XIII
At Pratt’s Bottom there is an interesting parting of the ways. The straight road on to Sevenoaks, by way of Polhill, is modern, having been made in 1836. Before that time the route lay up along by the dangerously acute turning to the right, where the old toll-house stands, to the weary ascent of Rushmore, or Richmore Hill, and to Knockholt Pound. Ogilby, in his “Britannia” of 1675 shows a map of this road to “Nokeholt,” as he calls it, with “Ye Porcupine inne” on the right-hand, near the summit; and a “Porcupine” inn is there to this day.
At the foot of the rise stands the “Bull’s Head” inn, itself of a considerable age, picturesquely faced by a row of old elms, and just beyond you may notice in the hollow on the right hand, where the modern schools stand, an unreformed piece of the original old road, going very steeply and stonily in a loop, and rejoining the present route a quarter of a mile onwards. A white house, now a farmhouse, just before reaching the “Porcupine,” is still sometimes called by the older rustics “New Stables.” It was a posting-house in the old days. At Knockholt, where, having reached the topmost eyrie of the downs, the road turns left, the “Harrow” inn, that was once the house of call for the carriers and waggoners of the Sevenoaks road, still stands.
When the chronicler of these things has explored the old way to Sevenoaks and the new it remains more than ever a mystery why this circuitous way was ever followed, and why so many generations of travellers should have been content to continue along it when a considerable distance might have been saved, a less arduous climb encountered, and a much less dangerous descent made by following the line of country now covered by the modern road.
At Knockholt one has come to a very bleak and inhospitable place, as may be seen by that famous landmark, Knockholt Beeches, not far from the ancient route. The Beeches, it is well known, are situated on the loftiest view-point of the North Downs, and form as windy an outlook as it is possible to conceive; but in those days travellers did not travel for the sake of the views on the way.
KNOCKHOLT BEECHES.
It is de rigueur among the circles that frequent the site of the Beeches to call it “Knock’olt.” To pronounce the name in any other way would seem to them the sheerest affectation. The spot is, in fact, dedicated by common consent to the beanfeaster on week-days and to the sporting publican on Sundays, who drives his best barmaid out in a flashy trap, and has lunch at the neighbouring inn, known to the vulgar herd as the “Crahn.” Whether it be due to the strong liquors of the “Crown” or to the bracing quality of the breezes I do not know, but the sheer abandonment of the merry-making at the Beeches can excel even that of the ’Eath on a Bank Holiday. “The ’Eath?” you ask. Why, yes; there is only one possible ’Eath in this connection—that of ’Ampstead.
A PHYLLIS OF KNOCKHOLT.
From Knockholt Beeches the eye ranges to the Crystal Palace, the enormity of it a little excused by distance; and the Tower Bridge and the dome of St. Paul’s are easily to be identified. But those familiar objects soon pall, and the yearnful music of the concertina and the mazy dance commonly occupy the all-too-swiftly fading afternoon. ’Arry and ’Arriet exchange hats in the spirit of fellowship that has come down to them from the remote ages when semi-savage ancestors swapped headgear at their feasts to typify equality one with the other; although I suspect that if you told ’Arry and his “donah” that they do what they do because their ancient ancestors were accustomed to do it, they would promptly tell you to “shut it, guv’nor.” And they would properly be resentful, for every one prefers to think “I am I,” self-actuated, automobilous, self-contained, and patterned on no model.
And at last, arms round waists, ’Arriet crowned with a bowler, and ’Arry’s cheeks swept by the “ostridge” feathers of her hat, they go back in the solemn twilight to the waggonettes, singing the latest songs of the Halls.
But to resume the old road, interrupted too long by this interlude.
A stark, forbidding plateau of swede and mangold-wurtzel fields follows from the hamlet of Knockholt Pound, through which the road runs, unfenced, like a footpath. Then it plunges, with little warning, down the southern face of the hills and goes hazardously corkscrewing to the levels, far below. Down there, on the right hand, through the hedges, is Chevening, and you look down, like the rooks and crows, upon the roofs of church and mansion, situated, as Mr. Thomas Hardy would say, in his sesquipedalian fashion, “as in an isometric drawing.”
This, indeed, is the well-known “Madamscourt” Hill, so styled from time immemorial, although the name derives from the estate of Morant’s Court, at the foot. There is, at any rate, no lady in this case, and the direction, cherchez la femme, is entirely out of order.
The cyclist passes in a flash a large white house on the left hand, half-way down, and is too engrossed upon the problem of whether he will succeed in reaching the bottom safely to notice it. The house, now a villa, was in the old days of the road a very fine inn, called the “Star,” and from it the hill is still known to many of the country-folk as “Star Hill.” The exceeding steepness of the hill gave the “Star” the excellent custom it enjoyed until the way was diverted, and thus abolished the jolly days of the old road.
The coaches wagged so slowly to the summit that the passengers commonly walked quicker to the hill-top, and were already enjoying the very choice fare provided when the weary team pulled up at the door. The horses had, of course, to be rested, and as no one in those hospitable days could think of not offering coachman and guard some liquid token of their esteem, it was often a considerable time before the journey was resumed.
Just below the old inn the “Pilgrim’s Way” from Winchester to Canterbury crossed the road, making for Otford, along the sunny southern slopes of the downs.
At last, gaining the level, the old coach-road joins the modern route at the “Rose and Crown,” Dunton Green.