‘If you look very carefully you can see my curly poo’ says Freya on a sleepover, peering into the toilet. Of all my nieces and nephews, she is the most interested in the toilet and needs a wee several times an hour. She particularly likes to sprinkle in the sawdust with the care of an artisan baker.

I rarely peer into the toilet but when I do I can’t see much. It’s been two years and there’s still no sign it will need emptying any time soon. It was built by Tom, who dug mighty depths in the rain.

Half of one wall is a window looking out at the trees across the stream. Mark took a photo of the view and Timmy has a copy in his bathroom, presumably because I sent him a Christmas card of my toilet in the snow. There are flowers and bracken on the roof and jasmine growing up the walls. 

Inside is a shelf for my tent, and hooks for string and secateurs. Under the scythe is a framed print of the Wyle Cop in Shrewsbury, a gift which was too big for my caravan. So now when I’m having a wee, I feel like the Nag’s Head is just down the hill.