By Sarah Das Gupta
The chalk downland which stretches from Farnham in
the north to the cliffs of Dover in the south was where I played, went to
school, rode along its bridle paths, harvested its fields and foraged in its
woods. It is an area of natural beauty with a great variety of wild life both
animals and plants. An ancient landscape, it has inspired famous writers,
artists, musicians and also national leaders.
Once again, the time had come around for haymaking. The grass in the one-hundred-acre field was well over knee height. The scent of poppies, cornflowers, vetch and trefoil blended with the meadow grasses. Butterflies drifted in the June sunlight and bees foraged among the flowers. This was an important time of the year in my childhood. The thirty horses we kept depended in the winter on the hay we cut in early summer. If our crop was poor, it would be costly buying supplies from other farms.
That summer, it looked as if the weather was settled and we could expect a good haul. The hayfield itself was one of the few surviving unploughed pastures in our part of the North Downs. Walking over the field, was like walking on the most luxurious Persian carpet. You could feel history beneath your feet, the hundreds of years of undug turf and the rainbow display of wild flowers. The first stage was to cut the long grass. In a sense there was a certain sadness, watching my father driving the old Fordson tractor pulling the mower in his wake. Swathe after swathe of grass with all the jewel-like flowers, fell to the executioner’s blades. The sweet smell of the drying hay was some compensation for the sense of loss which midsummer inevitably brings. Half the year passed, the days imperceptibly shortening.
The final phase of haymaking was very much a community effort. Our family was joined by various people we only saw at haymaking time. As the local school master and referee of the village football team, my father was a well- known figure. His many ‘acquaintances’ would appear on the hayfield, helping to load the trailer when the hay had been baled or later when we were building the hay ricks.
One of the best ways of seeing the landscape is from the back of a horse. This is particularly true of the downlands of Southern England. Some of the most memorable sites are only accessible through networks of ancient footpaths and bridle ways. In summer the woods are a forest of different greens, from the emerald of the beeches to the dark, sombre green of the pines. The splendid colours of the cock pheasant contrast with the slightly sinister black of the rooks and crows. The steep sides of the downs are grazed by sheep. I remember a conversation with an old shepherd on the top of a high ridge who told me that they had tried to plough the land in the War when food supplies were under pressure. A farm worker had been killed when the tractor he was driving, overturned and rolled down the steep slope. ‘Yes, this has been sheep country for hundreds of years,’ was his parting remark.
As summer gives way to autumn, in the early morning there is a mist over the heath and as locals say, ‘the first nip in the air.’ The fields are being harrowed to pull out the dead grass and leaves. Out riding, you get a sense of the shape and sculptured nature of the downs. The lines left by the harrow, are like green contour lines, a living map of the landscape. This is also a heavily wooded area, seen at its most colourful in autumn. Riding through the autumn woods, surpasses any painted landscape. The trees are on fire, flaming red, orange and every shade of yellow. Rich, chocolate-brown conkers litter the bridle paths, blackberries shine darkly in the cold sunlight. At the medieval church of St Leonard’s, a magnificent avenue of mature beeches, like burning torches, leads to the main door.
As November begins, Guy Fawkes night approaches. The fifth of November marks the anniversary of the Gun Powder Plot when Guy Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were accused of plotting to blow up King James and Parliament. The history of this episode has been revised and re-interpreted but the tradition remains. Long before the Fifth, bonfires appear in fields and commons; piles of brushwood and rubbish are collected. Children make a straw-filled effigy of Guy Fawkes, to be burned on the top of the fire. This is an excuse for firework displays, barbecues, hotdogs and a community celebration, before winter sets in.
Winter brings its own beauty and changes to the
landscape of the downs. On frosty mornings the field hedgerows glint as the
winter sun catches the spider webs, fine as gossamer, touched with dew. The
frost is stretched, a white carpet, over fields and hills. Looking from the top
of the downs, it creates a patchwork, ranging from the whiteness on the high
ridges to the sparkling green of the sheltered valleys. The landscape is at its
most spectacular after heavy snow. One of the best views is along the Pilgrim’s
Way, an ancient path which leads across a ridge of the downs towards
Canterbury. Riding there after heavy snow, I would think of Chaucer’s pilgrims
on their way to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket, the murdered eleventh
century Archbishop of Canterbury. I would imagine the red stockings of
Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, the greasy hair of the Pardoner with his phoney ‘holy’
relics and the Miller’s bawdy tale! My pony stumbling through the snow drifts,
I would look out across the valley to the scarp slope. The landscape has hardly
changed through the centuries, apart from the main railway into London and a
golf course in the valley. Snow is a good leveler. My view from my dappled grey
pony would have looked much the same as that of those travelers nine centuries
ago.
The villages and market towns of the North Downs have played their part in history and legend. In the Kent town of Westerham, General Wolfe’s home at Quebec House looks much as it would have done when its owner died in 1759 at the battle of the Plains of Abraham, an important moment in Canadian history. Half a mile away, Pitt’s Cottage, has been restored, the country retreat of Pitt, the younger, the youngest ever British Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four who has the dubious distinction of being the first to introduce income tax. This small Kent market town is also close to Chartwell, the home of Winston Churchill. There must be something in the North Downs air!
Church graveyards reveal much of the history of the surrounding area, as well as providing a gothic atmosphere. The thirteenth century church of St Leonard’s at Chelsham, is a case in point. Standing on high ground, overlooking farmland, paths and lanes all lead to the church. Up until the late 1940’S, most local farms employed farm workers and their families. In the cemetery is the grand tomb of Sir Thomas Kelly, a local boy from a poor family who made a fortune in the City of London, even rising to the position of Lord Mayor. He did not forget his origins. On his death he left money to provide bread to the poor of the parish. He must have left a generous bequest as on the first Sunday in July, Kelly’s bread is still distributed. The congregation even have a choice of white or brown. I last visited the churchyard two years ago, late in the evening. The sun setting behind the church was blood red and the air strangely still. I felt it was more likely I would see Kelly’s ghost than his bread!
The landscape here has also inspired many writers. Jane Austen visited the village of Great Bookham where her godfather, Samuel Cooke was the local vicar. Perhaps it was then that she climbed Box Hill, one of the highest points on the downs. This is the setting of that disastrous picnic in ‘Emma’, surely one of the greatest of comic novels. There must be something in the local water conducive to literary inspiration. Arthur Conan Doyle created Sherlock Holmes while living at Hindhead and EM Forster, James Barrie and Huxley also lived at different times in the Surrey Hills.
All the seasons have their own particular beauty in this landscape but over the centuries, men have longed most for the rebirth in Spring after the long, dark winter days. Hedges are flecked with green, grass begins to grow, in the woods, seas of bluebells create waves of blooms every time the wind blows. On the slopes of the hills, the lambs gambol and the ewes graze on the new shoots of grass. The horses have done well through the winter on the store of midsummer’s hay. On the farms, men are oiling the mowers. From the Tabard Inn in Southwark, the ghosts of Chaucer’s pilgrims are already setting off.
About the Author:
Sarah Das Gupta is an
English Teacher from Cambridge, UK who has lived and taught in India, Tanzania
and UK. Her work has been published in US, UK, Canada, Australia, India,
Germany, Romania, Croatia, among other countries.
