodies meandering in, in search of blessed relief.

Sitting on the black lid, I see the closed trap door opposite gives away a few more clues as to the weird psychology going on here from time to time.

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. . .and this beats the Beast of Brecon for past door kick-ins. .
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What's this been all about then? I'd wager you don't get this kind of fixated tripe in the Ladies ( don't click to enlarge if you are easily offended)
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. . .totally distasteful and uncouth, but I bring this to you bogblog fans purely in the line of duty in the form of research into the hidden side of this perculiar country we live in.

Anyways, looking up to get away from that vile imagery, we are reminded again, in some surreal sense that I cannot explain, of the roof of an aviary or big bird house, with the use of wire mesh to either side ( to combat over-the-wall peepers I presume) combined with the conservatory feel. A conservatory lavatory. . . ah well, it takes all kinds I suppose.

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Waiting for a quiet minute to ensure we have a vacant loo again, I pretend-flush the bowl in trap 1 and sally forth into the main arena to immediately take a quick sneak peep round the corner, to the only unexplored part of the Post Festivity Repository so far unseen by the roving bogbloggers eye. Out comes the digicam again. . . the snap revealing a couple of dinky hand dryers and a disappointingly decrepit waste paper bin which, it has to be said, lowers the tone of the entire toilet.
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A fraction of a second after taking this pic I was startled from behind by some agricultural-looking guy entering the joint. I turned and attempted to conceal the camera at the same time but I'd been rumbled. Our eyes met, he looked bloody darned suspicious it has to be said.

I could peripheral-sense his head turn and local redneck eyes drill into the back of my exiting LONSDALE of London baseball capped head as he stood at the urinal, unzipping himself. What a weirdo, he must have thought.

Ah well, you can't win em all.

AA.

Located just off the main parking square directly adjacent to the Co-op and across from the old Safeways/new Morrisons in the charming south Wales market town of Brecon, languishes this longpig beast of a bog. An integral part of the scenery hereabouts, but which could do with a fresh coat of whitewash; we approach the Gents ( Dynion ) from the square.

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Two curiosities strike as one passes through the doorway. Firstly even the "Gents" sign has to have its Welsh translation, as if we are in a foreign country. It's a bog, chaps - I mean no one in their right mind is going to mistake it for a tailors. Second, for some bizarre reason, this south Wales cottage has a recurring theme of a Boy Scout-like motif repeatedly emblazened on surfaces throughout its internal structure. Don't ask me what that's all about, I'm only the humble bog-blogger.
Swiftly entering the long house we find;

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the space expanding to Tardis-like volume, the 12-man shiny steel urinal at the far end being the first object of attention. The second sense in here is one of social intercourse. This is a very well frequented toilet and on previous visits I have found several locals discussing life and times whilst attending to nature's call. The flavour of the place is almost cattle market banter-friendly. Moving right along, or more precisely, turning sharp right, we discover

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a line of 6 pokey cubicles with a larger disabled tagged on the end. Again, the Brecon town toilet logo irritates. What the hell is that wretched squiggle?
Rendered in fetching fawns and dark green with tan tiling, the colour scheme is about right I suppose, for a popular public loo. As one approaches the traps, one ( or at least 6ft one" me ) notices the dolls' house nature of the doors and low dividing partitions.

Seriously short on height, one sees that one could engage in a conversation, should one so desire, with someone of similar Englishness of height standing in the adjacent cubicle. All you'd have to do is tippytoe a bit to have eye contact. Again, evidence -backed up by our Smallest Toilet in the World bog-blog from July- that the Welsh, bless their dragon-sewn cotton socks, are somewhat vertically challenged, as a rule. . .

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Dismissing the uncomfortably exposed and voyeristic feeling of being ensconsed in trap 3 and after admiring the random glass brick placement in the walls, we wander around the corner to the substantial stainless twin wash basin section. How many chirpy- cheerful brief Welsh-accented boyo dialogues have passed between wash handy locals here over the years, one muses. The basins and surfaces are spacious indeed, reminding of a meeting place of quite some unstated importance. ( see bottom of blog for pic)
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Before leaving this gossip house of sorts, we pop back into a trap to snatch a pic of the securing locks and bolts which struck the eye before.

Similar damage is evidenced on all trap doors, even the roomier disabled, so signs here of a fairly brutal side to folk, presumably after the pubs close on the weekends. Certainly wouldn't fancy being interrupted at my sit by some Welsh Rugby try converter wannabe's drunken match practice door kick-ins.

Suppose they have to vent their frustrations somewhere, at having to live life at under 5 feet seven and getting beaten by the English at just about everything ( except decency ).

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I saunter out of Brecon Public Conveniences, past the Ladies at the other end of the block and into the square, in a kind of bog daze. Shall I buy milk at the adjacent Co-op or the new manic Morrisons across the way?

Decisions decisions.

The horrible new genetically modified Morrisons it is, for the Co-op smells like an old folks home.

MSM

BTW, The Walrus, aka the good Dr Dark, says this convenience is, or was back in the summer, less than sqeeky C. Reminding that I forgot the token hygene count; I'd venture an average to poor 5/10 and quietness of sit rating at virtually zero.
Great place to informally meet & greet the locals though.

PS. The Welsh for "Police", which the cops have writ large on all their partol cars, is HEDDLU.
Hahahahaha

Had to get that one in, the Heddlu swine stop you on any country road after about 11pm for no reason other than everyone else has gone to bed by 10 - and issue you with some ticket instructing to take your insurance etc documentation to your local police station within a week.

They need something to do out there besides banging young lambs.

Sanquhar public conveniences, in SW Scotland, are located in a quiet square just off the busy main trunk road from Ayr through Nithsdale to Dumfries and England; is about as understated a loo as you are likely to find. The two main claims to fame of this Dumfries & Galloway wild west bandit- country town are that one; it hosts the oldest post office in the British Isles, with a postmaster who bears a striking almost doppleganger resemblance to that Geordy car dog "Ohhh Yes" on the old Churchill car insurance TV ads - in both body and voice! And two, the Scottish bard Robbie Burns used to drink here 200 years ago.
Nowadays everyone drinks here. And how.
We arrive on a quiet & grey July '05 weekday mid-morning. Kind of hung-over quiet if you CMD.
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Upon entry into this pretty bleak yet surprisingly spacious exercise in stacked pink breeze blocks, one gapes upwards at the incredibly high beamed & Dormered ceiling. Perhaps they were initially going to add another floor and decided not at the last minute? Only in Scotland.
So it's left to a few optimistic Scottish spiders to take up home & net curtain the beams.

Venturing straight through into the one number two cubicle, which doubles as a Disabled; although the picture doesn't adequately convey the scene, it is pink cavernous indeed and gives one a sense of being vip bog royalty upon the throne ~ one's own private personal loo studio in fact. One would be almost guaranteed a quiet sit here weekdays, but it would be rather a long way to travel, just for that.

Next up and adhering strictly to order of useage
is another of those bizarre stainless steel hole-in-the-wall wash basins, this one having been kicked in to hell by local late night drunken Kung Fu enthusiasts. Probably venting their rage at the new wave of house-price-rise-money-for-nothing English escapee incomers buying up all the decent local housing, in their frantic search for peace and quiet outwith the giant aggrressive rat run that is now England.

Anyways, the sad little effort consequently barely affords a trickle. Terrible terrible design anyway, it surely got its just deeserts. Still, the pink surround is rather fetching.
Again, the wretched Dumfries & Galloway council play safe with stainless steel with regards the three-man urinal adjacent to said (sad) wash basin. Is it quirky Scottish planning or co-incidence that the red teracotta floor tiling here seems to adopt a distincly tartanesque look?

Cleanliness good 7/10
Quietness of sit, 8/10
Scaciousness of cubicle a delightful 10/10 gold star.
Apart from this, all in all an eccentric excercise in redundant high ceilinged pink that you could only find north of the border.

MSM
This bogblog dedicated to the good Eggbod and Visitor who gave me a boot up the jacksy to do another.