Jonny McCambridge: Planning trips with plumbing issues in mind

In my younger years I used to enjoy a bit of travelling.
Me on my travels in a more carefree ageMe on my travels in a more carefree age
Me on my travels in a more carefree age

While I was hardly a global jet-setter, I did manage to navigate my way around much of Europe.

There was the summer my girlfriend (now my wife) and I went backpacking in Italy, Hungary, Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina.

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Gallantly, I volunteered to carry her backpack. It was much heavier than my own, largely due to her insistence on packing multiple pairs of shoes and a large hairdryer and straighteners (roughing it, we weren’t).

I struggled from city to city under the weight of the rucksack until eventually my ankles had swollen up to the size of coconuts.

I brought just the one pair of shoes on the trip which, after several soakings in torrential rainstorms, began to stink and led to an unfortunate scene when I was asked to remove them when visiting a mosque in Sarajevo.

On another occasion we went island-hopping in the Aegean Sea. We visited one island which was so remote that there were only a handful of cars.

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I have always had a phobia about driving when abroad. But here, on this island where there was virtually no traffic, I thought it was the place to confront my fear.

I rented a little car and within half an hour had crashed it into a wall.

Looking back, what is striking is how little planning we put into the journeys. We were relaxed enough to make up our itineraries as we went.

When we set off on our honeymoon, we had not booked return tickets or even accommodation for much of the trip. We basically made it up as we moved from country to country. Travelling until we ran out of money.

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Now that I am older, with added responsibilities and worries, things are not the same. Due to Covid, I have not been abroad in three years. Due to the duties of being a parent, any trips we do undertake now need to be planned with a military precision.

Once, I was happy to dander around eastern Europe, without much thought to what I would be doing or where I would be the following day. Now, a simple drive within Northern Ireland has me carrying out detailed research on my phone to plan the itinerary carefully.

This planning is centred around one particular necessity, which would never have entered my head years ago. The necessity to have ready access to a toilet.

Recently, I had to go to Londonderry for work.

So, the night before, I planned my staging posts. There are facilities at Sprucefield. There is a toilet at the Applegreen service station south of Belfast, and another at the Applegreen north of Belfast. There is the opportunity for a pitstop in Dungiven. In case of emergencies, I noted the locations of a couple of parking areas with picnic facilities on the route.

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It may be the case that different parts of the human body age at different speeds. If this is the case, then my bladder is sprinting ahead of the rest of me towards old age.

I set off with plenty of time to spare and the drive passes pretty much as I expected it would. I make all of the requisite stops.

And still, despite all of my careful advanced planning, as I drive into the city, I find that I need to use the toilet again. I make some quick mental judgements. I am not sure if there is a toilet at the location that I have to visit. I reason that turning up to a work engagement having wet myself is not a good way to enhance my professional reputation. I calculate that there is just about time to make one more toilet stop.

I am not very familiar with the maiden city and am grateful when I see a sign for a retail complex. I pull into the car park.

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However, this is not a covered facility with a public convenience, but rather a park with lots of separate self-contained stores. I’m not sure what to do, but I am aware that I really need the toilet now.

I get out of the car and rush to the nearest shop. It is only when I enter that I realise it is a sofa showroom. A smartly dressed young man asks if he can help. I inquire of him if I can use the bathroom. He tells me that the toilet is only for customers.

I consider the plausibility of making a purchase just so I can use the bathroom. The cheapest item in the store is a two-seater sofa for £600. I leave the shop.

The next building which I try is a cavernous DIY store. There is a little café in the corner, and I assume that there must be a toilet here. I walk around through the space with the tables and chairs until I see a door which I assume must be the bathroom.

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I open the door. It leads into a small kitchen and an older woman wearing white overalls gives me a puzzled look. I apologise and retreat.

Now, I am desperate for the toilet. I work my way around the huge DIY store. Past the garden area, the timber, paint and electrical aisles. There is a large bathroom showroom with several sparkling toilets set out for display. I pause momentarily, before sadly shaking my head and moving on.

Eventually, in the darkest corner of the building, I find a door with a sign marked Toilet. I gleefully push through into a long corridor. Here I see another sign.

It reads: ‘Due to a plumbing issue our toilets are currently not in use. Apologies for any inconvenience.’

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I stare at it. I feel I may be about to cry. Whatever ‘plumbing issue’ they are dealing with surely cannot be more desperate and pressing than my own plumbing issue.

I leave the DIY store and am now running across the car park. Then I see a Starbucks coffee shop. I rush inside and hurriedly order an Americano.

To be clear, I have no intention of drinking the coffee. To drink that coffee would only exacerbate the very problem which has led me into the coffee shop in the first place. I order it simply so that I can have access to their toilet.

Moments later I am dashing back in the opposite direction. My new concern is that the amount of time I have spent looking for a toilet is going to result in me being late for the job I was sent to do.

The last thing I see before I leave the shop is my steaming cup of coffee resting on the counter.

For all I know, it is there still.

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