Jack stumbles for real into some classic works of literature, with results he didn't bargain for!
1/9
Jack Durvill was an accomplished professor of literature at the Missouri State University. Along with holding regular student tutorials in creative writing and appreciation, he often fulfilled guest-speaking roles at national symposia, and would supply publishers with critiques of authors and novels, for forewords and fly-covers of new print runs, and the like. Un-professorially outgoing and popular, Jack was as familiar with English classic 'favourites' like Dickens and the Brontës, as he was with more contemporary American 'favorites' like Steinbeck and Hemingway.
He had recently reached 'the big 40' years of age. His one failed marriage had ended in divorce several years earlier. Away from reading, writing and lecturing, only one pastime currently came close to competing with his pursuit of busty fun-loving female post-grads, and that was researching his genealogy.
So, he decided on a celebratory vacation in England. This would enable him to seek out his roots, and experience at first-hand its unique locations, to appreciate better what had inspired great writers to set their stories there. Jack had been once before to Britain, for a literary conference in London. On that occasion he ventured no further than the city limits, exploring the popular tourist hot-spots, Dickensian back-streets, museums and libraries, and a municipal building called Somerset House, where one can trace one's family history.
His grandfather had maintained that the American Durvills originated as French colonists in the 17th century. But Somerset House and The British Library had indicated to the contrary, and that a similarly named family had held a seat in the West Country of England a good century later, but relinquished it following some sort of scandal.
2/9
Jack's flight duly arrived at Heathrow. Being in the frame of mind he was, he decided he would rename the airport Heathcliff, with obvious associations with the Wuthering Heights that a Boeing 787 could achieve. His excitement overcame any jet-lag, and he immediately hired a car to transport himself via the Cotswolds and Shakespeare's Stratford-on-Avon, to Somerset and Jane Austen's dwelling in Bath, to Dorset for Thomas Hardy's Wessex, and on to Devon, and Dartmoor -- that beautiful, but brooding, eerie expanse with its notorious prison, and of course, Conan Doyle's setting for his most famous Sherlock Holmes mystery.
By the fourth day, Jack had got the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road, and of making himself understood, having initially believed, mistakenly, that everybody spoke the same mother tongue. To compound communication problems, dialects changed as he moved through one county to the next. But he was loving every minute, despite the quirky customs and unavailability of decent steaks or bourbon. He finally arrived at his Devon destination, where he was cordially welcomed at 'Ye Old Stump Inn', a lodging house in the unremarkable village of Fondleham-by-the-Brook, which lay between Bovey Tracey and Widecombe-in-the-Moor.
His genial hosts, the Glumms, Fred and Marge, showed him to their very best room. He suspected it was the only room, but no matter. The Park Lane Hilton it was not. But then, the Park Lane Hilton didn't have characterful low beams on which one could merrily crack one's skull, creaky floorboards the noise of which would waken the dead, or an atmosphere so thick with history and mystery one needed to swim one's way through it to reach the bathroom which was way along the passage. After just one night, Jack decided he needed to go easy on the local Devon cider, if only to minimise the number of nocturnal trips down the corridor.
3/9
He mapped out his first full day on the moor, and after a hearty Glumm breakfast, threw his walking boots in the car, and set off, first to visit Princetown jail, then to search for the Hound of the Baskervilles. The prison museum was suitably gruesome, depicting Victorian conditions for incarcerated convicts and the barbaric violence perpetrated therein. Jack was fascinated to learn that, originally an overspill for prison-ships in the times of the Napoleonic wars, it also housed American POWs taken during the 1812 skirmishes. Few escaped from Dartmoor. In that respect, it was like Alcatraz, except that instead of being safeguarded by treacherous waters, it was surrounded by equally inhospitable moorland, with its freezing temperatures, disorientating mist, rain, bogs, sink-holes and wild creatures.
To the average holidaymaker, things would be looking grim, but Jack could only revel in the living atmosphere of the whole area, reasoning that whereas some locations were photogenic, others could be equally literagenic, if that was a word -- he'd have to check, lending themselves readily to fictional fantasy. He drove back across the moor, and located the craggy hillock named Hound Tor, reportedly the site where the Baskerville legend originated.
On trudging back down from the Tor summit to the car park, where he and several other tourists had left their vehicles, he was reminded of the ever-resilient British sense-of-humour. A mobile café had arrived, serving hot food and drink to grateful hikers. Jack smiled wryly at the garish sign-writing on the side of the van, announcing its identity: 'The Hound of the Basket Meals'. He wondered what Sir Arthur would have made of it.
At nearby Widecombe, merriment had been scheduled, in the form of visiting Morris dancers. To Jack's untrained eye, this consisted of men and women dressed in frilly shirts and floppy hats, wearing bells wherever bells could be worn, waving handkerchiefs, and wielding sticks dangerously.
This was all done to the lively music of someone playing a squeeze-box. Every so often, sticks would engage, resulting in a loud clack. And every so often someone would fall down, either injured, or drunk. Apparently it originated as a Pagan ritual. Jack sipped his scrumpy, a locally brewed cider, at least establishing the probable cause of the endemic inebriation.
4/9
Back in Fondleham, ignoring his waistline, Jack went into Mrs Plummett's tea shop for a world-famous Devonshire Cream Tea, or so the sign claimed. (He couldn't recall it being an actual household name in St Louis, Missouri.) It comprised of a pot of tea, accompanied by scones, thick cream and jam. Delicious. As was the voluptuous Mrs Plummett, in traditional costume for the benefit of the late-season tourists.
Jack explored the rest of the quaint village, which, admittedly, didn't take much exploring. On turning back towards the inn, almost by chance, he came across the local museum. It was no more than one room in a tiny thatched cottage, housing mostly dull, rusting antique farming and household implements. Nevertheless, he wandered in for a browse. From nowhere, seemingly, a girl appeared. No surprise, she also was attired in authentic period costume, but it hung on her particularly well. She was mid-twenties, Jack guessed, and an absolute cracker.
"Tess of the D'Urbervilles?" Jack ventured, smiling, hoping to impress.
"Sire," replied the girl, feigning a blush. "How generous ye be. Alas nay. Tessie Durberfield, of whom ye speak, is from an adjacent shire, many leagues thither. Her legen'ry beauty is admired by gen'lemen an' coveted by maidens from all o'er the West Coun'ry, including myself. But please call me Tess if it amuses thee. 'Twould indeed be a sweet enjoyment."
What a find this was. It was as though he had stepped into the pages of an English classic. "Well, Tess, we do enjoy sweet things in America, you know," he said. Licking maple syrup off her breasts was actually what came foremost to mind.
