Holes in the ground, holes in the ground...

Well, I never imagined that I’d get excited by a Portaloo – but excited is precisely what I was when I went to Nostell Priory today (or Nostril Priory, as my four-year-old daughter thought it was called). Oh yes: not only was there a seat on the loo, but there was also a hand basin with soap and – oh, miracle of miracles – water.

I have never been a great fan of loos in fields, but our recent holiday in France has finally taught me to count my toiletary blessings. Persuaded by my husband and his even more persuasive French-dwelling friend to venture out of Yorkshire and into the French Pyrenees for a week, I had been full of reservations (would we all die in an air crash? Even worse: would the children die in an air-crash that we survived? Would we have to eat frogs’ legs and wear onions round our necks?) Some of my anxieties had been quelled by the large box of Yorkshire Tea and jar of Marmite which almost cost me a fortune in excess baggage – but nothing had prepared me for the really big problem.

I was lulled into a false sense of security at Perpignan airport, where the loos were really quite civilised (i.e. similar to ones at home), give or take a few thousand resident flies. This generally positive effect continued at our friends’ house, where the main oddity was a malfunctioning pull-flush. And so I was not in the slightest bit concerned when my daughter declared “I need a poo” as we made our way through a cathedral cloister: I had already noticed the handy “WC” at the entrance to the garden. But what a sight met our eyes: right behind the door was a noxious porcelain tray-thing with a hole in the middle. Daughter looked as horrified as I felt. “I don’t really need a poo,” she declared, as we tumbled out backwards.

“It’s a hole in the ground!” I told my husband once I’d regained my breath (which I had been holding, lest the stink knock me unconscious). “Ah yes,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you about French toilets?”

“I still don’t need a poo,” said Daughter, hopping around and clutching herself madly. “I don’t need a wee either.”

Meanwhile, our six-year-old son had pricked up his revolting ears. A hole in the ground? Now that really was of interest to a boy. “I need a poo,” he declared gleefully.

“No you don’t,” I replied.

“No you don’t,” my husband replied.

“I’m bursting for a poo,” he countered.

Grrrrrr.

Well, even if you don’t believe them, it never pays to ignore children’s purported lavatorial urges, and so back we went to the dreaded hole in the ground. Mission accomplished, to his delight (not least because he had proved me wrong about his needs), we faced the next challenge: flushing the pesky thing. Yes, there was a flush – but where exactly did the water go? Were we in for an unexpected shower? We pressed the flush – and ran, fast. No need to worry about hand-washing, as there was no wash-basin. Thank goodness for my Wilko antibacterial hand-wipes.

Sadly, this was not a one-off experience. The following day at the beach offered civilisation in the form of a loo-pan and a hand-basin – but the water supply didn’t seem to stretch to either of them (and my thigh-muscles don’t stretch to prolonged crouching). I soon worked out that the easiest option was not to drink all day, in the hope that severe dehydration would reduce the need to encounter les WCs francaises. All I can think is that French women do not have periods.

Why, when the French can do so many things so well (peaches, tomatoes, sunny weather), do they fail so spectacularly to provide usable toilets? I strongly suspect there is some secret parallel toiletary universe which only the French know about, where they sit on their de-luxe loos and giggle at the thought of the English tourists weeing on their Crocs.

What I do know for a fact is that I will never, ever complain about an English toilet again. Mr. Portaloo, I salute you.