The circular tour of twenty-eight miles here mapped out does not
take us very far afield. It follows the outer fringe of the southern
suburbs, and is planned the more especially to afford the Londoner
some idea of what the country adjoining the Surrey hills—soon, alas!
to be swallowed up by the ever-extending bricks and mortar—is like. It
may also prove valuable to those who are seeking a suitable home just
beyond London’s smoke.
Starting from Kingston we make for Norbiton Church, and, leaving it to
the right, take the next turning to the right beyond. This is Coombe
Lane, and though not so direct as the turning just before Norbiton
Church, is infinitely preferable, leading gently upwards along a lane
with farms and a few scattered houses, and, passing under a railway
bridge, coming, in two miles from Kingston Station, to the hamlet of
Coombe. Turn here, when up the rise, to the right, where a sign-post
marks the way to Malden. A fine coast down leads in a mile to Coombe
and Malden Station and the commonplace modern settlement of New Malden.
Now straight ahead, past this spot, turning to the right again at a
fork of the roads where a country inn, called the “Plough,” stands and
points to Ewell. It is very pretty and rural here. Just after turning
down this road we come to Old Malden, with its quaint red brick church
on the right hand. Here a very beautiful lane, shaded by a fine avenue,
leads on a down gradient for a mile and a quarter, with pretty views
on the right to the valley of the not very charmingly named Hogsmill
River, and with dense coppices and undergrowth fringing the left. This
is the border of Worcester Park. Where this lane ends and joins a broad
highway, running to right and left, turn to the left, coming in two
miles to Ewell, where the Hogsmill River expands into a broad pond
beside the village street, outside the gates of a beautiful park.
[Illustration: Map—Kingston to Croydon]
Notice the curious fishing temple built into the park wall, overhanging
the pond. On the left-hand road, leading to London, is the modern
parish church, with the romantically ivied tower of the old building
still standing beside it. There are many and puzzling roads at Ewell,
but, fortunately, there are many people about of whom to ask the way,
and sign-posts are not wanting. If it were a lonely place they would
be sought in vain. Take the road to Cheam, resisting all temptations
to turn to the right. This brings us to Nonsuch Park, bordering the
road on the left hand, and then into the old-world village of Cheam,
where the new order of things is only just beginning to make itself
felt. There are still numerous old boarded cottages here. The old
church, like that of Ewell, has been pulled down, but the chancel still
remains, near the new one, and one can look through a grating in the
door and get a glimpse at the interior and its monuments well enough.
A mile and a quarter brings us to Sutton, whose High Street we cross
just where the historic “Cock” coaching inn stood until pulled down
a few years ago. Sutton is, perhaps, although very populous, one of
the prettiest suburbs we have. After crossing the High Street the
road presently goes steeply down to Carshalton. It is not too steep
to coast, only be sure that no tradesmen’s light carts are in the
way. Carshalton, with its broad ponds, fed by the Wandle, beside the
road, is altogether delightful. Swans majestically sail the broad,
if shallow, waters; weeping willows dip their long branches in the
stream, and picturesquely wooded islands are dotted here and there.
The small boys of Carshalton (“K’shalton,” they call it) are never
tired of fishing here from the railings beside the dusty road, and not
a few children of a larger growth may be seen casting a line. Now and
again they bring out an old umbrella or a worn-out boot discarded by
a passing tramp, but the trout, angled for by the thousand fishermen
of the place, are coy; and even the usually headstrong “tiddler,”
generally caught by the infantile piece of cotton, declines to be
caught and immured in the pickle-bottle brought forth for him.
[Illustration: CARSHALTON.]
A circular iron railing in the roadway, between the church and the
water, encloses a well called “Anne Boleyn’s,” from the tradition that
the water first burst forth when her horse’s hoof sank in the then
marshy ground.
Having refreshed yourself with a sight of these pleasant waters,
continue to Beddington, whose ancient church, on a by-road to the left,
has a wonderful store of ancient brasses. Unhappily, the church is not
open for prayer, or for antiquaries, and search must be made for the
keys. The road now rises, with craggy banks of sand on either side, and
then comes to a modern and most elaborate inn, the “Plough.” The road
to the right, called Plough Lane, is our route. It leads by pleasant
ways, free from houses, to Purley, crossing Russell Hill, whence,
beside a field of waving oats, the eye ranges across to Croydon and on
to Sydenham Hill, where the Crystal Palace glitters in the sunshine in
a manner fully befitting its name.
Down goes the road in a long descent to Purley, where we cross the old
Brighton road, and, passing beneath the railway, gently ascend the fine
highway to Riddlesdown. Here we are amid the Surrey hills, which spread
out in a lovely panorama of hills and valleys to the right. Riddlesdown
is a place for picnickers and school treats. Continuing past it, we
come to the hamlet of Whyteleafe, and under a railway bridge up a steep
lane to the left, which speedily becomes too steep to ride. Half a
mile’s walk, and you can mount again.
Inquiring the way to Upper Warlingham along the puzzling by-lanes,
that remote village, on its elevated tableland, is reached in less
than a mile. When there, carefully ascertain the way to Fickles
Hole, situated three miles and a half away, past the tiny village of
Chelsham, by rather intricate by-lanes. This, although not so far from
London, is an exceedingly lonely country, whose solitary lanes run
through thick woods. Very beautiful they are, too.
[Illustration: LEAVING CARSHALTON.]
Coming downhill past Chelsham Church on the left, continue bearing
round to the left, and the small hamlet of Fickles Hole, or Fairchild,
as it is sometimes called, comes in view, with the “White Bear Inn,”
in whose garden stands the great white wooden effigy that used once to
adorn the “White Bear,” Piccadilly, a coaching inn standing where the
Criterion Restaurant now towers aloft. For many years it stood in the
shrubbery of Fairchild House, and frightened the tramps. It once more
represents the bruin (or brewing) interest. When strange dogs catch
sight of the effigy they generally run away terrified.
Leaving Fickles Hole for Croydon, turn to the left, and by a long
downhill lane over Addington Downs to Coombe (not to be confounded
with the Kingston Coombe), taking the second turning to the left at a
point two and a half miles away, where a sign-post clearly directs to
Croydon. Three miles more, by a beautiful road, and we are in the heart
of Croydon, whence train home.