Sherlock: A Study In Pink (Taxi Chase) - Film Vs. Location
Various streets around Soho. Click on the pictures for the names.
As a bonus, here are the locations in relation to the map of the chase shown in the episode.
Scrolling through carryonmywaywardstirrup makes me all sad today.
Was told that my old horse had to be put down last week. He couldn’t get up anymore.
So it’s exactly as I hoped it would be: that he would have a happy few months in retirement (well, I hoped for years rather than months, but my heart knew it wouldn’t actually be years) and then one day he wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning and that was that.
I said goodbye to him every day all summer and half of autumn last year because even though he was still the sassy and cuddly little monster he’d always been, I noticed a change in him. He would look sad and tired when I wasn’t looking and only “come to life” when I was talking to him. He would lay his heavy head on my shoulder and close his eyes and I could see all the grey hair that had grown all over his face and the deep holes above his eyes. I thought he wouldn’t make it to 2014.
In the last few years he had his own little grazing field because he didn’t feel comfortable in the bigger fields and spend the time running around rather than enjoying the grass. He would always leave his little paddock though and go grazing somewhere else, so sometimes we just let him walk free because he would go wherever he wanted to go anyway. One day, when he was well over twenty years old, he came running towards me and jumped over a little fence, just when I was going to get him.
I’ve known and cared for him for fourteen years. He was the first animal that really and truly entered my heart and secured his place in it with his peculiar light brown eyes and his tiny pointy ears and his soft nose and mouth and his teeth, which he would use to open the zips on my jackets.
He used to get hay and grass stuck in a gap between his molars because three years ago they had to remove two bad teeth that caused him pain. So I would stick my arm in his mouth, up to my elbow, knowing that he wouldn’t bite me and if he did, it wouldn’t have been on purpose. He never bit me. Not even in the beginning, when grooming him was a dangerous task because he wouldn’t let anyone touch his belly. In the first year, whenever he would hear the door of the tack storage slide open, he’d start to kick around and try to bite. I never found out what had happened to him, I only know that when he came to our stable, he’d been to the Netherlands (and I think Greece as well) and was a well trained jumper. When he arrived, he had open wounds from an ill-fitting saddle on his back that were still bleeding and oozing pus. No wonder he’d freak out when he’d hear the tack storage door. The wounds healed eventually but they remained visible at least in summer coat, the skin leathery and black, the hair never grew back.
He taught my to ride almost without legs because in the first year or so he would completely freak out when I squeezed my legs a only little too hard. He’d either stop walking and start kicking upwards against my feet or just start running and kicking around with his hind legs. I think at one time he kicked out a board in the riding hall wall, but that wasn’t with me.
It took some time and a lot of patience but eventually he’d let me comb and brush his belly and stand still when someone saddled him up. We became a team. The only thing we always fought over until the end was walking. I could go for walks through the forest and on the paths where we would usually ride, no problem at all. But the few times I had to walk him in the riding arena, we fought. He’d try to sneak up behind me and then hit my shoulders with his teeth. Or shove me over. Or kick my heels with his feet. And when I told him to stop, he would try to argue by rearing up. I think he just found it terribly boring, walking around in the arena. The few times he didn’t try to fool around on these occasions were the few times he’d been sick.
Almost exactly ten years ago he went on sabbatical for a year. Or whatever you call it when a horse gets a year off work. When I went to visit him at half time, I couldn’t take any photos because once he’d seen and heard me, he ran up to me, searched me for treats, tried to open the zip on my jacket (which I objected to because it was raining cats and dogs) and then put his head on my shoulder. I was deeply moved. He came back happy and ready to work again and we had nine more great years together. I got older and he got old. I’m sad that I couldn’t see him in his new place where he was with old friends. And I’m sad that he didn’t have more than four months. But I’m happy that he was put to sleep and didn’t have to face the butcher’s gun.
So here’s a toast to my dear old Monsterhorse. You will not be forgotten.
How The Face Changes With Shifting A Light Source