CHOBHAM AND BISLEY
Euclid in Surrey.--Chobham.--Bagshot Rhododendrons.--Vultures of the
Road.--The Golden Farmer.--Catching the Small-pox.--A contented
Family.--The Queen's Bon-graces.--A Gentle Hermit.--Prize
fights.--Bisley.--Donkeytown.--A wilful brook.
Half of north-west Surrey belongs to the soldiers. Chobham Common,
Bagshot Heath, Chobham Ridges, Bisley, Pirbright, York Town, and
Camberley contain among them pretty nearly all the camps, colleges,
training grounds, and rifle-ranges that do not belong to Aldershot over
the Hampshire border. The whole aspect of the country is military; rural
outlandishness has been drilled into rigidity and pattern. The roads run
as straight as if the Romans had driven them--and, indeed, some of them
in the neighbourhood are Roman roads; the face of the hills and heather
commons is scored with roads like figures of Euclid, triangles, oblongs,
radii, rhomboids, every kind of road which enables you to go from one
place to another in the shortest space of time possible; which, for that
matter, is a thing you frequently wish to do. Nobody wants to linger on
a road as straight as a gunshot.
Camberley, perhaps, is as good a centre as any for exploring this part
of Surrey; but the border of the county is intersected with such a
network of railways that it is easy to get to Bagshot or Camberley or
Frimley from almost anywhere and to join the railway again where you
please. One of the best walks is from Chertsey over Chobham Common to
Windlesham and Bagshot, and then over Chobham Ridges down into Frimley.
Bisley is most easily visited from the railway, as thousands visit
it--or rather the rifle range--every July.
Chobham Common is at its best in July, when the heather is out. But it
has a day in May, under a hot sun, which is, in some ways, more
distinct. The scent and the glow of the heather belong to other Surrey
hills; but Chobham Common has its own features of sandy hillocks topped
by clumps of pines, which set an austere gauntness on the place unlike
the rolling flanks and ridges by Frensham and Hindhead. In May the
heather is dark and dry; there are sparse patches of gorse scattered
about the slopes, and looking across at a group of pines edging the
horizon you sometimes get a setting of black, yellow, and blue, which
belongs peculiarly to this corner of Surrey. Chobham Common and its
heather have often been compared to Scotland, and I can never catch the
likeness. The heather is there, and the scattered pines like some of the
Lowlands; but the wind is a southern wind, and never blows like
Stevenson's wind on the moors "as it blows in a ship's rigging, hard and
cold and pure." Beyond all, there is nowhere the Scottish horizon of
hills.
Windlesham lies on the western edge of the Common, and straggles over a
dozen short, crooked roads--an oasis among parallelograms. Once it had a
reputation for growing bog-myrtle, as you may learn from Aubrey:--
"In this Parish, at Light-Water-Moor, grows great store of a plant,
about a foot and a half high, called by the inhabitants Gole, but
the true Name is Gale; it has a very grateful smell, like a Mixture
of Bays and Myrtle, and in Latin it is called Myrtus Brabantica; it
grows also in several places of this healthy Country, and is used to
be put in their Chests among their Linnen."
Perhaps it may still be put there. Such a plant must have been a
favourite with an excellent housewife buried in the churchyard, whose
epitaph attracts wandering readers:--
She was, but words are wanting to say "What,"
Think what a wife should be, and she was "That."
If Aubrey were making another perambulation of Surrey to-day, he would
forget the Windlesham bog-myrtle when he had seen the Bagshot
rhododendrons. To imagine Bagshot without rhododendrons is to think of
Mitcham without lavender, Epsom without salts, Farnham without hops. The
other name that goes naturally with rhododendrons is Waterer, and the
Waterer nurseries have the magic of gardens of fairy tales. Even in
winter, on a sunny day, an Italian air blows through those tall thuias
and cypresses, down those dark aisles of shining green. But in May and
June, when the rhododendrons glow from pearl to crimson, and the azaleas
light long stretches of flaming chrome and orange, the gardens take a
glory that belongs to no other flowers.
In the days of the stage-coach Bagshot was a thriving village with an
inn, perhaps the King's Arms of to-day, where thirty coaches a day
changed horses. That rich traffic drew the vultures of the road, and
Bagshot Heath was one of the most dreaded stretches of highway in
England. Dick Turpin is said to have used the King's Arms and the Golden
Farmer further down the road; it was the Golden Farmer in his day, and
an unimaginative age has turned the farmer from Golden into Jolly. It is
a pity, for "Jolly Farmer" means no more than White Lion or a dozen
other names, but to "Golden Farmer" there belongs a story. There was a
highwayman of Bagshot Heath who never would rob a purse of banknotes; he
would touch nothing but gold. At Frimley at the same time lived a
farmer, who never paid his debts in anything but gold. The golden farmer
one day was recognised as the golden highwayman, and the inn stands
close by the spot where they hanged him in chains.
Bagshot has had dealings with Stuart and other princes hunting the deer
and putting up at the inns. Both the Charleses used to hunt in Bagshot
Park. Once there was a pretty princes' quarrel. It was at one of the
Bagshot inns that the Duke of Buckingham, at the height of his wild
career, had the coolness to turn Prince Rupert's horses out of the
stables and put in his own. Rupert complained to the King, and the Duke
of York backed him; but Charles decided for Buckingham. Twenty years or
so later, John Evelyn was at a Bagshot inn with Pepys, and went to call
on a Mrs. Graham at her house in Bagshot Park. It was "very commodious
and well-furnished, as she was an excellent housewife, a prudent and
virtuous lady." She begged him to stay to dinner and sleep the night;
she told him all about her children--how the eldest was ill with the
small-pox but going on pretty well, and the others running about among
infected people so as to catch the disease and get it over while they
were young. Evelyn quite approved; he had had small-pox in his own
family, and knew something about it.
The house in Bagshot Park was made even more commodious some forty years
ago, as a residence for the Duke of Connaught.
In the Ordnance Maps, Bagshot Heath is placed south of Bagshot; in the
old maps of the county, the Heath lies to the north and north-east, and
would merge into what is now Chobham Common. It must have covered many
more miles than the maps allow it to-day. Chobham Ridges stretch from
its south-west corner, a long, sandy scar of three miles, overlooking
the Bisley rifle ranges and the desert ground behind them. You are sure
to be invited to admire Chobham Ridges, and no doubt twenty years ago it
was fine wild country. But frequent notice-boards observing that when
the red flag is flying it is dangerous to walk any further, barbed wire,
excavations of gravel, and sand trampled by cavalry horses into a paste
like wet coaldust may temper the warmest enthusiasm. A hideous
foreground can do something to spoil even a fine view, and the view from
the Ridges is certainly wide and wild. The finest view I have had from
Chobham Ridges was a thunderstorm driving down over Brookwood. It was a
gusty, rainy day, and the rolling white and grey clouds and the lines of
driven hail rode down the sky like a charge.
I once met, on Chobham Ridges, a pleasantly contented family. In front
of a sort of bivouac of bent poles covered with cloths sat an old,
weatherbeaten man, tailor-fashion, making a straw beehive. Another
beehive, finished, with a straw handle, lay at his side. A wood fire
smoked and sputtered a yard or two away; on a flat wooden barrow near
were rough cooking utensils and a dark tabby cat; two small boys, one of
them with not much more on him than a large pair of trousers, brought
wood and bracken for the fire. It was raining, but I was wished good
afternoon with the utmost cheerfulness. Were those his boys? They were;
they generally went with him. Was there a good sale for beehives round
there? There was a pretty good sale; this one, with a handle, he should
try to sell for two shillings; he might have to take less; a farmer let
him have the straw. Yes, he was known about there. That was the boys'
cat; it generally went with them. What was that noise in the tent? That
was a pair of kittens; yes, the boys liked to have them; they generally
had kittens. One of them picked up the cat, upside down, with obvious
affection.
Chobham itself lies five or six miles away from Chobham Ridges, south by
a mile even from Chobham Common. Long before you come into the village
you catch sight of the church spire, with its lead covering washed by
the rain to a brilliant whiteness. Rising above the red tiles of the
village into a blue sky it looks as if it had been painted yesterday.
The church has been largely rebuilt, but has some fine Norman pillars,
and contains besides the tomb of the great Nicholas Heath, once
Archbishop of York. He was Lord Chancellor of England under Queen Mary,
and a sound Papist. When Elizabeth came to the throne he resigned, but
remained "so much in the Queen's Bon-graces," as an old writer puts it,
"that she visited him once a Year through his Life, believing his
mistaken Piety sincere."
Two miles behind the Ridges is Frimley, with an old inn and a church to
which Americans come often. Bret Harte lived his last years at a house
on the hillside near, and is buried in the churchyard. But the Bret
Harte of _The Luck of Roaring Camp_ and _The Heathen Chinee_ does not,
of course, belong to Frimley; those were earlier successes which he
never equalled later.
The village politician ought to flourish at Frimley. On a board near the
church I found a warning against a crime which must be becoming rarer.
"Notice is hereby given that any person or persons found damaging the
parish pump will be prosecuted," it ran, but the pump I did not find.
In Aubrey's day, Frimley had the gentlest of hermits. He fled from the
changes and chances of the Parliamentary wars, and led the simplest
possible life in the wilds. Aubrey describes his cottage:
"At the end of this Hundred, I must not forget my noble friend, Mr.
Charles Howard's Cottage of Retirement (which he called his Castle),
which lay in the middle of a vast Heathy Country, far from any Road
or Village in the _Hope_ of a healthy Mountain, where, in the
troublesome Times, he withdrew from the wicked World, and enjoyed
himself here, where he had only one Floor, his little Dining Room, a
Kitchen, a Chapel, and a Laboratory. His utensils were all of Wood
or Earth; near him were about half a Dozen Cottages more, on whom he
shew'd much compassion and Charity."
Frimley is a convenient stopping-place at which to join the railway. A
walk for another two miles or so would bring the curious in the history
of the prize ring, if any still remain, to a classic spot on the
Hampshire border. It was in a meadow half a mile from Farnborough
station, selected because it would be easy to step out of one county
into the next and so avoid the police, that Tom Sayers fought the huge
American-Irishman Heenan, in almost the last great prize-fight fought in
England. The fight came off on April 17, 1860; the most extraordinary
care had been taken to keep the secret of the place of meeting, and the
accounts of the proceedings, when one remembers that it all took place
in the mid-Victorian quiet which was producing the _Idylls of the King_
and _Adam Bede_ are nearly unbelievable. Two monster trains carried
twelve hundred spectators, peers, members of Parliament, magistrates,
officers, clergymen, and gentlemen from London Bridge at dawn. Three
pounds each was the price of the tickets. Nobody except two or three in
the secret knew till that morning where the fight would be; the police,
mounted and on foot, lined the railway from London Bridge for sixteen
miles, all armed with cutlasses. The trains "turned off," as the account
in _Bell's Life in London_ puts it, at Reigate, took water near
Guildford, and ran into Farnborough station "after a most pleasant
journey through one of the prettiest countries in England, which,
illumined by a glorious sun, and shooting forth in vernal beauty, must
have inspired all with intense gratification." Thus _Bell's_ eloquent
reporter. Thirty-seven rounds were fought, in most of which Sayers was
knocked down; his right arm was bruised and useless; Heenan could only
see out of one eye. They were stopped at last, and in a few minutes
Heenan was blind. _Bell's Life_ next morning came out with a special
eight-page edition, the two centre pages twelve columns of tiny
print--nearly 30,000 words--describing every detail of the fight, the
men, and the history of boxing in general. There were some protests by
sentimental people against the brutality of the thing, and _Bell_,
professing a vigorous belief in this particular form of "muscular
Christianity," remarks reflectively that "the whole country is not yet
converted to the right way on the subject of pugilism."
Bisley, which lies on the other side of Chobham Ridges, opposite to
Frimley, is, as I have said, best reached by rail; indeed, there is
little inducement to any one to reach it in any other way. Twenty years
ago Bisley was a tiny village. It is now a vast rifle range. The name
has become shifted from the little group of cottages and the quaint
church standing among the cornfields half a mile away to the huge
common enclosed by the National Rifle Association, where every year in
July the great shooting prizes are won and lost. Bisley is in many ways
unique. It carries on the traditions of Wimbledon, which were greater
than any other rifle meeting. It can show more targets and better ranges
than any other range; it attracts rifle-shots from every British
possession on the face of the globe, and for a week the rain of bullets
sent into the sandy banks behind the targets is almost ceaseless.
Perhaps the most remarkable sight of the "Bisley week" is the second
stage of the shooting for the King's Prize, when three hundred
competitors are "down" at the same time opposite a hundred targets in a
row, and when the shooting is not over until 6,300 separate shots have
been fired, signalled, and chalked on the blackboards by the
range-markers. But the great occasion is, of course, the final stage;
when the winner is chaired and cheered, and asked the usual ridiculous
questions about smoking and drinking. Through all the week of the
meeting the camp is a gay sight, with its white tents and flaring
bunting, and the pennons blowing all down the long ranges to measure the
wind for prone riflemen. "Lying prone on the back," by the way, is a
phrase which creeps into many newspapers during Bisley week. It would
clearly not do to speak of a "supine" rifle-shot.
One would think that the noise of a rifle-range would make the
neighbourhood intolerable. But even with the wind blowing to you from
the range, a few hundred yards almost silences the sound of the range. I
have walked on the common between Bisley itself and the range, when
firing for the King's Prize was in full progress, and was merely
conscious of an echo chattering uneasily in the trees.
There have been plenty of ways of spelling Bisley. Busele, Buselagh,
Bushley, Busheley, Busley, Bussley, Busly, and Bisleigh are a few of
them; there are probably variations. The church has a fine old wooden
porch, with an old yew opposite it; but the door is locked, and visitors
are not allowed to look over the church unaccompanied. My guide was
courteous and obliging; but why should any one be given all this
trouble? There is a famous well near, named after St. John the Baptist,
the water of which was once used for all the christenings. It is not
very easily found, and the local harvesters could tell me nothing about
it; but I discovered it near a farmhouse a few hundred yards south-west
of the churchyard. Aubrey says that the dedication of the well made him
curious to try it with oak-galls, which turned the water purple. Why
should the name have impelled him to this particular curiosity? Aubrey
was always testing wells with oak-galls, presumably for iron. Like many
other famous wells, the water of this spring has always been said to be
"colder in summer and warmer in winter" than any other spring in the
neighbourhood.
Some of the names in this part of Surrey are curious. Cuckoo Hill, on
the borders of Bagshot Heath, is pretty enough, and so is Gracious Pond,
north-west of Chobham, though the Pond, which was once "great" and
"stocked with excellent carp," is probably much smaller than it was.
Brock Hill, near Cuckoo Hill, is of course the hill of badgers, and
Penny Pot ought to be, if it is not, a memory of good ale. But
Donkeytown! Who would live at Donkeytown? It is, however, quite a
flourishing little community, though probably it will be eventually
embraced by its larger neighbour, West End, which is the nearest village
to Bisley to the north, and the largest. Looking at the map, it is a
little difficult to understand why the cheaper forms of village building
should spread in this part of the county, which, so to speak, leads
nowhere: but possibly the presence of the Gordon Boys' Home has created
fresh needs which must be supplied locally. The large buildings, which
cost some L24,000, were set up here in 1885, and are a home for 200
boys.
Between Bisley and Chobham runs a road with rather an odd feature. For a
short distance near Chobham village the little Hale Bourne, into which
the Windle Brook has here grown, runs beside it, dark and full, but
almost invisible under its overarching alders and dog-roses. Just as it
leaves the roadside it is joined by a strange companion. Another little
stream, coming down from the north, runs into the Hale Bourne after
travelling the last hundred yards of its course over the whole breadth
of a road. The road, which is of gravel, and regularly used, is hard and
level, and the stream turns it into a bed, perhaps eight or nine feet
across. The natural course would seem to be to dig the stream a bed of
its own by the side of the road; but local ingenuity has preferred to
send the traveller dryshod over a stile through the field at the side of
the stream, which duly proceeds in the Ordnance map down the road it has
chosen.
[Illustration: _Horsell Church._]