Deciphering accents isn't so easy

Let’s start by acknowledging that the Public Broadcasting Corporation is a wonderful thing.
And that BBC drama offered on Sunday night’s as Masterpiece Theater are about as good as it gets.
But having said that, does anyone understand what these people are saying?
At our house, whenever Mystery or another of the recycled BBC dramas is broadcast, we have to turn the sound up to begin to understand.
Does it help? Not much.
It’s the equivalent of the American tourist shouting at a waiter in a different country, assuming that the volume of the delivery makes the message easier to understand. It never does.
And yet, when we don’t understand what Morse is mumbling to Lewis on Mystery, we inevitably bump up the volume.
As I write this, I am in my study, pounding away on the computer. My wife is half a house away watching Downton Abbey. But because she’s trying to figure out what the heck these Brits are saying, the volume is loud enough that I can hear every word.
Hear, that is. Not that I understand it. I don’t.
I should, however. After all, I spent a term in England as a college student back in the 1960s.
But two incidents come back to me when it comes to figuring out English accents.
Both occurred the first week I was in the country.
Upon arrival, I remember walking up to the British Customs official, who had a few questions.
And, suddenly, I found myself talking with a British accent. It wasn’t a good British accent. It was the worst sort of fake British accent you might imagine. In fact, I sounded like a cartoon version of the Beatles that was then playing on U.S. television.
Why? I have absolutely no idea. Maybe there was an inherent wish to fit in, a sort of vocal chameleon effect.
But it didn’t work. I sounded like a complete idiot, an American version of a bad cartoon version of a British accent.
The only good news is that I realized how stupid I sounded and put a sock in it.
A few days later, I got my first dose of a real British accent.
A buddy and I had decided, against all good sense, to spend the time between our arrival in the United Kingdom and our first week of classes, to hitchhike to Scotland.
Why? I can’t really say, but I’ll admit that it was a stupid idea. It was March, and March in England is about as inviting as March in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
Still, it went well at first. We made our way out of metropolitan London and were heading north.
And then, a rusty van pulled over to give us a lift.
We did not discriminate. If we were offered a ride, we took it.
So the van took off, and the driver started talking.
We were in the Midlands of England, a repository of difficult accents.
So while the van bounced along and the driver carried on an endless monologue, my buddy and I simply bounced along and nodded our heads.
We didn’t understand a word he said.
If he had been on Public Broadcasting, I might have been able to turn up the volume.
Then again, he struck me as the last sort of character to make his way onto Masterpiece Theater.