In this age of composting toilets my dear friend remains inexplicably attached to the "adventure" of her cottage outhouse. Not so attached that she was morally prevented from having a composting toilet installed in the quaintly designed, tin roofed, pine panelled, professionally constructed outhouse that is some 4o yards -- excuse me, metres -- from the nearest cottage door. Not a significant distance unless you suffer some urgent and impending sense that you must empty your colon immediately if not sooner lest you should soil your jammies, the floor, the dog, the walls and your unsuspecting and blissfully snoring partner. Then it may as well be on the moon. Even under normal circumstances, when nature makes a gentle but insistent midnight call and you are faced with putting on shoes and long pants and the long sleeves and probably socks and one of those fetching little net veils over the stained ball cap provided and perhaps a little of the heavy duty bug spray because its been raining for three days and the out house is out in the woods with the biting insects, its still more of a hike than most persons would want.
My friend describes her cottage as a "heritage" property. She is keen to preserve it in its original form . But even the well cared for historical hovels and castles of England have some modern conveniences. No one expects the devoted dwellers of these estates to toddle down the garden path to pee. They're not crossing their legs and limiting fluids after 7, becoming cranky and constipated and dehydrated so as to avoid the dreaded midnight run.
Even if you don't want to spoil the line of your heritage property by all means make an addition or a very closely aligned separate building in a hidden spot, no more than a hop, skip and a fart from the back door. I would even suggest a board walk. Consider a screened in breezeway.
I have a composting toilet IN my cottage. It can be done. Our Spun Sugar Delicate former Governor General Adrienne Clarkson has one in her cottage. And if her dainty digestive system can empty its white rose scented discard into an indoor composting toidy, well then we can all follow her lead, and smugly lower our smarty pants nearer to our dear ones, privately ensconced and enthroned upon our environment and olfactory friendly loos. And we may feel royally pleased with ourselves.
All with grace and dignity and without feeding the mosquitos.
