Cycle Rides Round London

by Charles G. Harper

PYRCROFT HOUSE.

Having thus shown our contempt of Chertsey, let us pursue the uneven tenor of our way, returning whence we came until Pyrcroft Road, at the end of the town, is seen, turning off to the right. Having turned into this road, take neither the first to the left nor the one to the right, but keep ahead, on the road past the “Carpenters’ Arms,” and then, having passed that inn, take the left-hand at a fork in the road. This immediately brings the traveller to an old-fashioned lane, bordered on the left by a tall red brick wall, supported at regular intervals by a long series of buttresses, which now appear to be themselves in need of buttressing. Over this decrepit wall can be glimpsed the upper part of the old mansion of Pyrcroft House, which has long enjoyed the local reputation of having served Dickens as a model for the house at Chertsey burgled by Bill Sikes. Sikes and his companions, according to the story, hurried through the main street of Chertsey, and “cleared the town as the church bell struck two. Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a quarter of a mile they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall, to the top of which Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.” The wall is a particularly high one, and the scaling of it does credit to Mr. Toby Crackit’s agility.

Past this literary landmark the road immediately begins to mount St. Ann’s Hill, passing an inn on the right with the odd sign of the “Golden Grove.” Notice the great tree in front of it, and the summer-house built high up in its branches, and approached by a flight of stairs.

Now comes a rise so steep as to be scarce worth riding. Keep straight on, disregarding two turnings to the left. Here is the summit of St. Ann’s Hill, a delightful open woodland. From this point commences the descent, by a steep lane with loose gravel at all seasons of the year. The cautious cyclist will walk this, down to the junction with the road to Thorpe, where we turn left, and, crossing the Bourne where a pretty mill stands, continue by a winding, but level, gravelled road to the hamlet of Thorpe, pretty and secluded. Continuing through this, we turn to the left for Virginia Water, three miles ahead, passing the railway station of the same name half-way. The place is heralded for some distance down the road by the handsome and imposing buildings of the Holloway Sanatorium. With the exception of that cheery-looking red brick institution, the scanty modern settlement called Virginia Water (although the lake so-called is a mile and a half away) is a singularly depressing place—a wilderness of railway bridges, embankments, and curves, well calculated to undo all the good the air, the pine-woods, and the sandy soil of this district are said to effect. A straight, flat sandy road leads hence, and reaches the real Virginia Water opposite the “Wheatsheaf,” a well-known and very ugly, inn, frequented by picnic parties, and the stopping-place of the summer coach from town.

A gate in the wooden fence beside the inn opens immediately to the lake. The boys who hang about this gate and sell green apples, of which the very sight is almost sufficient to induce stomach-ache, tell the unwary that cycles are not allowed within, thereby deceiving many, and earning innumerable twopences for “minding” the machines. It is well to disregard what they have to say, and to manœuvre the cycle through the gate. Here we are within the bounds of Windsor Great Park. Directly in front stretches the beautiful sheet of water, said, on insufficient authority, to be “the largest artificial lake in England.” It is, however, very large: one and a half miles long, and with two arms, each half a mile in length. It was formed considerably over a hundred years ago by intercepting the waters of the Bourne, a little stream rising near Ascot and falling into the Thames at Chertsey, and by damming them in a natural hollow. The general idea was originated by the Duke of Cumberland, and the design was that of Paul Sandby, one of our early water-colourists. The name given to the lake derives from the Duke of Cumberland being at the time Governor of Virginia.

Surrounded on every side by dense woods of solemn pines, the place is very impressive. Turning to the left, and following the grassy shore for a little way, turn down a road bearing to the left again, away from the water. This leads down to the waterfall, down which the waters of the Bourne splash on their way to liberty and the Thames. The fall is made of great masses of rock piled up ingeniously to resemble a natural ravine. Shaded by trees and fringed by rushes, the scene is really very pretty. The rough stone bridge whence you view it, formed of immense slabs of rock, is not unlike those early British bridges found on Dartmoor—only more elaborate. If only this were not a modern imitation, how professional antiquaries would rave about it, to be sure!

Crossing this, and coming up a rise, one reaches the famous “ruins” by continuing ahead, by the shores of the lake. They stand on a broad lawn stretching away back from the water, and were built to resemble a ruined temple. They are thus sham ruins, and, knowing that, the visitor perversely refuses to receive the romantic thrill otherwise appropriate; which shows that picturesqueness is a matter more of sentiment than of form. As a matter of fact, the columns themselves are genuine antiques, from Corinth and from Tunis, the spoils of ruined temples of those sunny climes, brought here to moulder in the damp and rigours of a northern climate. The “ruins” themselves are growing ruinous, for two of the most picturesque of the Corinthian columns, with their architrave, have recently fallen, and lie, a confused heap, on the grass amid the other prostrate stones carefully arranged in disorder over a century since.