Showering in Britain

Have you ever been to England and tried to take a shower? No, I’m not talking about a 4-star hotel, but a typical B&B where you get a chance to immerse yourself in family life. Never? Then you’ve really missed out and should try it. I’ve visited this country many times and even lived there for a while. During that time, I’ve come to know and love all the little quirks. Honestly, they all have their own unique charm, and you get used to them surprisingly quickly.

People drive on the “wrong” side of the road, the metric system is known but not fully implemented, and the Queen still smiles as a young woman on all the coins, even though she’s well over 90. Roundabouts, as we call traffic circles, even come in multi-lane versions here, and you still must get your pint at the bar. Of course, the pint is filled to the brim with no extra foam – where would we be otherwise? Meals, however, are served at the table, and many are surprised by what today’s restaurants offer. It’s no longer just fish and chips.

Why orange marmalade is called "marmalade" while everything else is labeled "jam" remains a mystery to most outsiders – but if it tastes good, who cares? Even in fashion, the British haven’t fallen behind. Carnaby Street was once the mecca of fashion pioneers, and successful gentlemen had their suits tailored on Savile Row. Even today, jackets have two vents in the back. In the countryside, you might see people wearing rubber boots with a pink-purple tie. Of course, the iconic Barbour jacket is a must, and the Land Rover is either green or blue.

Simply charming – I love this country and its quirky but lovable people.

Arrival in England

Not too long ago, I was traveling with family members in the land of mild beer and unpredictable weather. Our first day started with a long drive west from London Heathrow Airport. We were in a slightly worn-out minibus, and after a few miles – excuse me, kilometers – we had to pump the tires. Of course, that costs money, but how does one operate the air pump machine? How many bars correspond to the values shown by the BSI? Or do you need to input something else? We managed to overcome this challenge, and soon we were back on the highway, until we eventually turned onto an A-road.

Later, we navigated through A-roads with double and triple-digit numbers before finally turning onto a B-road. These B-roads, it seems, have probably existed since Roman times. Most of the time, we drove along high hedges and could only catch glimpses of the landscape’s beauty from the highway. Fields, hedges, old villages, and flocks of sheep everywhere – it was enchanting. But did the sheep look a little sad? Or was I just imagining that?

We finally arrived at our destination: a farm, an Elizabethan-era manor house made of gray sandstone, in the middle of nowhere. I lugged the heavy suitcases out of the van across the gravel driveway and climbed the steep stairs to the rooms on the top floor. Sweat was pouring down, and my shirt was soaked. Oh well.

The room was modest and offered barely enough space to store my clothes and toiletries. Where should I put my toothbrush and toothpaste? "No, no, I won’t put my clothes in that wardrobe," I thought to myself. "They’ll smell like centuries of dust and sweat. Who knows who’s lived here before – maybe there are even insects." Indeed, later I found small black pellets on the floor, which turned out to be pill bugs rolling around in fear on the worn carpet. A long-legged spider dangled from the ceiling, and my nose, accustomed to Switzerland’s clinical cleanliness, picked up a faint, aromatic scent of dogs and horses in the air.

Yes, we had arrived – on a horse farm, deep in Dorset County, where England still felt like the original England. Everything looked as it had 40 years ago, except now the television displayed color images. “All Creatures Great and Small” was playing, and parked on the farm was a Land Rover Discovery V6 Diesel – very fitting.

At this point, I won’t go into further detail about our first impressions.

Otherwise, this story could go on forever.

Time Jump 1: The Shower Battle on Sunday Morning

It was Sunday morning, 7:00 a.m. The day greeted us through the always-open windows, and it was chilly – the room was, of course, unheated. The sun hid behind gray-blue clouds that hinted at rain, promising a dreary day. Typical British weather, right? I had survived my first night in the creaky double bed, despite the swaying movements and all that comes with it.

Suddenly, I heard a faint cry for help: “The shower isn’t working!” Naturally, I couldn’t leave my dear wife in her distress, so I rushed into the bathroom. Since there wasn’t enough room for two, she had to step out first, and I was left standing in front of a masterpiece of British engineering. You wouldn’t see anything like this in Switzerland, I thought. In the past, such a device would probably have been made from slightly rusting metal, but today its polished resin surface reflected the dim light of the 20-watt bulb. A button beckoned to be pressed.

Nothing happened – no cold water, no hot water, no humming, no rattling. It was what’s called a tankless water heater. The device had clearly failed us, or perhaps it had never worked at all? “Tankless water heater” doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it? In the dim light of the 20-watt bulb, it was hard to see anything. But I wasn’t going to give up so easily. This thing wasn’t going to beat me.

In the faint light, I spotted several cords of varying lengths hanging from the wall. Surely, they were meant to be pulled, right? My grandmother had similar cords in one of the guest rooms. In the winter, in unheated rooms, you could pull the cord to turn the light on and off without leaving the warm bed. So, I pulled the longer cord. There was a faint click, but nothing happened. "Okay," I thought, "maybe a little stronger pull," and voilà – the light came on. The 20-watt bulb cast a yellowish glow that transformed the fixtures from dingy white to a more pleasant ivory.

Now I realized I was in a combined bathroom with a toilet but no bathtub. The most important feature – the shower – was hidden behind a limp, slightly grimy nylon shower curtain. Instinctively, I grabbed the shorter cord. "If the long one is for the light, the short one must be for the water," I thought. A firm tug, and with a click-clack, the button on the water heater lit up in a menacing green. A gurgling sound followed by a mechanical hum told me water would soon flow from the showerhead.

Cautiously, I stepped out of the shower’s splash zone – you never knew if freezing cold or scalding hot water would come rushing out. My old but still luxurious French body didn’t deserve such punishment. "You were right, my dear. We’ll figure this out," I reassured myself. Now I just had to turn the knob, which was marked in blue and red, to the correct position. Using my hand as a tester, I felt the water gradually warm up. Finally, the moment had come I stepped under the warm stream.

Admittedly, it was less of a stream and more of a gentle drizzle, but it was enough to gradually wet my entire body. It was time to use the complimentary shower gel provided by the landlord. I spread it over my body with glee, lathered up, and enjoyed the scent of lavender. The night’s sweat was quickly washed away. Lavender wasn’t exactly my favorite, but the alternative – orange blossom – immediately lifted my spirits. "Splash it on!" I thought, as a hint of Spain filled the room.

Lost in thought, I enjoyed the rhythmic hum of the water heater and the gentle drip of the water. The water must have been very low in lime, as my hair felt silky. I directed the droplets over my head, neck, shoulders, and the rest of my body. Occasionally, there was a brief cooling sensation followed by a burst of intense heat – but I soldiered on.

At that moment, I noticed my dear wife still standing half-naked in the cool room, a towel wrapped around her body and her bare feet on the yellowed rug. “Now I’d like to shower too,” she gently reminded me, signaling the end of my shower ritual.

Time Jump 2: Breakfast and Shower Tales

We sat at breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, and so on. Everything you could want, and all that English cuisine had to offer. I was surprised that no one asked for porridge or oatmeal.

I was sitting at the large table with the hosts, my hair freshly blow-dried and styled with hair gel from my Kurdish barber. The scent of orange blossom and lavender mixed with the ever-present, but pervasive, smell of the horse stable. “Would you like more toast? White or whole wheat?” asked our host, and we eagerly helped ourselves.

“This shower – either you get boiled alive or frozen solid,” I heard my family members complain. Their hair still stood a bit wildly in all directions. Apparently, they couldn’t find the right balance between hot and cold water and had likely skipped their full morning wash. Others in the house seemed to be grappling with the challenges of British plumbing as well. Over breakfast, we exchanged stories from the last 24 hours, highlighting the differences between the two countries. We were reminded of the high standards we had left behind at home: no questions about hot or cold water, steady water flow with consistent pressure between 2 and 4 bars, and showers available at any time of day with softened water that made cleaning easier. Some even boasted about their LED-lit showers, turning the experience into a mini disco party. The longing for the comforts of home was obvious, but thankfully, our hosts didn’t understand our conversation, so we smiled politely at each other.

Humans adapt quickly to new conditions, whether they like it or not. After two nights in the small Room No. 2, we moved to the larger Room No. 3, which had a bathtub and an extra bed. There was no shower hose, but that didn’t diminish the landlord’s good intentions.

Early in the morning, I quietly and half-naked snuck back to the now-vacant Room No. 2 to use the familiar shower. It was something special – and included in the price. Plus, I enjoyed sleeping alone in a single bed, free from the rocking and creaking of the old box spring mattresses. A few nights later, I even braved the communal shower. They say, “sharing is caring” and good for the environment, so once again, I crept through the halls early in the morning, towel wrapped around my hips, belly tucked in and headed to the “shared shower.” First, I moved the vacuum cleaner out of the way and stuck the suction-cup bathmat to the sidewall of the shower stall. I used the English cleaning products liberally – maybe it was Mr. Clean or Cillit Bang? I’m sure millions of English bacteria lost their lives, but they probably wouldn’t have gotten along with our Swiss bacteria anyway. I left the glass walls as they were, since there was no squeegee to push the remaining water into the drain. I unscrewed the drain cover, dissolved some greasy, slimy mess with “Antigrease,” and flushed down the hair clumps that had clogged the drain for weeks. “Gross,” you might say, and my family probably would too. But I could only respond calmly that in India, people bathe on the side of the road.

I finally mastered the tankless water heater in Room No. 2 and in the communal shower. The green light no longer glared at me so menacingly, and even the water pressure was stronger. The shower seemed to like me now. My wife, on the other hand, only washed herself once in the tub without a hose in our room. When Room No. 2 was booked for a night and the trip to the communal shower seemed too daunting, there was no other choice. I never locked the communal shower door; after all, I didn’t need to worry about being caught naked. The other residents of the house had either showered much earlier or likely only showered once a week.

The morning ritual became a pleasure for me. In 14 nights, I used the shower in Room No. 2 twice, the communal stall three times, and I secretly washed in the bathroom of Room No. 2 eight times – and no one ever noticed.

The vacation was over, and the tankless water heater performed admirably on its last day. The green LED smiled kindly at me, and I enjoyed my final shower. Now I could look forward to reuniting with my home shower and Prada shower gel. As for our accommodation, I often wondered whether the lack of modernization was due to money issues, British modesty, or worse, simple lack of interest. A shame, really, because the potential was certainly there.

That’s it. Anyone who travels always has something to tell – even if it’s just about bathroom observations.

Shower Poem

Joyful showering, how I love it,

Water drips from the sieve,

Showering is such fun for me,

I get soaked completely.

From the tips of my hair,

To the smallest body lair,

The water flows right in.

Splash it on and make the foam,

Chase away the night’s wild dream.

Smoothes my wrinkles, oh so fine,

Brings wellness to this body of mine.

Apple green and orange scent,

Bring the South to the air's extent.

Morning showers are pure delight.

The warm water must pitter-patter,

The shower gets wetter and wetter.

Steam spreads as the dampness flows,

Washing becomes a daily prose.

Now a strong spray, just for good measure,

Since today’s the last time for this pleasure.

Freshly showered, I start my day.