No more beautiful sight exists in Torquay than the quay itself. Ships come and go in the azure waters, and the shore-side roads are bordered by restaurants, hotels, and shops and kiosks selling every manner of goods every associated with a pleasant, seaside holiday. My wife and I strolled past these businesses, our attention divided by the tantalizing items for sale, the ships in the harbor, the people swimming in the water gently lapping against the shore, or playing in the pebbly sand, and our fellow human and canine walkers. Yet we had come with an interest in mind beyond that of most tourists. This was Agatha Christie's hometown, and as we walked, we saw not only what is today, but also tried to picture our surroundings as the great author would have seen them, decades and yes, even a century ago.
Make no mistake: for the Agatha Christie fan, all of Torquay is hallowed ground.
I make no claims to being a diehard Agatha Christie fan. I'll admit I've read a dozen or so of her books. For some authors, such as the obscure, mostly forgotten (but nonetheless great) E. F. Benson, that might be impressive. But given the number of books she produced in her lifetime, and her legion of fans who know her stories inside and out, I'm a nobody. Nor can I claim that my motives in reading her are pure, as I've started to read her work in the last few years, having thrilled to the performances of actor David Suchet on the TV adaptations of "Agatha Christie's Poirot." But now that I am reading her novels, I'm finding that what I perceived as sprawling among riches was really just the oblivion of the uniformed. For Agatha Christie's novels possess the riches far greater than those the TV series could ever hope to capture. Her novels know none of the limitations of a tightly budgeted TV production. Her narratives feel no need to keep Hercule Poirot foremost and center. In some books, he hurtles off on boats and trains, and goes to far-flung destinations. In others, he rarely appears. Thus, in the TV productions, even the most faithful show striking differences with the source material. And at times, the resultant shows barely resemble the original stories.
While walking the historic boardwalk, the wind whipped over the water. This forced me to keep my hat tightly strapped down, and its bill pointed down, lest the wind rip it off my head and cast it upon the gleaming blue water. Given the long summer days, and the clear skies, taking off one's sunglasses could only force one to squint. Yet in such a picturesque setting, photographs seemed mandatory.
We passed by one family, who were taking turns taking photographs of each other with their iPads, as the beauty of their surroundings had exhausted the batteries in their cameras. We offered to take a photo of all three of them with their iPad, and in return, they took a photo of us with our camera. Then we fell into conversation.
When the subject turned to Agatha Christie, and Hercule Poirot, their eyes lit up. Yes, they too were fans, drawn to the stories by the TV series. Yes, they too loved David Suchet's performances, and it was the love of those adapted stories that had drawn them here. They wished to see where the author had lived. They also admitted that, as the TV production for all the Poirot stories had finally wound down, they were being drawn to read her original books. I told them some of the differences I had discovered, between her original stories, and the adaptations, by reading her novels. From their smiles, and the brightness of their eyes, I came away feeling as if they now felt even more driven to seek out those differences for themselves.
I greatly enjoyed the time I spent in Torquay, and treasure my memories of all I experienced there. While I would have loved to attend many of the events scheduled for this year's Agatha Christie Festival, I suspect the times that would have meant the most to me would have been the conversations with other fans, such as the one I enjoyed with the family on the boardwalk. But then, after we left the boardwalk, my wife and I stepped inside a small shop to look for postcards, and a cheerful, enthusiastic lady behind the counter insisted upon having us taste three or four flavors of ice cream made with real Devonshire cream. In the end, I chose Banoffee, a mixture of Banana and Toffee. Sitting down outside, and watching the people walking past, the bathers swimming or playing in the pebbly sand, and ships parked in or navigating the gleaming azure waters, while we ate our authentic Devonshire ice cream, remains another treasured memory.
Perhaps, Mon Ami, we could even call it a Hercule Poirot moment. For even if the scoops of ice cream in my bowl weren't identically-sized and symmetrically-placed, I'm sure the great detective would have approved of the flavor.
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