Skip to main content

London Town: Its Elementary - by Russell Shor


Photo by Russ Shor

London is an old town -- it goes back to the Roman days -- but one of its most famous addresses didn’t exist until 20 years ago: 221 B Baker Street. The guy who lived there never existed at all, but he got sacks of mail at that address for nearly a century.

If you guessed the Sherlock Holmes’ “residence” -- you get a feather for your travel cap.

The very proper townhouse with the black door and brass plaque is exactly what Holmes’ creator described in his tales penned between 1887 and 1927 -- but the house, built in 1815, actually sits between 237 Baker Street and 241 Baker.

The actual address of 221 belonged to a bank, Abbey Society, for decades. And for all of those years, the Abbey Society employed a full time secretary to answer the volume of mail addressed to Sherlock Holmes, asking his assistance in solving mysteries. (Alas, his foil Dr. Watson never received much mail).

By the Centennial of the first Sherlock Holmes tale (1887), the venerable Sherlock was still receiving sacks of mail, despite the fact that he would have been about 150 years old had he existed in the first place.

So, the then-president of the Westminster City Council decided the old house up the street would make a better home for old Sherlock -- which promptly set off a battle between the Abbey Society and the folks organizing the museum -- it seems the bank liked answering Mr. Holmes mail.

However, in 1990, the Museum succeeded in getting its “221 B” Baker street address and opened for business a year or so later. The building is true enough to the tales that one can almost see Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, eyeing the street traffic.

As a museum, it’s not much. Some wax figures. A few relics of his creator Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and, of course, the usual arrays of coffee mugs, T-Shirts, pens, bookmarks and knick-knacks.

But the museum remains a testament to the power of words: the author created a character so appealing, and stories so compelling that people still respond a century later.

Indeed, in 1892, Sir Doyle tried killing off the great detective but the public outcry was so intense that he was obliged to resurrect him.

So, next time you’re in London, take a ride to the Baker Street underground station, turn right on Baker and walk down a half block and marvel at the elementary power of the written word.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...

On the Fly–Taking Flight

In this special 500th episode,  On the Fly  is moving to a new home. Here’s why—and what’s staying the same. For a very long time (since April 2012),  On the Fly  has lived on  Blogger . Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity. But the internet has changed. It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second. I’ve been craving the opposite. So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack . If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the A rt of Seeing . I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, t...

Chasing 70

In this episode,  Chasing 70: A Respectful Negotiation with Gravity They say golf is a game of misses. If that’s true, my first round of the year at Rancho Carlsbad was a masterclass in missing efficiently . After a four-month hiatus—during which my golf clubs quietly evolved into a self-sustaining garage ecosystem—Lori and I returned to our local par-three proving ground. Rancho Carlsbad is a par-54, just 1,983 yards long. That sounds forgiving until it exposes every weakness you’ve been politely ignoring during the off-season. I finished with a 78. In most contexts, 78 is respectable. On a par-54, it means I spent a fair amount of time “getting my steps in.” But here’s the real motivation: I turn 70 this August. As a core principle of my Great Un-Working Lifestyle, I’m putting it in writing: I want to shoot my age by my birthday. The Bald-Headed Man Course Around here, we have a nickname for Rancho Carlsbad. We call it the Bald-Headed Man Course. First, because there are no woods...