July 29, 1983: Oxted to Dunton Green
I stand in the hot sun near Knockholt.
My alarm went off at 6:00 on the morning of Friday, July 29, 1983. I dressed quickly and took the new puppy, Bertie, downstairs for a quick pee. Then I had a bath and taped and threw a tremendous amount of junk into a heavy pack. I got to Maida Vale tube stop by 7:15 and made good connections to Victoria.
After a few minutes in front of W.H. Smith my companion for the day emerged from the crowd. This was my former colleague from Michigan State University, Kenny Harrow – who had been visiting London this summer with his wife and four kids while teaching in the M.S.U. program at Bedford College.
We took the 7:50 to East Croydon, again crowded with Gatwick traffic, and switched to a little local that got us to Oxted by 8:50. I had wanted an early start not only because of the distance, thirteen miles, but because I expected warmer weather than usual. Indeed I was wearing only my blue Antarctica t-shirt even now. There was still some breeze about in the morning – which was lovely and sunny and full of good smells. The lawns of Oxted showed the lack of rain and there would be no repetition of the muck path incident today; everything was dry as a bone. Still, the wildflowers continued to flourish.
For a mile or so Ken and I retraced my route of early June, leaving the tarmac through a tiny gap in the hedge that I hadn’t spotted last time. We were soon walking along the edge of a wheat field dotted with red poppies. The ripening grain was a backdrop to many a view today; it provided a rich texture quite delightful in its rippling complexity.
Ken was put in charge of the green-covered OS route map volume and soon discovered what fun it was to master the art of route-finding. I must say that it was also a pleasure to walk with someone who could so keenly appreciate the natural wonders presented to us today. He devoted much of the morning’s conversation to tales from his recent African travels, but it was obvious that today’s less exotic sights delighted him no less.
We began a steep climb on a well-shaded track to the top of Botley Hill, one of the highest points on the North Downs; it was surprising suddenly to emerge from woods onto a busy rural intersection with giant trucks and bus service. A way east through the woods was provided, one that paralleled an upland road, a delightful path through a forest of huge trees towering over a carpet of ivy. We had been descending a little and now had to regain some altitude to reach the trackway at Clark Lane Farm. Just south of Tatsfield we left the route to visit the tiny church, reputedly Norman in origin but pretty obviously 19th Century now. We even visited the quiet interior, as the door was unlocked.
We then continued along our well-shaded trackway, passing posh neo-Tudor private houses and crossing into Kent shortly before Betsom Hill. I had now walked the entire width of Surrey from west to east.
Roadwork on the A233 obscured what should have been an easy approach to a path at the end of the private drive we had been strolling down. But a caterpillar tractor operator leaned out of his cab to inquire, “Looking for this?” He stopped his machine so we could scamper around it and down to a hidden stile behind. Then there was an overgrown section in which I received nettle bites on the elbows. We passed beneath a quarry and made our last steep ascent of the day. This was along the margin of a cow field. At the top corner we paused for a rest in the shade of a tree and had a drink and an apple. Our next major objective was the Crown pub in Knockholt (which Kenny kept calling Knockwurst). We had only a short rest therefore so as to be able to make it to the pub before closing – but the hour or so it took us to get there was very long.
We walked down a “trackway” that was almost indistinguishable from field margins, proceeding under very hot sun, with little or no shade. This route was actually on Kent’s border with Greater London but as far as I could tell we walked on the Kent side and missed the pleasures of a trod on Red Ken’s turf. Flies, attracted by the cow flop and enchanted by the aroma of my perspiration, buzzed about our head. At a junction with the road to Knockholt I stopped again to get down a lukewarm Diet Pepsi. Kenny was miffed because two girls on bicycles didn’t want to say hello. Later we encountered some picnickers and a couple of canines but in the entire day’s walking in the middle of the the British holiday season we never met any other walkers going in either direction!
We edged through a huge singing oat field south of Knockholt. We were looking for a public footpath that promised to lead us directly into the village and chose a likely looking gap in the grain to follow north. Sure enough it led us into a narrow overgrown enclave between two wire fences (more stung elbows) debouching directly into the gardens of the public house. The sight of two trapped bushwhackers arriving via so unlikely an access brought a roar of guffaws from a table full of businessmen huddled under the shade of an awning.
Kenny and I brought our pints outside and I prepared our luncheon sandwiches on the uneven surface of another awning-covered table in the Crown’s backyard. We had arrived within ten minutes of my ETA (1:40 instead of 1:30) and now had a nice repast before packing up at 2:10.
We had just about four miles to go to reach the 4:18 from Dunton Green and as we had only downhill or level terrain to cover, this would normally have been an easy task. But the great heat (which must now have been up in the 90′s in the sun) worked against us.
We walked through the village and returned to the NDW via the Sundridge Hill Road. We then circled the northern perimeter of Chevening Park; its tall fenced trees provided good shade and at the “Keyhole” – a steep forest ride visible from a stile at the very top – we were able to catch a distant glimpse of Chevening House itself.
When we broke away from the park and descended through fields to the east the waymarking (which had been outstanding, if a little “homemade”) gave out, and for once we were uncertain how to proceed to the B2211 road between Turvin’s Farm and Morants Court Farm. A few improvised rope strands in a wire fence had replaced the succession of countless stiles and I argued that these could be jumped over in order to reach a red stile just ahead of us at the roadside. This proved to be correct but our debate took place after a mile of progress in open country with the sun baking down on us. I was wearing my brown floppy hat and a sweatband.
Under a tree on the B211 I threw myself down for a rest and some of Kenny’s juice. We were low on liquid and I was becoming dehydrated. Surely this day remains as one of the very hottest I ever walked and I learned from it to be very cautious about the upper temperature limits acceptable for a day’s walking. The heat today made the latter stages of our walk something of an ordeal for me; it should have been a piece of cake – Kenny seemed unaffected. He had been talking about his fears of academic stagnation at dear old M.S.U. but now switched to a description of how his track lap totals fell as the heat rose in far Dakar.
We walked along the edge of the road, with the motorway on our right, and crossed the latter with a turn onto the A2028 as it headed for Dunton Green. After only ten minutes I had to call for another pause in what appeared to be the only shade available for the next half mile. When we reached the next crossroads it was time to say goodbye to the NDW and turn south in search of the Dunton Green station. We made the first of several local inquiries but the locals seemed a bit confused – “You mean the Seven Oaks station?” one of them asked. Finally a greengrocer directed us along a paved path that brought us through a tunnel and up to the station we needed. I had been checking my watch against the 4:18 mark and assuming that even if we made it to the station by this time (we did) there wouldn’t be time to buy tickets before our train was gone. But the station was closed so we saved a step; just as well because the train arrived in the next minute.
Once aboard I tried to replenish lost fluids by taking a swig from the last of our canteens every time the jiggling train came to a stop at the many suburban stations (and London Bridge and Waterloo East too). Kenny slept. At Charing Cross it was necessary to pay for our passage. I explained the problem to a little Indian ticket taker and he pointed to another guard who called over a third. Together they were at last able to produce the price of a ticket from Dunton Green. We paid up and parted at the underground.
I felt out of place in the bustling rush hour multitudes, my stiffened legs, sore heel and aching shoulders permitting only a snail’s pace. At least I had a seat aboard the Bakerloo train, arriving home just before 6:00.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: