Getting Into Hot Water

“Patrons of this bath when using seaweed would oblige the management by putting the used seaweed into the bucket provided for the purpose before letting off the water.”

--E. Kilcullen, June 1912

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That was the notice on the bathroom wall. It was no ordinary bathroom. It was a room in an extraordinary establishment, Kilcullen’s Seaweed Baths, in this seaside village in County Sligo, on Ireland’s northwest coast.

A few friends and I were touring Ireland and had come here in the month of June to indulge in what the establishment’s brochure described as “the ultimate bathing experience.” The baths had been a functional necessity in the days before indoor plumbing. We would enjoy them as a restorative for busy moderns. We were going to immerse ourselves in water silky with oil extracted from seaweed, we were going to float in a tranquil amber-tinted sea of unashamed luxury, and we were going to experience the most natural stress reduction therapy ever envisioned.

There are nine private bathrooms, and I was led to mine by the proprietor himself, a great-grandson of the founder. The young Mr. Kilcullen proudly pointed out the amenities to me, and when he was assured that I knew how they all worked, left me to enjoy this new experience.

As I slowly undressed, I checked out the surroundings. In one corner was a cedar-wood steam cabinet, in which I was to sit for the first stage of relaxation, before my silky soak.

Dominating the room was the most enormous porcelain tub I had ever seen, at least 9 feet long. The establishment might have found it prudent to hang a life preserver from the wall to give fortification to the faint of heart.

Centered above the tub was a white porcelain cistern with a long handle hanging down from it, not unlike the water cisterns over toilets that I was used to from my upbringing in the heart of the English countryside. This contraption held a quantity of cold seawater with which to give the bather a final rinse.

The room was warm and humid, and I had trouble getting off my jeans, which seemed to be sticking to my skin. I idly wondered how much trouble I would have putting them on again.

I entered the steam cabinet through the door on the front and perched myself precariously on the narrow wooden board that served as a seat. I acquainted myself with the levers that controlled the steam, which were on the inside of the cabinet. I pulled the door shut and lowered the lid that allowed my head to stick out the appropriate hole. I reached down for the “on” lever with my left hand and discovered an immediate problem. Due to a childhood accident, my left arm cannot be fully extended, and despite a massive effort of straining, the position of my head above the lid prevented me from reaching the lever. I heaved up the weighty lid with my right hand, thus releasing my head so that I could bend over farther to reach the lever with my left hand. I gave the mechanism a mighty tug. I dropped the lid back into place, nearly crowning myself with it, and a blast of hot steam seared my bottom, still barely balanced on the wooden slat. I hastily hefted the lid again and swiftly readjusted the temperature of the steam.

We had been advised to sit and relax in the cabinet for about 10 minutes, but after three or four minutes, I had had enough and released myself from the uncomfortable confinement.

I approached the tub, which had been filled almost to the brim with heated seawater and much seaweed. I dipped my toe in to test the temperature and found it acceptable. The water was brown, dark and uninviting.

I took a deep breath and cautiously lowered myself into the liquid. The water felt smooth and oily. The seaweed was extremely slippery, and initially I viewed it with some suspicion, even though we had been assured that it had been thoroughly steam-cleaned. On closer inspection, nothing unpleasant seemed to be clinging to the fronds, so I endeavored to relax.

As I lay back in the tub, I decided the water was really a little too hot, so I proceeded to turn on the cold water faucet. To do this I had to use a brass key that fitted into the tap but was separate from it. My hands were slippery, and once I had the cold water running I found to my horror that I had dropped the key into the bath. I tried to fish for it and keep my head above water. This was not possible. The bath was too deep.

I frantically considered my options. If I did not turn off the cold water soon, the tub would overflow and flood the room. I knew I could not get into my clothes quickly enough to go to the door and call for help. The towel provided by the establishment was not large enough to wrap around me with any degree of modesty.

I took a deep breath and submerged my face and head in the murky depths. The shower cap I was wearing to protect my long hair floated to the surface as I desperately searched what was beginning to resemble the ocean floor. I have poor eyesight but I couldn’t have seen anything if I had 20/20 vision. The water, now iodine black, was visually impenetrable. I surfaced. The cold water was still running merrily. I submerged, made frantic swimming motions with my arms and hands and finally was able to locate the key. Up I came, spluttering but triumphant. Clumsily wielding the heavy tool, I turned off the water. I was more exhausted and tense than I had been for a long time.

I tried to refocus on the purpose of my being here. I lay back and tried to float. The tub was too long for me to brace my feet against the end. We had been advised to bring into the tub the large black plastic bucket that was later to hold the discarded seaweed and use it as a pillow. I tried. The bucket kept shifting, and now my hair was awash in seaweed, mermaid style.

I was not having fun. I lay uneasily in the water, swishing back and forth, picking a few stray periwinkles off the seaweed and contemplating my next move: to get out of the tub.

First, I complied with the management’s request to remove all seaweed from the tub and carefully scooped it into its bucket. Then I pulled the plug, and the water started to gurgle its way back to the ocean whence it came. I dried myself on the inadequate towel as best I could, but the room was steamy and hot and I was tense, frustrated and not a little angry.

The final ignominy confronted me: Jeans that were probably too tight to begin with would not accept my sticky, sweaty limbs.

I had ignored the instruction to rinse myself off with, as it was described, “an invigorating cold seawater shower.” For a brief moment I contemplated stepping back into the tub and pulling the handle on the overhead cold water cistern, but I dismissed the idea. I would pull my jeans on one way or another no matter how long it took.

After 20 minutes of struggle, victory was mine, and I staggered thankfully from my clammy cell.

Next to the baths was a tearoom. I stumbled into its cool confines and proceeded to drink two soothing cups of the beverage that only a true Englishwoman can savor in times of upset. As I sat there and listened to my friends’ exuberant testimonials to the wondrous, tranquilizing effect of what they had just experienced, I could only shake my head and vow that I would find my stress reduction therapy in another mode, in another place, at another time.