The Portsmouth Road and Its Tributaries: To-Day and in Days of Old

XIII

But it is a long way yet to Guildford, and eight miles to our next change, at the “Talbot” Hotel, Ripley; equally with the Esher “Bear” a coaching inn of long and honourable lineage. Let us then proceed without more ado down the road.

FAIRMILE

Fairmile Common is the next place of note, and it is especially notable from the coaching point of view, by reason of the flatness of the road that is supposed to be the only level mile between London and Guildford. Along this Fair Mile, then, the coachmen of by-past generations generally took the opportunity of “springing” their cattle, and as they were “sprung” then, so they are to-day, over this best of galloping-grounds, the said “springing” bringing us, in less than no time, to Cobham Street, where there is a very fine and large roadside inn indeed, called the “White Lion.” If the coach stopped here, you would be able to verify this statement by an exploration of the interior, which is as cosy and cheerful within as it is bare and cold and inhospitable-looking without—at least, those are my sentiments. But, then, the coach doesn’t stop, but goes dashing round the corner and over the river Mole and up Pain’s Hill in the “twinkling of a bed-post,” that somewhat clumsy faÇon de parler.

Now, if you walked leisurely this way, there would be time for talking of many interesting things. Firstly, as to Fairmile itself, which is worth lingering over upon a fine summer’s day.

Fairmile Common is associated, in local tradition, with the following tragedy. Two young brothers of the Vincent family of Stoke D’Abernon, the elder of whom had but just come into possession of his estate, were out on a shooting expedition from that village. They had put up several birds, but had not been able to get a single shot, when the eldest swore with a great oath that he would fire at whatever they next met with. They had gone but little further when the miller of the neighbouring mill passed them and bade them good-day. When he had passed, the younger brother jokingly reminded the elder of his oath, whereupon the latter immediately fired at the miller, who fell dead upon the spot. The murderer escaped to his home, and, by family influence, backed by large sums of money, no effective steps were taken for his arrest. He was concealed upon his estate for some years, when he died from remorse. To commemorate his rash act and his untimely death, a monument was placed in Stoke D’Abernon Church, bearing the “bloody hand” which no doubt gave rise to the whole story.

COBHAM STREET

The red hand of Ulster, badge of honourable distinction, is not understanded by the country folk, and so, to account for it, the Stoke D’Abernon villagers have evolved this moving tale. That is my view of the legend. If you are curious concerning it, why, Stoke D’Abernon is near at hand, and there, in as charming a village church as you could wish to see, filled, beside, with archÆological interest, is this memorial. Did space suffice (which it doesn’t) much might be said of Stoke D’Abernon, of Slyfield Farm, and of Cobham village; which last must on no account be confounded with Cobham Street. The latter place is, in fact, just an offshoot (though an old one ’tis true) of the original village, and it arose out of the large amount of custom that was always going along the Portsmouth Road in olden times.

COBHAM CHURCHYARD.

Cobham Street stood here in receipt of this custom and of much patronage from that very fine high-handed gentleman, the Honourable Charles Hamilton, who in the reign of George II. filched a large tract of common land just beyond the other side of the Mole, enclosed it, and by the expenditure of vast sums of money caused such gardens to blossom here, such caves and grottoes to be formed, and such cunning dispositions of statuary to be made (all in the classic taste of the time) that that carping critic, Horace Walpole, was compelled to a reluctant admiration. And this was the origin of the estate still known as Pain’s Hill.

“’Tis very bad, in man or woman,
To steal a goose from off the common:
But who shall plead that man’s excuse
Who steals the common from the goose?”

Thus the metrical moralist. But this was common sport (no joke intended here!) during last century and in the beginning of this, and if a man stole a few hundred acres in this way, he was thought none the worse of for it. For all that, however, the Honourable Charles Hamilton was nothing more, in fact, than a common thief, with this difference—that the poor devil who “prigged” a handkerchief was hanged for petty larceny, while the rich man who stole land on a large scale, and converted it to his own uses, was hailed as a man of taste and culture, and his robbery commended.

PAIN’S HILL.

WISLEY

Pain’s Hill looms up finely as one turns the corner of Cobham Street and crosses the Mole by the successor of the bridge built here by the “Good Queen Maud,” in place of the ford where one of her maids-of-honour was drowned. There are more inns here, and their humped and bowed roofs make an excellent composition in a sketch, with the remarkable mop-like trees of Pain’s Hill Park seen in silhouette beyond. To Pain’s Hill succeeds Tartar Hill and Wisley Common; sombre fir trees lining the road and reflected in the great pond that spreads like some mystic mere over many acres. The “Huts” Hotel, however, rebuilt and aggressively modern, is not at all mystic, and neither are the crowds of thirsty, dusty cyclists who frequent it on summer days.

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