August 15, 1991: Rooks Hill Farm to Wotton
The tower on Leith Hill
On Thursday, August 15th, I undertook another midweek stage on the Greensand Way. Gavan was supposed to be working at home – and so there was no need for him to add miles to his company car’s odometer. This meant that neither Toby nor I had to take our Dramamine either; we could meet at 9:00 at Waterloo Station and take the train.
I did most of my packing for this expedition the night before, so Toby and I had a leisurely stroll to the tube stop and we were even early at Waterloo. When Gavan arrived he had made no preparations. He was wearing a pair of baggy shorts and his Din and Tonics sweatshirt because, with mom away, no one had done any washing at his house in two weeks. He needed to go to the cash machine and he had no liquid with him on what promised to be a very warm day. He turned his nose up at the bottled water available in Waterloo station and settled for three cartons of Kia-Ora.
We let one Guildford local go by in favor of a semi-fast train that left at 9:25. We were hunting for a taxi at the other end about 10:30. Our driver, who knew how to get to Rooks Hill Farm south of town, was a very talkative chap. When he found out that I had walked in Wales he wanted to begin a long diatribe against the Welsh – whom he had found unwelcoming on a recent visit. He moved on to politics, denouncing the unions for ruining the country, and provided us with so many other reactionary opinions that in the end we were not surprised that the Welsh had resorted to their own language in his presence. Toby, who sat on the rain cape in my lap, also seemed glad, at about 10:45, to get to the end of our brief journey.
Once again we reached the bridge over the old railway line, the one that we had used to return to Guildford last time. Now we continued northeastwards over fields, through fences, and across bridges in territory that showed not much evidence of use by walkers. I was concentrating very closely on following the directions in the Surrey Council ‘s guidebook, not an easy task with Gavan having begun a daylong monologue on the difficulty of finding a sustaining diet among the specialized smorgasbord of electives that Harvard currently offered its undergraduates. I was a bit confused to meet a crossing track that was paved – on the ground but not on the map – but eventually we emerged onto the road south of Shamley Green.
We passed south of the village church and continued in a northeasterly direction along field edges. A little walking on a paved country road followed; this was well-shaded and I was already grateful for this – because it was turning out to be disconcertingly warm on this day. We reached a turnoff where the guidebook told us to use the access road to Little Cucknells. On the ground this was marked “Private Road” and there was no GW marker. Gavan didn’t want to enter and insisted that we should consider ourselves already at the “house entrance.” He pointed out a path leading off in the right direction along a fence, but the guidebook mentioned a fence on our left not on our right. So I persuaded him to follow the Little Cucknells road. A man was on a ladder using his hedge clippers and Gavan was relieved not be denounced as a trespasser. Around the next bend we could see the house entrance and our waymarked path, with hedge on left, beckoning us over a stile. “Good call,” Gavan said.
Unfortunately we had to continue forward on a path alarmingly overgrown with nettles. Even though I was wearing trousers I felt the sting of these nasty plants on my legs and Gavan, in shorts, was an excellent target. Eventually he decided to adopt the Karin Marcus stratagem – and put his legs through the sleeves of his Dins sweatshirt. In this comical fashion we arrived at the road opposite Stroud farm. I stopped here to give Toby a bowl of water.
After passing a farm called Franklins we headed uphill into trees, a very nice path that brought us over the crest of a hill and down to the edge of a large pond swollen with ducks. Gavan lay down on the grass here but I wanted to struggle on and so we crossed another field. There was a little ambiguity about how to proceed. There was no GW arrow but someone had left a ploughed furrow in a planted field. Gavan charged up this and found a stile and marker at the top. “Good call,” I said.
We had to plunge into another vine-choked, punishing path. This led to a more open wooded slope that we climbed slowly. I think it was at this point that I suddenly but belatedly remembered that I had my rain pants in my pack! I gave these to Gavan and he used them the next time we encountered nettles. In fact we were about to leave the agricultural lowlands in favor of a lovely forested ridge. We had another rest when we crossed a road and passed through the first of a number of car parks provided for visitors to Hurtwood.
After our rest we continued forward on lovely sweet-smelling forest paths, passing another car park (with a lumber rig taking up most of the space) and reached Jelly’s Hollow. There was a road ahead of us and our route would now parallel it for some distance, moving away after only a few meters of tarmac to take to the woods over Reynards Hill. There were quite a few paths here and I think we used a more direct ascent than the GW utilizes (“We’re studs, dude!”) but the routes rejoined before a viewpoint which commanded wonderful vistas to the south. A descent followed and we were once again among signs of habitation, including, on our right, the famous Ewhurst windmill – which had been converted into a private residence. In a short distance we were at a crossroads, where we began a search for a nearby pub.
It was already past 1:00. We headed down the hill from the ubiquitous parking lot and soon found the Windmill pub, which had a garden with tables. There wasn’t much shade but I found a little spot to hide while Gavan went inside for beer. I wasn’t feeling too great and disdained the usual pub lunch. Gavan ordered potato skins with blue cheese dressing and one or two bites of this repast convinced me I was right to stick with honey-roasted peanuts. I was not at all sure that I had the energy to continue but I felt a little better after getting some liquid into me and so at 1:45 we walked back up the hill to the parking lot and began our ascent of Pitch Hill.
It was the first (at 257 meters) of three hill summits that needed to be covered today; all of them proved to be easy climbs offering wonderful views of the Weald from their crowns. There were lots of people about so we didn’t linger long on top but began our descent into the next valley, reaching the elegant buildings of the Duke of Kent School at the bottom. In crossing to the foot of Holmbury Hill we walked in a chasm between fenced fields, eventually reaching the borders of a busy riding school. Horses galloped by on our left (Toby had been shown the beasts so he would not be taken by surprise) while cows, interested in the progress of our party, followed us up the hill on our right.
A few zigzags on easy surfaces gave us access to the Holmbury Hill path. Again the ascent proved easier than I had imagined and in a few minutes we had crossed the rampart of the ancient hill fort and reached the tourist encrusted memorial seat of this 261 meter height. I lay down in a grassy patch and poured Toby another bowl of water. There was a black Labrador running about and some of the kids (including some American ones) were feeling sorry for it because its black coat was absorbing all the sun.
We followed this dog and its owners down the hill. Toby was obviously conserving his energy on this day. He had no difficulty keeping up but there was no wild running about as on other days. After a long descent we entered the village of Holmbury St. Mary and returned to tarmac. We tried the closed door of the village pub. There was a little post office shop and here we bought more liquid. I bought a liter of perfume-like lemonade in a plastic screw-top bottle and drank a can of Diet Coke on the spot. We were sprawled in the shady forecourt of the shop, which meant that anytime anyone wanted to mail a letter we had to move off the pavement.
We then headed east again, soon back in woodland as we gradually approached the foot of Leith Hill, Surrey’s highest point. We passed High Ashes farm and another parking lot, where someone was asleep in a deck chair next to his car, and chugged on up, arriving at about 4:00 at the impressive tower built by Richard Hill in 1764. We had another rest on the grass while Toby helped himself to bread left for the birds and a large troop of little boys marched through on some expedition. I was feeling a bit better. It would be downhill for the rest of the day and there was clearly going to be plenty of shade. I was even able to join the conversation again; Gavan was still fretting over the politically correct curriculum of his university. I said I would rather be correct than politically correct.
We followed the troop of boys down to Duke’s Warren and turned north on good surfaces and tracks down the valley of the Tillingbourne. Gavan had the guidebook now and occasionally he would forget to look for landmarks because he was talking so intently. We passed the Triple Bar Centre and some ponds in which fisherman were trying their luck.
It was actually a very delightful route but just before we reached civilization again we had to make our way along a very muddy patch of trackway, trapped beneath a non-negotiable bank and filled with farm muck to boot. I told Gavan to let Toby find his own way while we scrambled to left and right looking for some way to save our shoes (I was wearing my light day boots again). In the end there was nothing to do but wade through the muck. My trousers were covered in mud and my shoes were soaked. I tried to dry the latter off on every piece of grass I could find. Toby’s legs were encased in greasy black leggings.
The GW headed off into a field at a road junction but we were now going to make our way up to Wotton in search of transportation to Dorking. Stamping more mud from our shoes we had only a ten-minute stroll (not 1.5 km, and not northeast, as the guidebook says) before reaching a bus shelter on the A25. It was 6:00. There was a long wait for the next bus so we tried our luck at the Wotton Hatch pub across the street. It took us a while to figure out how to get into the place, but when we tried it from the rear I had the good luck to stumble across the pay telephone and the numbers of three taxi firms. The first couldn’t pick us up until 7:30 but the second promised to arrive at 6:45.
This gave me time to order us two pints, which we consumed outside. The pub had its own dog, a beautiful setter with his own doghouse. We ate the last of my peanuts as we rested after thirteen enervating miles. I tried to phone Dorothy several times – but she was not yet home. When our cab arrived I made sure that the filthy dog was placed on my rain cape for the short journey to Dorking station. Here I had better luck in reaching home on the phone while we waited for our 7:20 train to take off. A lucky commuter raced into our carriage to retrieve a forgotten briefcase just before we began our milk run to the north.
Gavan was worried that we wouldn’t make it home in time for L.A. Law, but I was certain we would. Indeed it was just going on 8:00 when we reached Waterloo (saying goodbye to Gavan, who was finishing his walking career for some time now) and Toby and I still had a half hour in hand as we strolled homeward from the Maida Vale tube stop. There was even time to plunge him into the tub for a much needed bath. Three days later, on the day of the abortive Soviet coup, I experienced the beginnings of the first gout attack in years. I believe that dehydration and the exertions of the walk, otherwise so successful, must have contributed to this dreaded condition.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: