April 20, 2002: South Nutfield to Hurst Green

For the second walk of the year I chose to return us to the Greensand Way, which we had last walked on a rainy day the previous autumn. Today, a mild Saturday, promised to be rain-free and partially sunny, so I thought we should definitely make Hurst Green our goal today – since it is practically without train opportunities on a Sunday.

Because of the location of pubs on the route I decided that we needed a late start and so the Lees were directed to meet me in Victoria Station at 10:15. I was there before 10:00 myself and had bought my ticket and checked the information board well before they arrived – they had been delayed by a deficient District Line service (which had replaced a nonexistent Circle Line service today).

While Harold waited in line Tosh and I went in search of coffee. They had no decaf at the first place and no sweetener at the second. Moreover, the paper coffee cup they handed me was so hot I could barely carry it as we marched through the concourse and through the barrier in search of track 18 – where a Chichester train promised to get us to Redhill. When I was able to drink the coffee I determined that sweetener would not have helped much. Harold ate a croissant.

The guard did not blink when we handed him Hurst Green tickets (this train did not go there; nor was there an easy connection). At least we made a timely start at 10:32 and had only half an hour’s ride to our first destination. Both of the Lees have been reading an early version of A Walker’s Alphabet and I have been reading Harold’s Brothers in the Raj. It was interesting to hear their reactions to my book. They were keeping track of typos and had noted two inaccuracies, but they seemed to be enjoying what I had written and they did not seem offended by their portrayals. “You’ve made me much more interesting than I really am,” Tosh commented.

When we reached Redhill I could already see a train at another platform. The same station guard who had earlier notified us that we couldn’t make our westbound connection, “because of a fatality on the Reading line,” now confirmed that the train in question was ours. Within two minutes of our arrival we had left and four minutes after that Harold noted we had already arrived in Nutfield, where we jumped off the train. It was 11:11. It had taken only thirty-nine minutes from Victoria to put us into country walking mode.

It was a lovely sunny morning. I paused to load the guidebook in my map case and we strolled back through the village in search of our turnoff. This turned out to be a short track to a stile, the first of many on this day. Once across this we traveled along the left side of a field, passed through some hedges and continued forward, crossing a double stile. It was now time to begin our first ascent of the day, a steep pull in a northeasterly direction among scurrying rabbits toward the wooded heights. On this climb I paused to take off my sweatshirt (Tosh took off two layers) and I was able to walk in a grey UCLA t-shirt alone for the next hour or so.

We reached a road and turned right on it, passing the Brewing Research Foundation and keeping an eye out for traffic as we bounced down the wet roadway. At the bottom we turned left amid some houses, remarking how unpleasant it must be the live so close to a motorway. We used a track to pass beneath it; when Harold made one of his many throat clearing noises in this tunnel the echo made it sound like machine gun fire.

The track continued out to a huge expanse of greensward, dotted with sheep, many of whom were being followed closely by tail-wagging lambs. These adorable creatures were adding their identifying bleats to the general cacophony as we took a dogleg to the left, climbed a stile, and continued uphill past a barn full of cows.

Here the track turned west, but a narrow fenced path was waiting for us at the bottom of another steep hill. Unfortunately, our way was blocked by two little white mites, lost lambs who had somehow gotten through their fence and thus separated themselves from mom. We didn’t want to drive them too far away from this spot, but as we made our way gingerly uphill they retreated in front of us. At one point they did escape us by rushing through some foliage and back to their own fence and we were able to get by.

The path climbed steeply and we soon had open hillside on our right, woods on our left, and magical views to the south from every corner. We were beginning a day of great countryside vistas – remarkable that such prospects rarely included any signs of human habitation.

As things leveled off at the top as we reached the village of Bletchingley and here I knew there were two pubs. I thought we should check out the one on the A25 first – so we abandoned our route and headed north. At the corner we could see the Red Lion up on the left across the street so, taking our lives in our hands, we dashed across the speeding traffic and entered the confines of another friendly hostelry. It was 12:20.

Behind us tottered a brigade of fragile but jolly grannies, out for their weekend lunch. We had our pick of tables but we were soon surrounded by locals and their kids. Between the chatter and the tape deck (not to mention the whiff of disinfectant every time someone opened the door to the gents) it was not exactly the quiet and soothing atmosphere we craved.

I ordered a mineral water while the Lees drank lager and coffee. They ate steak and kidney pie while I picked at an underdressed prawn salad – a sure sign that I was again on the spartan regime as mandated by Dr. Atkins. Service, with all these competing customers, was slow, but we did well enough and at 1:20, after a last look at ancient photos of the place and a last compliment to the landlady for producing a blossoming poinsettia in April, we were ready to go.

We dashed across the street again and strolled slowly down to our turnoff. Harold said that he hated to give credence to my portrait of him in A Walker’s Alphabet – but he needed to study some plants in the local gardens.

We turned left on a track, headed east, reached a road and crossed it in order to use its pavement in a southerly direction. I never saw the whereabouts of the second pub, marked here on the map, so I was just as glad we had chosen the first.

We turned left at the entrance to the local quarry and slanted down to a pond, then, with lovely views of the village and the North Downs on our left, we climbed a track into the woods. I was looking for a turnoff to the right but when we got to a parting of the ways there was no longer a sign (vandals had been at work) to guide us – though, in fact Surrey County Council was doing a very good job of waymarking today.

I walked ahead a bit, studied my OS map, and concluded that at least I knew where we were. We did indeed have to turn right here, descend a steep hill, cross another track and continue forward until our lane switched to the east again. The Council’s guidebook, which I had been using for years, was thirteen years old now and, under any circumstances, its unknown author usually disdained such helpful words as “up” or “down” ­– which would have ended any ambiguity. Also, I believe there had been some changes to surfaces since publication and for the next few miles I had some difficulty guessing just how far we had come – even though we always knew we were on route.

I have noticed that quarry land draws the motorbike fraternity and we could already hear the roar of engines as we entered our wood. This was a lovely stretch for us for the bluebells were profuse here. Every now and then, however, we had to step off the path to allow hell-bent teenagers to claim the right of way. At least they had the civility to wave in acknowledgement of this gesture. “Cheers,” one of them added.

Views to our right, with the occasional grand country house, continued to be lovely and we ground out the miles without rest. Eventually we reached a motor road and turned left to climb a flank of Tilburstow Hill, leaving the road for another track along the fringes of the wood. We could see other walkers making this same move ahead of us and indeed there were quite a few folk taking advantage of the warmer temperatures to enjoy the countryside this afternoon.

There was some ambiguity about the route – since there was also a track on the edge of an adjacent field that paralleled our own woodland surface. The two joined up eventually, as we crossed a road and continued forward. Our track twisted around to the north and here we were grateful to the guidebook for the reminder not to use the first stile on the right. Soon thereafter our turnoff was signaled by yet another stile and we moved eastward again on a path through the first shoots of a spring crop.

There was a finger post in the middle of this field and a path leading north from it – but I had my suspicions from the outset that this path was really taking us in the right direction. The guidebook instruction, to aim for the top left corner, was also unhelpful since there was no escape from the field at the top of the path and we had to circle the edge of the field and almost reach the road ahead of us (“top left” from whose perspective, I always want to know?) before finding the stile we were looking for.

Soon we were at the road, where we turned left and went forward only as far as a grassy triangle where we turned right amid more large country estates and two large ponds. We tried to get a peek at the one to our north, even undertaking a short diversion, but fences and foliage prevented this. We crossed a ford, passed Leigh Mill House and headed uphill – again in woodland.

Our route brought us up to the Godstone Bypass – another road to dash across – and here we found a track in open country (our vistas pretty well over for the day), a dry dusty track that dipped and climbed. Here we paused for some canteen water under increasingly clouded skies. Thus we reached the village of Tandridge, where I knew a pub would be located – as we turned south on the local road.

It was well past 3:30 now and I had my doubts about whether the pub would be open, but an eager Tosh had marched through its parking lot and given us the high sign well before Harold and I got there. The Barley Mow, with a wonderful Brueghelesque harvest scene painted on its front wall and a sign welcoming dogs (“with well-behaved owners”) was indeed an oasis for us.

Tosh disappeared in search of the loo while Harold and I found a table in the Ramblers Rest. There were indeed two dogs in evidence, though one, a spaniel, may have been the pub dog. He and a Labrador came over for a visit while I drank another mineral water, Harold a Coke, and Tosh a mineral water and a cup of coffee.

The Lees wanted to know how much further we had to go and I told them two or three miles – depending on the train situation as we got closer to Hurst Green. The GSW makes a northerly detour around the town (some of which I had already done in 1989) but if this would mean a long wait for a train then we could make a more direct approach to the station by using roads to make our way forward.

Under any circumstances we still had another wonderful path through the local woods where the bluebells were again extraordinary. At one point they covered a hillside to our left like a blue-purple waterfall. The Lees were awestruck. We entered more open country and each sought a quiet corner for another pee. Then, with a few daffodils still in bloom, we had our last bit of woodland before returning to civilization, signaled by the roar of a fancy sports car leaving Orchard House.

The paved road here lead out to Broadham Green, a village that seemed to be mostly broad green, without much evidence of hamlet. We crossed over in front of some houses and I lead us on a shortcut across the extensive common to Tanhouse Road, where we continued to the east. At the Hay Cutter, which was closed, I told the Lees that I thought we could make the 4:51 train if we now abandoned the GSW and made our way forward on suburban streets. They were definitely in favor of this option and so I abandoned the guidebook and got out my OS map.

We had pavement all of the way, though the close proximity to front gardens did slow the Lees down some. We crossed one busy road and continued forward on Church Road, passing the church of St. John the Evangelist and following a right turn that put us on a street paralleling the rail track. I even found a pedestrian walkway that lead us behind the houses and into an alley next to the tracks, and a gap in this put us, fortuitously onto the correct platform. We had five minutes to spare.

Tosh and I sat down on a bench but poor Harold was almost floored by some can-carrying lager louts who came in behind us, shouting. An Oxted train came in and they got on, but there were can-carriers on our train too, which arrived a few minutes later. There were quite a few stops but we were spot on time at Victoria at 5:31.

We searched about for some loos here but they were closed for essential maintenance (instead of the tracks this time) and we had to march to the opposite side of the station to find what we were looking for. The Lees also boarded the Victoria Line, but they got off at Green Park and I rode the crowded train to Oxford Street –where I changed to the Bakerloo. This was jammed as well (and had its share of beer bottle youth) and I didn’t get a seat until Edgware Road. Still, after a lovely eight and a half miles, I was well pleased with the day’s outing – which ended shortly past 6:00 at Morshead Mansions.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day Seven: Ightham Mote to Yalding