Don’t start this journey without stout shoes and a raincoat! It was October and I landed at the airport in sheeting rain. I didn’t mind because Sherlock’s London always seemed wet or foggy, and I wanted to get the atmosphere right. I was joining a group of Sherlockians to stretch our imagination in a light- hearted way as we journey to Baskerville country and back.
The first night we had a get together to meet each other and our guide, Bill, who had all Conan Doyle’s books neatly catalogued inside his head. Several members of the Sherlock Holmes Society were there to meet us. I looked round nervously at my fellow travellers; two of them looked pretty serious, even scholarly. I had come in a rather frivolous spirit – loved the books, but we’re talking fiction here.
The next morning we set off for Baker Street to visit the Holmes Museum. Although Dr. Watson's description of Holmes’ sitting room as “large and airy” was belied by the extremely small and slightly stuffy room into which we crowded, it was wonderfully authentic in décor and Dr. Watson himself, alive, rotund and wearing his bowler (rather off form to do so indoors, I thought) was sitting by the fire and eager to chat. No, Holmes wasn’t there because he and Watson do alternate days. There were three floors, including a tiny washroom, no bath, but the sink and the john were astonishingly patterned with bright blue flowers. Waxwork figures from the stories in various scary poses were in the other rooms.
After this we crossed the street (watch out, the Brits insist on driving on the wrong side of the road) to the Sherlock Holmes Memorabilia Company, which had a collection of film props, posters and photos connected with the TV series of Sherlock Holmes stories in which Jeremy Brett starred. The blowpipe from the Sign of Four and the burgling kit from The Master Blackmailer were there with lots of other gruesome stuff. I bought a book on the film making and a Sherlockian coffee mug, and then we were taken for lunch to the Sherlock Holmes pub, all Victorian etched glass and alcoves.
That evening we went by boat down the Thames to Greenwich with supper on board. Bill quoted from the Sign of Four: “down the River Thames in the wake of the launch Aurora, in which Jonathan Small and the Andaman islander attempted to escape with the Great Agra Treasure. . . “ “Heap it on, stokers. Make her do all she can. If we burn the boat, we must have them.”’ Luckily, no sign of our boat burning.
Monday was a London walk “What do you say to a ramble through London?” (The Resident Patient). We started at the British Museum, “Blue Carbuncle territory,” said Bill. We saw the tavern where the Alpha Goose Club met, Watson’s university and finally Tottenham Court Road, where Holmes bought his “singular Stradivarius.” I have to say imagination was stretched here, since most of the music shops were of the electronic kind.
Dartmoor, finally
At last, the day we go to Dartmoor. It would have been more authentic to go by train, as Holmes with his Bradshaw timetable in his pocket so often did. However, the trains no longer steam and Bill pointed out that for serious students of the stories there are some worrying discrepancies in journey times and routes.
We are to stay at Holne Chase, on the edge of the moor. Our party has taken all 12 bedrooms in the hotel and we admire the lovely views down the valley of the River Dart. “Rolling pasture lands curved upwards on either side of us and the old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit countryside there rose ever dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills (Hound of the Baskervilles).” That evening we have “A quite epicurean little cold supper . . .a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles (The Noble Bachelor).”
Dartmoor is wild and beautiful, with huge naturally eroded piles of granite rocks, known as tors. There are ponies running wild, feeding on the sparse grass. We are taught the difference between bog and mire, of which there are only two on the moor. It is these last that are extremely dangerous. The real-life hamlet of Postbridge is thought to be “Grimpen” and we have our picnic lunch at the edge of Fox Tor Mire, which is reasonably near “Grimpen,” and thus becomes “The Great Grimpen Mire.”
It had begun to drizzle so we had to eat on the coach, but it didn’t stop us getting out to take wonderfully moody photos. Bill cautioned us most emphatically not to go near the mire, which has a deceptively solid looking surface. I wonder if there are rescuing things, like ropes and boards, on the coach, but feel it would be crass to ask such a question.
We visit Buckfastleigh Parish church. In front of the south porch is the peculiar pagoda-type tomb of the Cabell family. Richard Cabell, who died in 1677, is thought to have been the model for Hugo Baskerville (I said imagination was vital to the enjoyment of this tour).
Then on to Tavistock, a thriving little market town where Watson and Holmes arrived to investigate the disappearance of Silver Blaze. Watson’s topography is sadly awry as he says, “The little town of Tavistock lies like the boss of a shield, in the middle of the huge circle of Dartmoor.” In fact it is right off the moor to the east. On the way back to the hotel we visit the ancient Neolithic stone huts which feature as Holmes’ hiding place in The Hound. His description of “sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather” does not hold good today.
On to New Forest
We leave Dartmoor for the New Forest, which was “new” as a royal hunting ground in the 11th century. “Everybody was out of town and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest (The Cardboard Box).” We visit Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s grave at Minstead churchyard. I bent down to read the tombstone: “Steel true, blade straight” and under his name, “Patriot, Physician and Man of Letters.” He died at Crowborough in Sussex and was buried in his garden there. Subsequently he was dug up and reburied at Minstead. In the morning we are off to Kent for two nights before returning to London.
On our way to Tunbridge Wells we stop in Groombridge where there is a most beautiful 17th-century manor house. Sadly, the house is not open, but the lovely gardens are, with strange wickerwork figures among the plants. There is a summer house where Conan Doyle, who was a close friend of a former owner, wrote many of his stories sitting in the big armchair. His glasses, pipe and blotter lie on the desk. “The village of Birlstone is a small and very ancient cluster of half-timbered cottages on the northern border of the county of Sussex. About half a mile from the town, standing in an old park famous for its huge beech trees, is the ancient Manor House of Birlstone (The Valley of Fear).” his is actually Groombridge and Watson is wrong again. t is just over the Kent border, not in Sussex at all.
We visit Crowborough, where Conan Doyle lived at Windlesham Manor in Sheep Plain until his death in 1930. It is now a nursing home. We drive to Beachy Head, a sheer chalk cliff, much favored by suicides, and on to Birling Gap. “My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the Downs commanding a great view of the Channel (The Lion’s Mane).
Now back to London. There is one more outing. We go to Windsor Castle: “My friend spent a day at Windsor, whence he returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie pin. When I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a present from a certain gracious Lady in whose interests he had one been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission . . . I fancy that I could guess at that Lady’s august name (The Bruce Partington Plans).”
We have the last afternoon free in London. I spend an hour in Hatchards, the famous Piccadilly bookshop. Perhaps I can browse and then buy on the net back home. I can’t carry a ton of books. I am scribbling titles and authors when Don, one of the more ardent scholars in our group, taps me on the shoulder. I feel rather pleased that he has seen me apparently being seriously bookish, since I know he thought I was frivolous on the tour. It’s just that when you have a program based on a fictional character it is simply crazy to complain that the topography/train timetable/architectural features don’t match the story. However, I keep faith with my hero that “Other men are specialists but his specialism is omniscience (The Bruce Partington Plans).”
