This route is the way by which Surbiton, Kingston, and Richmond
cyclists reach the Brighton road. We will pick up the route at Ewell,
which may be made a starting-point.
It is a long, long ascent toward the ridge of the North Downs, all
the way from Ewell to Banstead Heath; not necessarily a tiring one
unless a south wind is blowing, but when it blows great guns from that
quarter, then—why, then go home and wait until it comes from some other
direction! Fortunately, the road-surface is excellent, and, coming in
the reverse direction, there is not, probably, such another lengthy and
uninterrupted a coast-down in the neighbourhood of London.
Three miles from Ewell, Nork Park, distinguished from far away by
its dense hillside woods, is passed on the right, and we come to the
beginnings of Burgh Heath. Here, at a turning to the left, there
stands, at some distance from the road, an ancient tumulus surrounded
by fir trees for the wonderment of those who care to go and seek it.
Burgh Heath is a portion of the wild, unenclosed uplands including
Banstead Downs, Walton Downs, Epsom Downs, and Walton Heath. The
cyclist may notice in passing a number of ramshackle wooden shanties
in the midst of the heath. These are the property of the descendants
of those squatters who placed them here so long ago that they have
obtained a prescriptive right, and cannot be evicted.
At the turning to Tadworth, at a point known locally as “Wilderness
Bottom,” keep to the left, unless, indeed, you desire to explore the
village, which was notable a little while since as being the country
retreat of Lord Russell, the Lord Chief Justice, who resided at
Tadworth Court.
[Illustration: Map—Ewell Station to Lingfield Station]
Passing through Kingswood, we come up and down hill, and finally down,
to Gatton, against the lodge gates of Gatton Park, once the seat of
Lord Monson, but now the property of Mr. Colman, of the famous mustard
firm. There is a public footpath through this very beautiful park, and
the house is shown from 2 p.m. to 4. Cycles, however, must be left
within the lodge gates. But although the pictures are very fine, and
the Marble Hall worth seeing, the average visitor will doubtless be
much more interested in the so-called “Town Hall” of Gatton, a kind
of miniature summer-house in the shape of a classic temple, situated
in midst of a lovely clump of scented limes in front of the house. It
should be said that Gatton is not, and never was, a village. It is just
a big park, with a manorial church adjoining the house. But Gatton was
a parliamentary borough, and returned two members to Parliament, from
the reign of Henry the Sixth, until it was disfranchised by the first
Reform Act in 1832. With the sole exception of Old Sarum it was the
rottenest of “rotten boroughs,” and contained not a single elector. It
was a “pocket borough,” that went with the Park as a property. Cobbett,
who was nothing if not downright and brutally frank, says, “You pass
Gatton, which is a very rascally spot of earth.” So it was, for the
political power wielded by its owner was almost always exercised in
the interest of bribery and corruption, and Lord Monson, who purchased
the property in 1830 for £100,000, did so with the idea of securing a
splendid investment, to return him about a hundred per cent.; but in
less than two years Reform had destroyed its value. So frankly corrupt
were those times that we can only wonder why Lord Monson did not
cynically prefer a claim for compensation. The “Town Hall,” therefore,
is merely a satirical kind of freak, while the inscription of “Vox
populi suprema lex,” among others inscribed on the pedestal of the urn
that forms the sole ornament of the building, is an example of a former
owner’s sardonic humour.
[Illustration: THE “TOWN HALL,” GATTON.]
Rather than face the dangerous descent of Reigate Hill, we will,
on returning to the Park gates, turn to the right, and make for
Merstham, a pretty old-world village on the main Brighton road; bearing
continually to the right until opposite the “Feathers,” after which,
take the road that dips down to the left, to Nutfield. This goes in
winding fashion for two miles, and then comes up a short, sharp rise
to the church, standing prominently on a high bank above the left-hand
side of the road, and containing a stained-glass window designed by
Burne Jones. The apoplectic hue of the figures’ faces is exceedingly
unpleasing.
Past the church, where a road runs right and left, turn left, and so
through the few houses of Nutfield to Bletchingley, down whose hillside
street we come with caution. The old church has an odd tower, and
contains a tomb with some pretty Elizabethan verses to Sir Thomas
Cadwallader. Note the huge and bombastical monument to a former Lord
Mayor of London, occupying the whole of the east end of the south
aisle. The effigies of the worthy knight and his lady seem to represent
them singing an operatic duet, while attendant marble cherubs, with
swollen faces suggestive of toothache, shed stony tears.
[Illustration: THE HOLLOW ROAD, NUTFIELD.]
In less than two miles we reach Godstone, and, passing its green
and village pond, and the “White Hart,” its famous old hostelry,
turn sharply to the left, and then take the first broad road to the
right. This is the Oxted road; but instead of proceeding quite so
far as that village, we will, in a mile and a half, turn to the right
for Tandridge, a hamlet with an ancient church, in whose churchyard
notice the monument to the wife of Sir Gilbert Scott, the architect
who restored (and helped to spoil) so many of our cathedrals. See,
also, the ancient oak internal framing of the tower, and the tragical
tombstone to Thomas Todman, 1781, aged thirty-one years, at the side of
the south porch. Thomas Todman was a smuggler, who was shot dead by a
Custom House officer. The inscription is curious. Here it is, oddities
of spelling and punctuation preserved:—
“Thou Shall do no Murder, nor Shalt thou Steal
are the Commands Jehovah did Reveal
but thou O Wretch, Without fear or dread
of thy Tremendous Maker Shot me dead.
Amidst my strength my sins forgive
As I through Boundless Mercy hope to live.”
Downhill from Tandridge and into the Weald, turning to the left by the
railway, and following it for a mile. Then bear to the right, and enter
the pretty village of Crowhurst, with its interesting church showing to
the right of the road. One of the curios it contains is an elaborate
cast-iron tomb-“stone,” on the chancel floor, with figures and raised
inscription, dated 1591—a relic of the days when iron was mined and
smelted in this Wealden district. This is one of several memorials
connected with the Gaynesford family, once Lords of the Manor here,
and so remaining for over three hundred and sixty years. Their old
manor-house, now a farmhouse, and a very picturesque and interesting
one, called Crowhurst Place, is only a mile distant.
[Illustration: AN IRON TOMB-SLAB.]
It will be noticed that many of the letters on the iron slab are either
cast in reverse or upside down. Mrs. “Ane Forstr,” it can readily be
seen, was exceedingly proud of her descent. A very odd fact is that
exact replicas of this cast-iron slab are found distributed throughout
Surrey, and even in some places in Sussex; not always in the most
decorous positions. There is, for example, one used as a fire-back in
the kitchen of a farm adjoining Crowhurst Church itself, and others
have been noted at Ewhurst, Godstone, and Horley, where one formed
part of the flooring of a baker’s oven, and occasionally produced
breakfast-table terrors in the neighbourhood when the domestic loaf of
bread was found to be impressed with “Her lieth,” “deceased,” and other
portions of the design, including the shrouded body in the centre. The
simple explanation of this odd distribution is that the iron-founding
firm must have found the mould ready to their hands when cheap
fire-backs were wanted, and so cast them in this guise. It mattered
little when few people could read.
[Illustration: THE ANCIENT YEW, CROWHURST.]
The great yew tree in Crowhurst churchyard is among the very largest
in the land, measuring thirty-two feet nine inches round its immense
trunk at a height of five feet from the ground. It is thought to be
about twelve hundred years old, and although it was greatly mutilated
over eighty years ago by some local vandals, who thought how fine
a thing it would be to scoop out the interior and to fix table and
benches inside, for the accommodation of some twenty persons, the tree
still flourishes. When this wanton outrage was performed, an ancient
cannon-ball was discovered in the very heart of the trunk.
Three miles more of country lanes, and our journey ends at Lingfield, a
modern horse-racing centre. Here a train may be found for the return to
town.