This run of thirty-seven or thirty-eight miles commences at Esher and
Claremont Station, situated within a hundred yards or so of the old
Portsmouth road that passes through Esher village. Leaving the station
behind, you turn to the right at the high road, and so come up a
gentle, mile-long incline to Esher, where, instead of wheeling up the
long street, the first turning to the right is taken for Hersham. This
leads to a fine gravel road passing between Esher new church and the
village green, with the lodge gates of Esher Place showing prominently
away to the right. In the grounds, in a low-lying meadow by the river
Mole, stands the picturesque battlemented Gatehouse, all that is left
of the once proud, but unhealthy, palace of Cardinal Wolsey, built long
before Hampton Court. When the Cardinal lost favour with Henry the
Eighth, that autocratic monarch commanded him to retire to this damp
and objectionable retreat. Some of the fallen statesman’s letters are
still in existence, written from this spot, complaining of the “moist
and corrupt” air.
It is a delightful coast down for some distance towards Hersham, along
a quite unspoiled road, crossing a bridge that spans the Mole. Hersham,
a hamlet where four roads meet, is in summer a by no means unpleasing
place, but the contemplative wayfarer, thinking of its fortunes all
round the calendar, wonders how the inhabitants of this, and places
similarly remote, can exist through the dull winter’s days without
feeling buried alive.
Keeping to the right through Hersham, the way to Weybridge lies
along a road bordering Burwood Park, and shaded by solemn pines,
coming at length up a slight rise to a heathy expanse just outside
Walton-on-Thames railway station. Keep straight on, with the railway
on the right hand, for a mile, and then turn right along an excellent
straight road for another mile, leading direct down into Weybridge.
[Illustration: Map—BRACKNELL to Esher Station]
That once pleasant village is rapidly being spoiled. Its healthy
surrounding of heaths and pine-woods, and its position on the Wey
and near the Thames, together with the fact of being situated on the
South-Western main line, have caused the building of innumerable villas
and the transformation of the quiet, old-fashioned village street into
a suburban thoroughfare. The small green is still left, and on it a
memorial column to the Duchess of York, who died more than eighty
years ago at Oatlands Park, close by. It is surmounted by a pyramidal
stone supporting a ducal coronet. If it were not for the very curious
history that belongs to it, the column would not be worth much
attention.
[Illustration: THE SEVEN-DIALS PILLAR, WEYBRIDGE.]
How few, however, know that history, or that it once stood in the
centre of the street at Seven Dials, near Drury Lane! It was the
pillar, in fact, that supported the seven-sided sundial once presenting
a face to each of the seven radiating streets which centred at that
spot. It was originally erected there about 1694, and stood until July
1773, when it was thrown down by a party of adventurers who, possessed
by the singular idea that there was treasure buried at the base,
excavated it, and found—nothing. The stones then occupied a neglected
corner in a London stonemason’s yard for many years, until, indeed,
they were purchased in 1822 by the inhabitants of Weybridge for the
present purpose. The large block of stone originally supporting the
dials may be seen embedded in the pathway near the “Ship Inn,” where it
was long used as a mounting-block for horsemen; but it seems, curiously
enough, to be only six-sided. The holes where the gnomons of the dials
were fixed are still visible in the stone.
Oatlands Park, where the Duchess of York once lived, has long been
converted into a riverside hotel, in whose grounds the gravestones
of her pet dogs, to the number of sixty or so, are still to be seen.
There lie “Pepper,” “Faithful Queenie,” “Topsy” and “Dinah,” and many
another. “Julia” has the most elaborate epitaph—
“Here Julia rests, and here each day
Her mistress strews her grave with flowers,
Mourning her death whose frolic play
Enlivened oft the lonesome hours.
From Denmark did her race descend,
Beauteous her form and mild her spirit;
Companion gay, and faithful friend—
May ye who read have half her merit.”
Close by these memorials is still to be seen the two-storeyed grotto
built by a Duke of Newcastle at a cost, it is said, of £40,000. It
engrossed the labour of two men—father and son—for some years, and is
decorated with shells, spars, marbles, and stalactites, said to be of
rare varieties, but not a little shabby and dingy nowadays.
From Weybridge we make for Chertsey, crossing the Wey, and running
beside the now beautiful canal, and then crossing the equally beautiful
Bourne. Soon after passing this stream there is a choice of roads.
Do not turn to the left to Addlestone, but keep straight on, past
Addlestone Moor, where turn to the right, and then the first to the
left. This road leads direct to Chertsey, where it crosses the main
street of that place at right angles, close to the railway station.
Chertsey is a quite commonplace little town, with streets of that
would-be smartness that succeeds only in being pretentiously mean; and
church and Town Hall alike were erected in that most tasteless period
which stretched between the beginning and the middle of last century.
Chertsey Abbey once stood behind the present church, but the site is
now a market garden, and the most interesting relics of it are to be
seen in the Architectural Museum at Westminster in the shape of a set
of tiles illustrating the legend of King Arthur. There is a house
in Guildford Street, however, that should arrest the attention of
the literary pilgrim. It is the quaint, Dutch-like red brick mansion
where Cowley the poet lived—now named “Cowley House,” partly for that
hero-worshipping reason, and partly because since its fine old porch,
which once straddled across the pavement, has been destroyed, its old
title of “Porch House” has ceased to be descriptive.
At one end of the town is Chertsey Bridge, but the Thames here is at
its tamest and the meads on either side at their flattest—admirable,
possibly, from the point of view of the cows that graze in them, but
not from that of the sight-seer.
[Illustration: PYRCROFT HOUSE.]
Having thus shown our contempt of Chertsey, let us pursue the uneven
tenor of our way, returning whence we came until Pyrcroft Road, at the
end of the town, is seen, turning off to the right. Having turned into
this road, take neither the first to the left nor the one to the right,
but keep ahead, on the road past the “Carpenters’ Arms,” and then,
having passed that inn, take the left-hand at a fork in the road. This
immediately brings the traveller to an old-fashioned lane, bordered
on the left by a tall red brick wall, supported at regular intervals
by a long series of buttresses, which now appear to be themselves in
need of buttressing. Over this decrepit wall can be glimpsed the upper
part of the old mansion of Pyrcroft House, which has long enjoyed the
local reputation of having served Dickens as a model for the house at
Chertsey burgled by Bill Sikes. Sikes and his companions, according to
the story, hurried through the main street of Chertsey, and “cleared
the town as the church bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they
turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a
mile they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall, to the
top of which Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in
a twinkling.” The wall is a particularly high one, and the scaling of
it does credit to Mr. Toby Crackit’s agility.
Past this literary landmark the road immediately begins to mount
St. Ann’s Hill, passing an inn on the right with the odd sign of
the “Golden Grove.” Notice the great tree in front of it, and the
summer-house built high up in its branches, and approached by a flight
of stairs.
Now comes a rise so steep as to be scarce worth riding. Keep straight
on, disregarding two turnings to the left. Here is the summit of St.
Ann’s Hill, a delightful open woodland. From this point commences the
descent, by a steep lane with loose gravel at all seasons of the year.
The cautious cyclist will walk this, down to the junction with the
road to Thorpe, where we turn left, and, crossing the Bourne where a
pretty mill stands, continue by a winding, but level, gravelled road
to the hamlet of Thorpe, pretty and secluded. Continuing through this,
we turn to the left for Virginia Water, three miles ahead, passing the
railway station of the same name half-way. The place is heralded for
some distance down the road by the handsome and imposing buildings of
the Holloway Sanatorium. With the exception of that cheery-looking red
brick institution, the scanty modern settlement called Virginia Water
(although the lake so-called is a mile and a half away) is a singularly
depressing place—a wilderness of railway bridges, embankments, and
curves, well calculated to undo all the good the air, the pine-woods,
and the sandy soil of this district are said to effect. A straight,
flat sandy road leads hence, and reaches the real Virginia Water
opposite the “Wheatsheaf,” a well-known and very ugly, inn, frequented
by picnic parties, and the stopping-place of the summer coach from town.
A gate in the wooden fence beside the inn opens immediately to the
lake. The boys who hang about this gate and sell green apples, of which
the very sight is almost sufficient to induce stomach-ache, tell the
unwary that cycles are not allowed within, thereby deceiving many, and
earning innumerable twopences for “minding” the machines. It is well
to disregard what they have to say, and to manœuvre the cycle through
the gate. Here we are within the bounds of Windsor Great Park. Directly
in front stretches the beautiful sheet of water, said, on insufficient
authority, to be “the largest artificial lake in England.” It is,
however, very large: one and a half miles long, and with two arms, each
half a mile in length. It was formed considerably over a hundred years
ago by intercepting the waters of the Bourne, a little stream rising
near Ascot and falling into the Thames at Chertsey, and by damming them
in a natural hollow. The general idea was originated by the Duke of
Cumberland, and the design was that of Paul Sandby, one of our early
water-colourists. The name given to the lake derives from the Duke of
Cumberland being at the time Governor of Virginia.
Surrounded on every side by dense woods of solemn pines, the place is
very impressive. Turning to the left, and following the grassy shore
for a little way, turn down a road bearing to the left again, away from
the water. This leads down to the waterfall, down which the waters of
the Bourne splash on their way to liberty and the Thames. The fall is
made of great masses of rock piled up ingeniously to resemble a natural
ravine. Shaded by trees and fringed by rushes, the scene is really very
pretty. The rough stone bridge whence you view it, formed of immense
slabs of rock, is not unlike those early British bridges found on
Dartmoor—only more elaborate. If only this were not a modern imitation,
how professional antiquaries would rave about it, to be sure!
Crossing this, and coming up a rise, one reaches the famous “ruins”
by continuing ahead, by the shores of the lake. They stand on a broad
lawn stretching away back from the water, and were built to resemble
a ruined temple. They are thus sham ruins, and, knowing that, the
visitor perversely refuses to receive the romantic thrill otherwise
appropriate; which shows that picturesqueness is a matter more of
sentiment than of form. As a matter of fact, the columns themselves are
genuine antiques, from Corinth and from Tunis, the spoils of ruined
temples of those sunny climes, brought here to moulder in the damp
and rigours of a northern climate. The “ruins” themselves are growing
ruinous, for two of the most picturesque of the Corinthian columns,
with their architrave, have recently fallen, and lie, a confused heap,
on the grass amid the other prostrate stones carefully arranged in
disorder over a century since.
[Illustration: THE RUINS, VIRGINIA WATER.]
Leaving Virginia Water by the way we came, and turning to the right,
as though for Bagshot, a right-hand road is immediately seen, with a
finger-post directing to Ascot and Bracknell. This is a fine undulating
stretch of sandy road following the palings of Windsor Park as far as
the hamlet of Black Nest, where it bears to the left and goes direct,
past Sunninghill, to Ascot, Bullbrook, and Bracknell. Nothing is seen
of Sunninghill save the post-office on the left hand. A modern inn,
also on the left, bearing the sign of “The Wells,” will be noticed. It
derives its name from a chalybeate spring in the garden.
Ascot, to which we now come, up a rise, is a depressing
backwoods-settlement kind of a place, with no history except that
which belongs to a hundred years of horse-racing. The village (for
such, presumably, it should be called) is singular in consisting of
practically a one-sided street. This is made up of a row of shops and
villas and the back of the long range of buildings belonging to the
racecourse, a white clock-tower overlooking all. The whole place is
built on what was once the desolate heath of Ascot—and looks it! “Royal
Ascot” they call it in the racing season, and it may look the part with
the fashionable and gaily-dressed crowds then assembled, but few places
can possibly appear so forlorn at any other time.
The cyclist welcomes the fine long descent that enables him to hurry
away. Indeed, the splendid coasts one may get on the way from Black
Nest to Bracknell form practically the only good features of these six
miles; and in fine weather they are exhilarating. But when slithering
through the mud that succeeds a showery day, with, perhaps, the
hoarse-tongued bell of Ascot Priory sounding like a funeral knell in
one’s ears, this bit of country weighs heavily on one’s spirits.
Bullbrook, which lies in a hollow and is just a modern hamlet of
Bracknell, is succeeded by a sharp rise to Bracknell itself, a little
town of no particular interest. Turn down here to the left, past the
(modern) church. Coming to Bracknell Station, turn to the left across
the bridge that spans the railway, and then the second to the right,
if you wish to look at the (also modern) church of Easthampstead.
Returning from this, bear to the right, then first to the left, and
then to the right again, along the palings of South Hill Park, and you
are on the straight four-mile stretch to Bagshot, through the densest
pine-woods all the way, with grass rides now and again on either side,
giving views of infinities of pines. It is a lonely road, aromatic
with the odours of these woodlands, and reverberant with the scurrying
of the partridges or the hollow ejaculations of the pheasants.
Perhaps a hare or rabbit scuttles across the road, or you may meet a
velveteen-coated gamekeeper, his gun under his arm; but never another
cyclist. It is a splendid road for speed, going in this direction,
and the four miles may be done with ease in a quarter of an hour.
Nearing the Bagshot end, the gates of the Duke of Connaught’s seat,
Bagshot Park, are passed, and turning to the right, over the railway
bridge, Bagshot village is reached, past an old white-faced inn—the
“Cricketers.”
Bagshot is not the busy place it was in the old coaching days, when,
standing as it does on the old road to Exeter, it did a big trade with
passing travellers. Its old inns are mostly gone, with the stories
that belonged to them; but the “King’s Arms” remains, and the tale of
how the “Golden Farmer” was brought a captive to its door one night.
The person who went by that name lived on the hill outside Bagshot,
and was known for always paying his debts in gold, instead of by
bills or cheques. Contemporary with him was a terrible highwayman who
never took anything but gold coin off the coach-passengers whom he
plundered on Bagshot Heath, rejecting jewellery or notes. One night
a more than usually courageous traveller shot him when his back was
turned, and when the wounded highwayman was brought here, he was
discovered to be the highly respectable farmer who paid only in specie.
He was eventually tried, found guilty, hanged, and gibbeted on his own
threshold, on the “Jolly Farmer” hill, on the way to Yorktown.
A winding lane leads out of the south side of Bagshot’s one street
to Windlesham, a mile and a half distant, falling to the left across
the Windle brook. The village is mildly pretty, the rebuilt church
wildly grotesque. Away to the right, in the distance, rise the bleak
and barren Chobham Ridges, and three miles and a half onward, away
from the Ridges, is Chobham village, the roads to it duly sign-posted
and the way alternating with patches of heath and pine trees and with
cultivated fields, won with much toil and expense from the hungry
Bagshot sands. To the north of Chobham village lies the bleak and
barren common, and the hamlet curiously named Up Down. On the common
took place the elaborate military picnic, dignified by the name of
“manœuvres,” over forty years ago, at a time when the military system
of the country was at its lowest ebb of inefficiency.
Chobham village is old-world, and being quite far removed from any
railway station, and rather inaccessible, is consequently unspoiled.
The Bourne stream runs picturesquely down one side of the village
street in a deep and narrow channel, spanned by footbridges
and bordered by a row of pollarded limes. Quaint old brick and
half-timbered houses are a feature of the place. The church, with
sturdy stone tower and leaden spire, is unusually rugged and
weather-beaten, and is roofed with stone slabs instead of with the more
usual tiles; altogether a homely and cosy village, that seems to have
no sort of commerce with the outer world, and would appear to be rather
proud of the fact.
Turning back from the village, and then turning to the right, four
miles, mostly of ghastly heath, that might fitly have been the scene
where the three witches met Macbeth, interpose between this and the
hamlet of Ottershaw, where there are cross-roads, a chapel built by Sir
Gilbert Scott, and Ottershaw Park, in which, secluded from the road and
adjoining the mansion, is a kitchen built in the shape of a church by
a former proprietor, who must have had the greatest reverence for his
stomach. Turning to the left after passing the cross-roads, we reach
Chertsey, past the well-wooded park of Botleys, and come again into
that uninteresting town over the level crossing at the railway station.