It's a Long Story

          I enjoy train journeys when they are comfortable, calm and punctual, but there is something to be said for them even when they fail to live up to those ideals: if you’re uncomfortable you can turn your tribulation into a test of resilience and come out of it feeling stoic or heroic; if there is no calm, you can counter by joining in and relishing the chaos; and if the train is late, you can claim a refund (in which case, the later the better). But there is another category of hazard, let’s call it ‘minor irritation’, that can escalate to ‘infuriation’, unless you take control of your reactions or find a way to divert your attention from the source.

          On a train last week, I sat within earshot of a woman who, in a loud, shrill voice, talked to her travelling companion continuously during the three-hour journey. This could have been fascinating had she been recounting amusing anecdotes, but she wasn’t. She recounted her stories, which were about the activities of a particular group of people of their mutual acquaintance, at great length and in great detail, frequently introducing extraneous characters that had no discernible bearing on the plot. Then, at long last, as if she could feel her audience slipping away, she would say, “…anyway, long story short…”, a sure prelude to the denouement that had long since become apparent or had ceased to be of interest anyway. How I wish that, as we were leaving the train, I had slipped her a note inscribed with Alfred Hitchcock’s words - “Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.”

          All right, so she was not an accomplished raconteur, but the stories themselves were unnecessarily lengthy. A properly long story might, for example, be that of the Parker family, who lived at Saltram House, at Plympton, just outside Plymouth, from 1740 until 1957, when they gave the grand house and rolling estate to the National Trust. You can plough through three hundred years of written history if you want, but a more agreeable way to absorb it is to visit the house (which I did last week), where the rooms are staffed by knowledgeable volunteers ready and willing to share with you all they know. One of the particular skills they have is the ability to sense whether or not a visitor actually wants to hear the stories. Visitors, for their part, are advised to be aware of this. If you don’t want to hear what the guide has to say but have already made eye-contact, nod, smile politely, gaze around you with mildly expressed interest and move on. But, even if you’re already familiar with the history or the objets d’art, it may still pay to engage with the guides, some of whom invest the narrative with their own take on things. I particularly liked the cheeky old chap in the room full of mirrors painted by Chinese artists with scenes that were difficult to make sense of, until he pointed out, with a wink and a grin, that the underlying theme was pornographic.

          In another foray into local history, I subscribed to a guided tour of Stoke Damerel Church and its environs. This one was led by a professional guide, accomplished at holding the attention of an audience. He really did have a long story to tell, as the original structure had been built in Saxon times, but he was practised in the art of editing and presented us with the salient facts of historical interest, pointing out where they are evident still in the building and its surroundings. I could, of course go on to explain why the tower of this church is adorned with an enormous clock (still working) and why Stoke became Stoke Damerel but, long story short, our heritage is a rich repository for those who are curious and who make time to learn.