There are those that would like to think of any serious hobbyist as a single-thread fanatic. The object of one’s eccentricity, be it golf, Star Trek, stamp-collecting, or our friend Sherlock Holmes, must surely be the focus of our every thought, the color of the glasses through which we view the world. And if you read the columns on this site from week to week, surely that must seem the case. Sherlockians can find Sherlock Holmes everywhere, from cereal boxes to the clock turning 2:21. Make no mistake, however . . . when we do so, we do it by choice. The rest of the time?

This week I threw some things in a backpack, threw that backpack in the car, and drove three hours, across a state line and a time zone, for the annual Doyle’s Pub St. Patrick’s Day party, just outside of Indianapolis. And I didn’t come the farthest, of those in attendance. Joe Eckrich and Gordon Speck drove over from the St. Louis area. Mike and Julie McKuras came all the way down from Minneapolis. Every one of those fine folk, as well as our host, Steve Doyle, are among the most devoted Sherlock Holmes fans you’ll find in the country, if not the world. But not a one of us was at Steve’s St. Patrick’s Day party for any reason to do with Sherlock Holmes, other than the fact that Holmes introduced us all to each other on some day long past.

The Doyle brothers manned the bar with an old world style that you know would turn you into one of those every-night-after-work regulars, were they ever to open up a real drinking establishment in your neighborhood. The band Steve brought in, the Culchies, gave the party a soundtrack that most movies I’ve seen would be lucky to have. Corned beef and cabbage, as well as party food of all sorts, was served up, an Irish joke contest was held, and there were door prizes for getting to know a former stranger. It all went on for about seven hours before the last trooper straggled out of the place, and even then, it wasn’t really like the party ran out of steam. We’re just not all as young as we once were.

It all had nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes, really, even though a good share of the attendees were members of the Illustrious Clients of Indianapolis. The head of the Baker Street Irregulars, Mike Whelan, was even there, a role where one has to be among the most ardent of Sherlockians. And even though Holmes did drift into the conversation once or twice, he was never the focus. We talked of travels and football and Broadway and alcohol and all sorts of things. But we never spoke of Altamont, the Irish-American troublemaker whom Sherlock Holmes pretended to be for a couple of years.

Now, you’d think we’d all be fixated upon Altamont on St. Patrick’s Day, being such big fans of Sherlock Holmes, right? But any really good Sherlockian know full well where the line of fantasy ends and reality begins. Sherlock Holmes was only pretending to be an Irishman. And he was also a fictional character, which makes it hard for him to serve you a Bailey’s/Kahlua/IrishWhiskey concoction, or hold any really good parties at 221B Baker Street (it was probably a bit small). For those things, we turn to our friends.

And sometimes, it’s just nice to celebrate those friendships, even without that detective fellow that brought them into being.

Your humble correspondent,

Brad Keefauver