April 9, 1982: Guildford to Westhumble
Dorothy climbs St. Martha’s Hill
Almost three weeks passed before I was able to return to the NDW. Sundays had seemed to be the only likely dates for walks this spring – with the rest of the week tied up with activity at the American School Monday through Friday and at Between The Sheets on Saturday. Even two weeks of vacation from the school, the Easter break, failed to solve this problem – because much of the first week coincided with the after effects of my first London cold. Good Friday therefore presented itself as the first real opportunity – even the shop was closed – and the weather promised to be dry, though chilly.
I was joined on today’s expedition by a most unlikely traveling companion, my wife Dorothy – who was making a rambling comeback six years after a debacle on the Pennine Way. In asking Dorothy to come I was taking a chance on her feet again (she wore boots, but we had her Adidas in her pack) and her stamina – which I remembered as good. But the pleasures of such company outweighed these anxieties and – in spite of the night before crisis: a bruise on her foot resulting from a collision with an Oxford Street clerk – we were both up and ready at 8:30 on a brilliant sunny morning, April 9, 1982.
We drove to Notting Hill Gate and had only a short wait for the Circle Line. The connection at Embankment was also very speedy (for the Northern Line) and we were in Waterloo in time to catch the 9:20 to Guildford. By 10:00 or so we had readjusted my heavy pack and I was showing off the sights of beautiful downtown Guildford. We paused to use some loos in a car park. Debenhams was open, in spite of the holiday. We stayed on the east side of the Wey but the walk down the highway was dull. Several front yards caught our eye with wonderful displays of spring flowers.
Pilgrim’s Lane, our turnoff to the east, was also resplendent with flowers; it had become a beautiful suburban avenue lined with daffodils. When it forked we began to follow a comfortable lane below Chantries Wood. At the mile and a half mark we stopped so that Dorothy could add some tape to one foot. We were greeted by the first of what seemed like hundreds of dogs out for their holiday walkies. To our left there was a small green valley and above this a high ridge – a continuation of the Hog’s Back, it seemed. Ancient horses had been retired to crop grass on its flanks.
Several unmarked paths made me uneasy and sure enough there was no sign to tell us to take a half right at a junction. The result was that we reached Half Penny Lane several hundred yards north of where we should have been. It took me a while to figure out where we should be heading – and we even made a false start through Tyting’s Farm, a traverse distinctly discouraged by the resident sheepdog who twice nipped at Dorothy’s leg-warmers. I suppose they were wool.
From the Ordnance Survey map I figured out where we were and we walked up the road to the car park below St. Martha’s Hill. There were many cars here but the steep incline of the hill seemed to have discouraged most of the trippers from actually making the journey to the chapel on top. Dorothy collected little pinecones on the lovely ascent. In the fireplace grate on Morshead Road they later proved irresistible munchies for young Bertie, the Miniature Schnauzer.
When she reached the summit I had our first snack ready – hard boiled eggs. There were splendid vistas to the south now and throughout the day visibility in this direction was often excellent. A large Poodle was leaping over the cemetery wall near the memorial stone to Yvonne Arnaud, whose ashes were scattered here in 1958.
On the descent we were overtaken by some horsewomen taking part in a rally of some sort. There were some marvelous suburban types about this morning; much braying and hearty good cheer. We had a brief but uneasy walk along the tarmac near Whitelane Cottage as a skittish horse was proving a trial to her young rider in the paddock here. Albury Down, which we ascended next, was a delightful open space crisscrossed with strollers and their dogs; the latter were better equipped than the former for progress along the footpaths. Some of the owners were dressed for high tea.
It wasn’t quite clear how to escape the down at the end, but I guessed right and brought us out into the crowded parking lot at Newlands Corner. This was within sight of the NDW sign across the road and we had soon seen an end to the horde of trippers; the last of these stopped me on the muddy lane that lead off to the east and asked, “Am I going the right way?” “It depends on where you want to go,” I replied. He and a companion were actually heading for the pub in Chilworth and I was able to give them directions.
It was now quiet and peaceful walking along the downtop drover road but woods obscured most of the views. Just before we turned south to Holister’s Farm a motor cycle roared up behind us; usually these beasts are excluded from the footpaths and this one sent my blood pressure soaring. We met a large party of strollers coming up the farm road – including an Old English Sheep Dog. After the farm we turned east again on a once-metaled surface and, having reached the halfway point, looked for a lunch spot. A young couple with knapsacks – the only other real NDW walkers spotted this day – occupied the first good spot so we moved on a bit and found a nice place facing the now problematic sun.
I had packed my usual repast of baps filled with sliced meat and cheese – which we washed down with ginger beer in Dorothy’s case, a can of Skol lager in mine. A gentleman walker strolled by, commenting on how comfortable we looked. My watch had stopped so I asked him for the time; it was 1:40. Then a Cub Scout pack, without adult leadership, filed by –groaning about sore feet. They looked like refugees from the road show company of Lord of the Flies.
Dorothy added some tape to her other foot and I had a forest pee. Then we were off after a relatively short stop. Walking continued to be quite easy for the next few miles, but on Blatchford Downs we encountered problems. The turnoff was as promised but we were invited by acorn signs to regain the ridge almost immediately. This proved especially bothersome because the summit had recently been burned and bulldozed and there was no way of continuing forward along any recognizable path. In some anxiety I pushed us eastward, but when the road I was following appeared to be about to descend to the north I veered off at a right angle to follow a more southeasterly line. This proved to be correct because the acorn posts soon reappeared where I hoped they would be – and we descended to White Down Lane. This was not easy to ascend, with all the whizzing traffic, but we were soon able to escape the tarmac and sit down in a field facing a panorama of Dorking and Redhill. Several years later I was back in this territory, walking the first day of the London Countryway. I got lost then too.
More “follow the posts” brought us by a series of well-disguised pillboxes. I think we made all the right turns; there were lots of little overgrown paths in this area. Eventually we reached Pickett’s Hole and regained the ridge with our last steep incline of the day. Moving east in the tall woods we were startled by two deer – who came charging through the underbrush, splitting from one another when they were about 25 yards away from trampling us.
Again we made a premature departure from the route as we neared Ranmore Common – seduced by the yellow paint splotches we had been following for some time. We emerged on the road too far to the north – the blotches, I could now see, were leading to the nearby Youth Hostel whereas we wanted to be nearer Ranmore Church, whose steeple we had been seeing for some time. Walking back along the road brought us by an ice cream man and we each had an ice lolly. The orange dribble on p. 20 of my guidebook will forever immortalize mine.
Ranmore Church had a large sign out in front, advertising itself as “The Church of The North Downs Way.” I felt a few drops here, about an hour before the end of the walk, but nothing developed. We began a descent to the A24 but I couldn’t spot an easy access to the village of Westhumble amid the rhododendron bushes that lined our lane – so we continued to the highway. Opposite us was the famous Box Hill – we had been enjoying lovely views of it on our descent. There was a pavement along the busy highway and I was soon cheered by signs directing us into Westhumble for the B.R. station – the last of the ambiguities of the day solved.
We actually passed Mulberry Cottage, home of an interior decorator who had dealings with the shop. We had nine minutes to wait for a train. It was 5:00. We had walked 14 miles in seven hours and Dorothy, who had enjoyed herself tremendously, had performed spectacularly all day. I’m sure, in fact, that she was fresher at day’s end than I was. We changed trains at Clapham Junction – both feeling the cold now, and returned to the flat at 6:40, at the end of a most successful outing.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: