“a local village, for local people”.

Recently I have been having some odd dreams. Maybe I should stop watching some very odd, dark but brilliant comedies.  Maybe I should stop listening to or reading the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 

But then again... maybe not. Here is an example of what I have been dreaming... in the style of Dr John H Watson.

"It was in the summer of eighteen hundred and ninety-five, that I once again visited my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. It had been some time since my last visit, but I had read of Holmes exploits in a number of newspapers.

My practice had kept me busy and I took this lull in my affairs to drop in on my friend and enjoy some pleasant conversation and in the hope that Mrs Hudson had been preparing some of her wonderful scones.

As we sat and chatted about the events of my friends recent cases, I began to note everything down in a small book to turn them into more adventures for the readers of The Strand Magazine. Such tales as “The Adventure of the Female Bridegroom” and the “The Adventure of the Wandering Cow” would, I know enthral the readers, but in the middle of “The Adventure of the Reluctant Danish Traveller”, the ringing of the doorbell interrupted us. A few moments later, a ponderous step ascended and the door opened to reveal Mr Mycroft Holmes.

To some in Whitehall Mycroft Holmes merely worked for the government, but those who were knowledgeable he was the government.

Mycroft’s did not leave his office very often, so this particular visit must be one of extreme importance. His task for his brother was to visit the tiny hamlet of Royston Vasey and investigate the disappearance of travellers to those parts.

The next morning we boarded the train from St Pancras Station, to begin our journey. As we reclined in the carriage, I was able to complete some of my notes on “The Adventure of the Reluctant Danish Traveller”. I would occasionally extract from Holmes some piece of the story that I did not understand, and in this way, the journey passed amiably.

As we sat and watched the empty blue sky and the brilliant sunshine that bathed the countryside, it seemed to darken as we approached what our Bradshaw described as Royston Vasey Halt, a note below the name of the station described it as “a local village, for local people”.

I had a feeling that with the weather turning against us, the location of the village far from civilisation and this last piece of information, things did not bode well…"