I’m not sure what I expected at 221B Baker Street, London. I think that, like so many people, I was confusing Sherlock Holmes with his creator. Some part of my brain thought we’d be visiting the home of Arthur Conan Doyle.
Ahem! Not so. The address where Ellen and I fetched up, was — of course — the fictional home of a fictional detective. And in fact, when Conan Doyle gave Holmes that particular address, it didn't even exist! (It has since been fudged by city planners.) But what the heck, we were already there, right? Might as well take a peek. Inside, we found a motley collection of Victoriana, along with some spookily arranged wax figures.
They did, however, offer some fun photo ops . . .
What stood out for us at 221B Baker Street were the line-ups — tourists chatting in various languages, having come, apparently, from around the globe. Sherlock lives! And he is very much loved, even after so many years, and in spite of his author's attempt to kill him off! (But that's another story.)
