For the second half of my visit to Tandridge I'm visiting the commuter section to the north of the M25. Many of the towns and villages are connected to London by bus or train, indeed had the boundary with Surrey been drawn differently then Caterham and Warlingham could very easily be part of the capital. But they're a bit dull, sorry, so allow me to start by visiting an unsung stately home instead. Try not to giggle. [14 photos][map]
Somewhere historic: Titsey Place
Stop that. The village of Titsey appears in the Domesday Book, and had an important strategic location on the Pilgrims Way at the foot of the North Downs. The manor house has been around for centuries and was owned by the great Tudor financier Sir John Gresham, the Richard Branson of his day, whose wares were furs and fabrics from the far east. Titsey Place lies in a beautiful location, wrapped round to the north by a bend in the chalk downs, the slopes entirely covered by trees. Too nice, as it turned out in the 1770s when the latest Sir John Gresham had the manor house rebuilt and moved the entire village out of the way! He didn't like seeing cottages and the church from his window, so had the whole lot shifted a few hundred yards to the east to open up a panorama. That view too is rather lovely, if you can ignore the noise of the M25 half a mile away screened only by trees. Clacket Lane Services are just out of sight, if that helps you to locate Titsey more precisely.
In 1804 the last Gresham heiress married a Leweson Gower (pronounced Leverson Gore), which introduced a whole new set of heraldic symbols around the house. Later descendants became Major Generals, poets, MPs and archaeologists - the latter made easier by having a buried Roman villa in the grounds. But the last of the dynasty died 20 years ago, and the estate passed into the hands of a Foundation... who open it up to the public every summer. No, I'd never realised either. You drive in, or walk, down a long lane from Limpsfield, eventually passing through a herd of cattle secured safely behind electric wires. This is the pedigree Titsey Herd, now 75 strong, and available for appearances at barbecues and restaurants as required.
Sunday visitors can pay to enter the walled kitchen garden, which is beautifully maintained, and currently ablaze with colour. A comprehensive variety of plants are neatly laid out within, and spill out into the estate beyond which is also open for roaming. The ornamental lake is fed by springs at the head of the Eden Valley, or take a pew on the south terrace to enjoy Sir John's village-free view. But come on Wednesday or Saturday, and pay a little extra, and a guided tour of the house is thrown in too. And this is fascinating. Nine rooms are open to view, and your volunteer guide will whisk you through in one hour flat topped off with copious facts and anecdotes. The history of the family is intriguing enough, because a banking fortune means you can do pretty much anything. Yes those are four real Canalettos on the dining room wall, purchased direct from the artist, while all the Georgian panelling in the Gallery Bedroom was shipped in from elsewhere. I enjoyed the variety of styles and decor, along with touches that indicated this is still very much a family home, even if the original families have all died out.
I struck lucky and got the least busy of the day's three tours - the other two would have meant schlepping round with a rather larger group. But I have no hesitation in recommending a visit to Titsey Place if you're a history/antiques/gardening/tearoom sort of person. Indeed the cream tea slipped down a treat, complete with choice of three types of freshly baked scone, because it seemed the right way to round off a visit. Your only issue may be getting here if you don't have a car because local buses are infrequent, and the nearest station is about an hour's walk away. I walked out via the woodland paths on the escarpment, these steep and indirect, but leading eventually to a lofty view south across the Weald. On a sunny summer's afternoon, high atop the North Downs Way, where better? OK, so it was raining by the time I finally reached Tatsfield, but this Surrey village is surrounded on three sides by London and so has a perfectly regularbus service. Titsey's just about accessible by Oyster, if you make a clean breast of it. by train: Oxted, by bus: 464, by local bus: 595
Meridian Interlude - Titsey Plantation Or you can exit Titsey to the southwest towards Oxted. The walking route again follows the North Downs Way, a long distance path I'm becoming increasingly enamoured with thanks to its linear elevation. This particular mile-long section runs along the foot of the escarpment, with thick woodland above, rapeseed fields below and dry chalk underfoot. On the map it looks straight, whereas the reality is a light wiggle, occasionally diverting around a toppled tree trunk blocking the path. Only the motorway broke the silence, otherwise it was just me and the butterflies and the occasional surprised rabbit. And then partway along I found the Meridian marker I'd been hunting for. I think the panel was meant to be at the very top of the field but midsummer growth had encroached somewhat, forcing someone to trim a deep notch in the hedgerow so it could still be seen. The plaque was installed by Surrey County Council and the Vanguards Rambling Club, the latter custodians of a 66 mile trail from Croydon to Newhaven. I'd seen nobody on either route, indeed I saw no other walkers whatsoever during two hours of traipsing Tandridge's byways. But here at this random spot due south of Greenwich, alone with nature, I'd not have had it any other way.
Somewhere random: East Surrey Museum
Not only is East Surrey apparently a thing, it also has a museum. You'll find it in Caterham, a few yards up the hill from the station, inside a building that looks suspiciously like a house. I think I surprised the steward at the weekend by being a visitor, whereas he was expecting another volunteer to keep him company during a long shift. This is a very local museum, with a focus on Caterham and district, despite claiming to be a repository for the whole of Tandridge. See Old Caterham in postcards, learn about the coming of the railways*, and see dug up bits from nearby Chelsham Roman villa. One room out back has the obligatory collection of ancient relics and stone age flints, including a 13th century water jug shaped like a grinning horse - he's nicknamed Rudolph and is the museum's mascot. Throw in a Children's Room with exhibits targeted at primary school groups and, well, the place has some charm but not much to show for it. by train: Caterham, by bus: 407
* Caterham itself seems to have little history** apart from that generated by the railways turning up. Their arrival in the 1850s turned a village into an end-of-the-line dormitory town, with pleasant villas to be occupied on the valley slopes. Steep contours have created an unusual situation further north where two railway lines run parallel yards apart on either side of the dip, with entirely separate stations and heading for different destinations. The two closest stations are Whyteleafe and Upper Warlingham, 37 minutes apart by train but only three minutes on foot.
** Obviously Caterham does have some history, as two boards by the floral roundabout explain. For example the Asprey Fountain, which was donated to the town by Charles the famous jeweller, and whose single lamp became the town's very first streetlight. The Metropolitan Asylum survived here in Caterham for over a century, its most famous resident being Joey Deacon (if you're of a certain age, you'll know his name well). The most recent heritage highlights, apparently, were the replacement of the station car park by a Waitrose in 1982, and the demolition of the Valley Hotel to create the Church Walk Shopping Centre. So no, sorry, not really much history at all*.
I'm continuing my outer orbit of London in Tandridge, East Surrey. It's possibly the least well known of the seventeen administrative districts touching the capital, even though it's quite big, and can be found clinging onto the bottom of Croydon. The northern strip is spacious suburbia, while to the south are a selection of minor towns and tiny villages amid rolling fields. Alas, Tandridge is not over-endowed with places of interest. I discovered this by downloading the council's "Your Guide to Tandridge" booklet off their website, only to discover that the majority of their "Places to Visit" were in fact in neighbouring districts. But I found a few worthy of investigation, and at least two of them turned out to be much more interesting than I was expecting.
Somewhere pretty: Oxted
I've always liked the name. Short and snappy, with an Anglo-Saxon feel, and of course that lovely X. This may just be because I grew up somewhere similar, but I'd always wondered what the place was like. Relatively small it turns out, indeed Croxley's technically bigger, but Oxted hosts the council offices and is administratively far more important. The main shopping street's split in two by the railway, with the west side shorter and more Mock Tudor. It's really rather nice, and includes cafes, a proper ironmongers and a second hand bookshop. Plus there's an adorable-looking cinema whose wooden beams might appear 16th century but are really 1929, ditto the Barclays Bank nextdoor. But then Tandridge is allegedly Housewife Central, with the highest proportion of economically inactive women in Britain, so it's as well they have somewhere to go.
I had feared that, bar the shops, there'd be little in Oxted to write about. Thank heavens then that I'd arrived on the one afternoon the town lets its hair down and parties... at the OxtedCarnival. Held every first Saturday in July since 1966, this annual shindig takes over Master Park at the bottom of the hill, and is unashamedly local. You might walk in from neighbouring Hurst Green or Limpsfield, but the carnival is really an opportunity for residents and organisations from Oxted to come together. The Rotary Club had a paddling pool full of rubber ducks to fish in, for example, while the Cystic Fibrosis tent housed a bottle tombola to put the nearest supermarket to shame. On the fringes an army officer, or a man dressed convincingly as one, waited patiently for anyone to approach so that he could talk to them about centenaries and stress. It being a bit early the bar tent hadn't quite taken off, and the Barn Theatre ladies were still declingfilming the sponges in their tea tent. But I swapped two pound coins for a tasty hotdog at the carnival committee's gazebo, this pure profit what with all the bread and squeezy ketchup having been kindly donated by Morrisons.
A very mild stir was caused by the arrival of Tandridge's Chairman of the Council, that's Councillor Elizabeth Parker, in a Ford Fiesta driven by her Consort Robin. He traversed the carnival in his hatchback and parked up on the grass by the ice cream van, because you're totally allowed to do that when your wife runs the place. Exiting the car in chains, Elizabeth was resplendent in cardigan and straw bonnet, but was outshone by the feathery attire of the town crier and her big bell. Meanwhile on the other side of the park, the carnival procession (theme 'Toys and Games) was lining up prior to its tour round the town. One local school had dressed up collectively as Angry Birds, while another group disguised as Duracell bunnies bounced around to music in the far corner. One float with guitarists and drummer was decked out as "Roxted" (see what they did there?), practising silently as the time for departure approached. And right on schedule out came Oxted's householders to watch the parade from their front verge, its musical soundtrack echoing all the way to the town's outskirts. And that's where the similarity between Oxted and Croxley finally struck me, one with its Carnival, the other its Revels. Each a community celebrating its individuality and togetherness annually in friendly style - I felt very much at home. by train: Oxted
Meridian Interlude - Oxted The Greenwich Meridian runs down the east side of Tandridge, approximately in line with the East Grinstead railway, including a direct hit on Oxted School and the Ellice Road Car Park. My target was the town's one public manifestation of the zero degree line, which is a centenary plaque on the front of Paydens the Chemists at the bottom of the parade. This is a splendid Tudorbethan pharmacy, its interior laid out rather how Boots used to be, with bottles and creams stacked neatly on shelves and a proper prescription counter at the rear. Look down low by the left of the front door and there's the meridian marker, cast in 1984, below a window display of small town pharmaceutical perfection. Lined up on the meridian itself are a strawberry-themed shower hat, a box of three rose-perfumed soaps and a St Moritz self tan applicator mitt. The first toiletry in the western hemisphere is an RHS Sweet Pea Body Balm, positioned close to the pièce de résistance - a bottle of blonde-pigtailed Matey bubble bath. It's the finest meridian marker I've seen in many a year. Meanwhile nextdoor, firmly in the eastern hemisphere, is Paydens Bookshop. Again it's everything you'd hope an local independent shop would be, with books giving way to an eclectic range of non-poncey stationery as you walk through. I succumbed, zero resistance.
Meridian Interlude - Lingfield
The Greenwich Meridian oh so nearly swipes through Lingfield racecourse, but not quite. Step a hundred yards or so past the entrance to the hotel car park and there, on the other side of the railway bridge, is a small stone monument set into the pavement. It was installed by the parish council to celebrate the millennium, and is oddly hard to read for a memorial so young. Still, it's better placed here than on the opposite side of the road outside the Lingfield & Dormansland Rifle & Pistol Club hut. I wonder if they have a meridian-sighted target lined up inside.
Somewhere sporting: Lingfield Park Yes, Lingfield's where the racing is. It boasts one of the handful of all-weather racecourses in Britain, always usable but not always used. Last Saturday was an off-day, save for a team of groundsmen tending to the non-artificial bits, and the Arpa & Hemanshoo Wedding in the Pavilion Suite. The owners have made sure that the course is almost, but not completely, invisible from the road outside. Stand outside the main gate, which is a peculiar wooden-topped glass box with some turnstiles inside, and you can see a fraction of the outer rail, while a bit of the parade ring is visible through the conifers a little further down the road. So that was well worth my train ticket and a lengthy yomp across Tandridge, I thought. A dedicated footpath leads from the far end of the northbound platform, via which those coming by rail arrive at the races. More typical visitors come by car, and park up in fields labelled No Trespassing at all other times. Ah but this is more than a racecourse, this is the Lingfield Park Resort, complete with golf course for swinging executives and a four star hotel with jockeytastic views. I imagine many a corporate conference takes place within, although the reality next weekend appears to be a Whitney and Beyonce Tribute for all you Ladies out there.
OK, so the sporting end of Lingfield proved rather dull, but the centre of the village was gorgeous. An unlikely mega-cluster of listed buildings swirls around the medieval church, itself Grade I, on the site of a Saxon structure. The current St Peter and St Paul's owes its existence to a dynasty of crusaders, and its most prominent feature is the ostentatious tomb of Sir Reginald de Cobham and his wife (resting her feet on a small dragon), plonked directly in front of the high altar. It's a fine building to explore, but first and foremost a place of worship rather than any fossilised heritage asset. Likewise the surrounding cottages, still very much family homes... and then there's The Guest House. Built in Wealden style for guests of the neighbouring college, this timber-framed beauty turns out to be full of books, and perchance the only 15th century public library in Britain. by train: Lingfield
Or you can exit Titsey to the southwest towards Oxted. The walking route again follows the North Downs Way, a long distance path I'm becoming increasingly enamoured with thanks to its linear elevation. This particular mile-long section runs along the foot of the escarpment, with thick woodland above, rapeseed fields below and dry chalk underfoot. On the map it looks straight, whereas the reality is a light wiggle, occasionally diverting around a toppled tree trunk blocking the path. Only the motorway broke the silence, otherwise it was just me and the butterflies and the occasional surprised rabbit. And then partway along I found the Meridian marker I'd been hunting for. I think the panel was meant to be at the very top of the field but midsummer growth had encroached somewhat, forcing someone to trim a deep notch in the hedgerow so it could still be seen. The plaque was installed by Surrey County Council and the Vanguards Rambling Club, the latter custodians of a 66 mile trail from Croydon to Newhaven. I'd seen nobody on either route, indeed I saw no other walkers whatsoever during two hours of traipsing Tandridge's byways. But here at this random spot due south of Greenwich, alone with nature, I'd not have had it any other way.
Beyond London (3): Tandridge (part 1)
I had feared that, bar the shops, there'd be little in Oxted to write about. Thank heavens then that I'd arrived on the one afternoon the town lets its hair down and parties... at the Oxted Carnival. Held every first Saturday in July since 1966, this annual shindig takes over Master Park at the bottom of the hill, and is unashamedly local. You might walk in from neighbouring Hurst Green or Limpsfield, but the carnival is really an opportunity for residents and organisations from Oxted to come together. The Rotary Club had a paddling pool full of rubber ducks to fish in, for example, while the Cystic Fibrosis tent housed a bottle tombola to put the nearest supermarket to shame. On the fringes an army officer, or a man dressed convincingly as one, waited patiently for anyone to approach so that he could talk to them about centenaries and stress. It being a bit early the bar tent hadn't quite taken off, and the Barn Theatre ladies were still declingfilming the sponges in their tea tent. But I swapped two pound coins for a tasty hotdog at the carnival committee's gazebo, this pure profit what with all the bread and squeezy ketchup having been kindly donated by Morrisons.
The Greenwich Meridian runs down the east side of Tandridge, approximately in line with the East Grinstead railway, including a direct hit on Oxted School and the Ellice Road Car Park. My target was the town's one public manifestation of the zero degree line, which is a centenary plaque on the front of Paydens the Chemists at the bottom of the parade. This is a splendid Tudorbethan pharmacy, its interior laid out rather how Boots used to be, with bottles and creams stacked neatly on shelves and a proper prescription counter at the rear. Look down low by the left of the front door and there's the meridian marker, cast in 1984, below a window display of small town pharmaceutical perfection. Lined up on the meridian itself are a strawberry-themed shower hat, a box of three rose-perfumed soaps and a St Moritz self tan applicator mitt. The first toiletry in the western hemisphere is an RHS Sweet Pea Body Balm, positioned close to the pièce de résistance - a bottle of blonde-pigtailed Matey bubble bath. It's the finest meridian marker I've seen in many a year. Meanwhile nextdoor, firmly in the eastern hemisphere, is Paydens Bookshop. Again it's everything you'd hope an local independent shop would be, with books giving way to an eclectic range of non-poncey stationery as you walk through. I succumbed, zero resistance.
Yes, Lingfield's where the racing is. It boasts one of the handful of all-weather racecourses in Britain, always usable but not always used. Last Saturday was an off-day, save for a team of groundsmen tending to the non-artificial bits, and the Arpa & Hemanshoo Wedding in the Pavilion Suite. The owners have made sure that the course is almost, but not completely, invisible from the road outside. Stand outside the main gate, which is a peculiar wooden-topped glass box with some turnstiles inside, and you can see a fraction of the outer rail, while a bit of the parade ring is visible through the conifers a little further down the road. So that was well worth my train ticket and a lengthy yomp across Tandridge, I thought. A dedicated footpath leads from the far end of the northbound platform, via which those coming by rail arrive at the races. More typical visitors come by car, and park up in fields labelled No Trespassing at all other times. Ah but this is more than a racecourse, this is the Lingfield Park Resort, complete with golf course for swinging executives and a four star hotel with jockeytastic views. I imagine many a corporate conference takes place within, although the reality next weekend appears to be a Whitney and Beyonce Tribute for all you Ladies out there.
