The little inn in Okehampton couldn't store luggage, ruling out many options for killing time until the train. Drawing on my long experience and natural flair for travel, I improvised by sitting on a bench staring at a bottle cap. Then I went to a cafe intended for mothers with young children. Then I went back to the bench, but now it was occupied by three old women offering a free bible course, so I walked up to the station early. To be fair to Okehampton, it's really quite nice; historic buildings, sunken rivers gurgling over stony courses, a Victorian shopping arcade, kind and patient people.
Okehampton's train station -- yes, I'm going to describe a train station -- was built in 1871 -- yes, with dates -- and is largely unchanged, partly because it was closed down for a few decades and just recently reopened. At one end of the platform is a sign advocating for a further reopening of the line to Bude, a measure I, as someone who doesn't know where Bude is or why people would want to go there, strongly support. It's a very good station to waste time in, with its tiny museum, its Dartmoor display, its recreated 1960s ticket office, and its bookstore exclusively selling books about railways. I wasn't the only one charmed by it, judging by the middle-aged train enthusiast with an overbite who appeared and began avidly photographing the place.
The connecting train in Exeter was an hour late, and the posted delay crept up as time went on, making its likely departure time an annoying math problem. Exeter St. David's is a less delightful station than Okehampton. It's bigger and busier, and scratchy recorded announcements sweep up and down the platforms from different speakers like some kind of demented fugue. Cutting through are frequent "we are sorry to announce" announcements of delays and cancellations with disparate pre-recorded explanations: broken-down train, fault on train, train keys stolen by seagull, train crew delayed by other delay, train crew savaged by hyenas, moor-beast activity on tracks. Sorrow over train delays is part of the British identity. The train network ties the country together not just physically but by supplying a common enemy.
Large parts of Plymouth were bombed out during the war, and much of the city is now a) an important example of postwar architecture and urban planning and b) kind of a dump. Much of the hastily-rebuilt areas are, on second thoughts, being rebuilt again. The hotel is brand new and faces a glowering rival, the grand but slightly dowdy Duke of Cornwall hotel, across a parking lot and traffic circle. It's a Marriott property marketed to hip young people like myself. "This noisy, irritating area on the ground floor is called The Now. Come down and hang out in The Now whenever you want! Here's your voucher for a probably-disgusting cocktail we invented. My name's Marty; now that we're friends, make sure you stay here again. Remember, The Now." I think Marty may have been drugged. In contrast, at the staunchly traditionalist Duke of Cornwall, they control their staff with mesmerism.
West is the abandoned-theatre district, which, despite the name, also includes abandoned parking garages and abandoned nightclubs. Brightly-painted store fronts bearing optimistic messages add cheer but thicken the pathos. The largest and most famous husk is the New Palace Theatre, a grand red-brick place that has been a vaudeville theatre, a bingo parlour, a dance hall, a strip club, and a nightclub. You hope 'derelict building' is just one more act in its variety-show of a career. There are so many things it hasn't yet been: a co-working space, a roller derby arena, a wax museum, an ice-capades venue, a youth hostel, a model train showroom, a reptile zoo.
To the east are the tourist attractions: Smeaton's Tower (a relocated lighthouse that now warns drunk tourists not to walk into the sea), war memorials, a bowling green close to the site of Francis Drake's famous game where elderly bowlers calmly insist on finishing their own even though Tesco is closing soon, the royal citadel, the Barbican, some museums, an aquarium, and, Google Maps insists I add, any number of seafood restaurants and escape rooms.
Also: a phone booth being "preserved for future generations", a toddler in a Santa costume running amok, a swing bridge that opens frequently for fishing boats, an Elizabethan house, and more. Plymouth is an interesting and historic spot that I don't regret seeing. Rumours that its official motto is the sound of someone hacking up phlegm are definitely untrue.
