Theatres are, on the whole, one of the good news stories. Most decent-sized venues now have wheelchair spaces, an access line, and staff who have done this before. But theatre tickets have a quirk the rest of travel does not: the accessible seats are often not on the website, and the general booking page will cheerfully sell you a seat you cannot get to.
Category: Out and about
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Eating out without a scene
Eating out should be the easy bit of a trip. It is often the most quietly stressful, because restaurants are full of small obstacles that nobody thinks about until they are in the way, and because it all happens in front of an audience.
Ring ahead. Always.
Not to check “if you’re accessible” — we have covered why that question is useless — but to ask for three specific things:
- A table you can actually get to. Say plainly: a wheelchair user is coming, please put us somewhere we can reach without moving four other tables.
- A table with legs at the corners, not a central pedestal. A pedestal base is the number one reason a wheelchair cannot get near a table. Nobody ever mentions it.
- Confirmation there is an accessible toilet on the same floor. An accessible loo down a spiral staircase in the cellar is not an accessible loo.
The other things worth asking
- Is there a step at the door? A single 15cm step is enough to end the evening, and it is invisible on every photograph on their website.
- Fixed booth seating? Lovely for everyone else. Useless if you cannot transfer out of the chair.
- How loud is it? Not an access question for us, but it is for a lot of people, and hard surfaces plus music makes a room where nobody can hear anybody.
- Is the accessible entrance the same as the main one? We have been sent round the back through a kitchen more than once. It is not the end of the world and it is also not a nice way to arrive somewhere for your anniversary.
What good places do without being asked
They have already moved a chair away from the table before you arrive, so there is a space rather than an obstacle. They bring the card machine to the table. They do not remove the wheelchair to “store it somewhere safe”. They ask where you would like to sit rather than deciding for you.
It costs them nothing and it is the difference between being a customer and being a problem to be solved.
Your turn: if you have experiences of your own — the places that got it right, and the ones that got it badly wrong — tell us in the comments below. Every report helps the next traveller.
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The accessible toilet that wasn’t
There is a particular sinking feeling that every wheelchair user and every carer knows. You have found the accessible toilet. You have got there in time. And the door will not open, or it opens onto a mop bucket, a stack of high chairs and a broken parasol.
It happens constantly, and it happens for a small number of very repeatable reasons.
The five ways it goes wrong
1. It is being used as a cupboard
The most common failure by a distance. The accessible toilet is the biggest room with the fewest daily users, so it quietly becomes storage. This is worth mentioning to a manager every single time, politely and without heat. Half of them are genuinely embarrassed and clear it out.
2. It is locked and nobody knows who has the key
Many accessible toilets are on the National Key Scheme, which means they use a standard RADAR key. Carry your own — you can buy one from Amazon, Disability Rights UK or a local council for a few pounds, and it is the single best value item in our bag. When a venue has its own key instead of a standard one, you are at the mercy of whoever is on shift.
3. The emergency cord is tied up
The red cord should reach the floor. It is there so that someone who has fallen can pull it. It gets knotted up out of the way because staff are tired of it being pulled by mistake. Untie it. Every time. It takes four seconds and it is genuinely a safety issue.
4. The grab rails are on the wrong side
Transfers are usually one-sided. A toilet with a rail only on the left is unusable for someone who transfers to the right, no matter how big the room is. There is nothing to be done about this on the day, which is why we ask about it in advance.
5. It exists, but you cannot use it
A standard accessible toilet assumes you can transfer yourself, or with one person’s help. If you need a hoist and a changing bench, a standard accessible loo does not help at all. That is what Changing Places toilets are for — larger rooms with a hoist, an adult-sized bench and space for two carers. There are now several thousand across the UK, and new large public buildings in England have been required to include them for a few years. The Changing Places website has a map, and we plan long days around it.
What we do
We find the toilet first, before the coffee, before the exhibition, before anything. It sounds joyless and it is not — it is the opposite. Knowing where it is, and that it works, is what lets you relax and actually enjoy the day.
Your turn: if you have experiences of your own — the places that got it right, and the ones that got it badly wrong — tell us in the comments below. Every report helps the next traveller.
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Museums, galleries and stately homes: how much will we actually see?
Museums and galleries should be the easiest day out there is: flat floors, lifts, cafés, staff everywhere. The big nationals mostly are. But the word “museum” also covers a Tudor manor with a spiral staircase and a volunteer on the door, and the two experiences have nothing in common. Here is how we tell them apart before we set off.
Read the access page, then ring anyway
Most attractions now have an access page, and its quality is itself a signal. A good one gives you door widths, lift dimensions, a map of accessible toilets, and honesty about which bits you cannot reach. A bad one says “we welcome all visitors” and lists the car park. When the page is vague, the building usually is too.
Then ring, and ask the question the page never answers: “How much of the collection will we actually see?” “The house is partially accessible” can mean you miss one attic room, or it can mean you see the tearoom and a corridor while everyone else sees the house. Those are very different £19.50s.
Historic properties: the honest arithmetic
Old buildings are allowed to be old. Listed status genuinely does limit what can be altered, and we do not expect a medieval gatehouse to have a lift in it. What we do expect is honesty and effort: a decent virtual tour or photo book of the floors you cannot reach, ground-floor highlights arranged so the visit still has a shape, and — the good ones do this — free or reduced entry when most of the property is off limits to you. Many will also admit an essential companion free; carry proof of disability benefits or an access card and ask, because it is rarely advertised on the sign.
The grounds are half the visit
Gardens and parkland are where the surface question comes back. Ask what the paths are made of — compacted gravel is usually fine, loose gravel is a slog, bark chip is a trap. Ask if there is a recommended accessible route map. And ask whether they lend all-terrain wheelchairs or mobility scooters: a surprising number of big outdoor attractions do, free, and it transforms the day. It is the single most underused service in British tourism, mostly because nobody knows it exists.
Small things that mark out a good one
- Seating through the galleries, not just at the ends.
- Labels at a height you can read from a chair, angled rather than flat on a plinth.
- A quiet hour or relaxed opening, which helps far more people than it is designed for.
- Staff who offer the lift route unprompted instead of watching you find out about the stairs.
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Getting to the beach (or close enough)
Nobody plans the beach properly, because the beach is supposed to be the un-planned bit. But sand is the least wheelchair-friendly surface in nature, and the difference between a lovely afternoon and sitting in the car park watching other people have one is about twenty minutes of homework.
What to look for
- A promenade or sea wall. The honest baseline. A firm, level prom with the sea on one side is a genuinely good day out even if the sand itself is off limits, and Britain has hundreds of them.
- Boardwalks onto the sand. Some beaches lay matting or timber walkways from the slipway down towards the water in season. They get you onto the beach itself, which feels completely different from looking at it over a railing.
- Beach wheelchair hire. The big one. A growing number of beaches keep balloon-tyred beach wheelchairs to borrow, usually free, usually run by the lifeguards, the council or a local charity, usually needing a phone booking a day or two ahead. Some hoist-equipped beaches even have floating chairs that go into the sea. Search the name of the beach plus “beach wheelchair” before you assume there isn’t one.
- A slipway you can actually use. Boat slipways are ramps, but many are steep, weed-slicked, or end in soft sand. Look at the photos on the map app; you can usually tell.
The practical checklist
- Tide times. On a flat beach the tide can move a very long way. Firm sand near the water at low tide is often the best rolling surface there is — and it disappears on a schedule. Check before you go, not on the beach.
- Where is the accessible toilet, and is it open? Seafront toilets are seasonal. In October the answer may be “the pub”.
- Parking on the prom or behind it? A bay on the seafront road beats a bigger car park two streets back with a dropped kerb that may or may not exist.
- Sand in the bearings. Dry soft sand gets into everything. If you do take the everyday chair onto matting, a stiff brush at the car saves the wheels later.
Lower the bar, then enjoy it
Our best beach days stopped being about getting onto the sand at all costs. Fish and chips at the railing, the prom at golden hour, twenty minutes of watching the sea do its thing — that is the beach. The balloon-tyre chair days are a bonus, not the entry requirement.
We love the beach at Filey it’s where we spent the summer for the first 5 or 6 years of our relationship.