The White Horse, Sundridge - another pub I've waited 42 years before visiting!

Anyone reading the comments that followed the previous post, will know that I’ve been rumbled, and that Higgs Bosun, otherwise known as Anonymous Matt, named the mystery pub I was planning to reveal in this article.

So yes, Sunday’s impromptu pub stop was indeed the White Horse, at Sundridge, and, in another scoop for this blog, this was my visit to this attractive village inn. This fact surprises me, as much as anyone, as I must have driven past the White Horse countless times, given its prominent position on the A25.

Back in the day, this single-carriageway road was the main artery for traffic travelling east-west whilst avoiding the capital. I was one of those vehicles, back in the early 1980’s, when the Tonbridge-based company I was working for seconded me, on a project, to a company in Hounslow, who were in the same group.

I was living in Maidstone at the time, so would join the A25 at Wrotham Heath, and then travel, nose to tail, westward, through several, long-suffering village, before joining the A217 at Reigate. There was actually a small section of the M25 open, between what are now Junctions 6 and 8, but how settlements like Borough Green, Seal, Westerham Brasted and Oxted managed with all that traffic (including HGV’s), is difficult to comprehend today.

The 67-mile journey was so time consuming as well as tiring, that I took to travelling up to Hounslow on a Monday, and staying at a local hotel until Friday, just to avoid spending several hours each day, sitting in slow-moving traffic.My journey west out of Sevenoaks, took me through the small village of Sundridge and there, at the traffic lights, on opposite corners of the crossroads, were two pubs.   

The Lamb closed quite a few years ago, but I’m happy to report the White Horse is very much open for business and doing alright. Matthew and I only discovered this on Sunday, and only then because there was nowhere remotely near to park the car, at the pub we’d originally decided to stop at. The place appeared to be literally bursting at the seams as well, as we drove past, which is how we ended up at Sundridge.

Fortunately, and much to our relief, there were spaces in the car park when we arrived, but before describing our visit, it’s worth writing a few words about our original destination. This was the Bricklayer’s Arms, one of two pubs in the village of Chipstead, overlooking the large lake, just along from the Tesco superstore, at Riverhead. 

The “Bricks,” as it is known locally, is a Harvey’s tied house, and probably the brewery’s northernmost outlet – with the exception of the famous Royal Oak, in south London’s Borough district. It’s renowned for its Harvey’s Sussex Best, served direct from the cask – the other Harvey’s beers (seasonal offerings, in the main), are dispensed by hand-pump.

It’s 10 years since I last set foot in the pub, so a return visit was long overdue, but it was not to be. The world and his wife appeared to be there, enjoying the warm weather, and the view out, across the green and over to Chipstead Lake.The latter is a former gravel pit, that has been transformed into a local beauty spot, popular with the sailing fraternity, anglers, and people out for a walk in the country.  

 It would have been nice to have stopped and admired the view, over a pint of Harvey’s, but I will try a mid-week visit next time. Thwarted in our plan for a pint of Sussex Best, we drove on, along a country lane which took us over the M25 motorway, before turning back towards Sevenoaks. This was how we ended up in Sundridge and calling in at the White Horse.

After parking the car, we approached the pub through the rear, passing the raised garden area on our left. We entered the pub, just to announce our presence, but also to have a quick scan of the hand pulls. We were asked if we wanted to sit indoors or outside, so being a fine day, we chose the latter. The friendly staff member told us to take whichever table in the garden took our fancy, and she would come and take our details, plus our drinks order.

True to her word, she came over and took my name, plus contact phone number, so no App clogging up the phone memory. She confirmed that Theakston’s Best, plus Hobgoblin Gold were the cask ales, before reeling off a list of lagers for Matthew’s benefit. One of the lagers mentioned, was Krušovice, a beer rarely seen outside its native Czechia.

Matthew had already settled on a pint of Amstel, but if I find myself at the White Horse again, I will give the Krušovice a try. My Theakston’s Best was in fine form, but as the correspondent who spotted my entry on Untappd pointed out, the beer was probably spoiled by not being pulled through a sparkler.

He was right, of course, and whilst it pains me to say it, northern beers are definitely tailored to be served in this fashion. We enjoyed our drinks but didn’t stay for another. I was driving, plus we had a boot-load of grocery shopping in the back of the car, that we needed to get home, and in the fridge.

The pub was reasonably busy, but nowhere near the level we’d witnessed at the Brick’s. Most customers were out in the garden, like us, with very few inside. I manged a quick glimpse of the latter, when I nipped in to use the toilets, taking a few surreptitious photos, on my way out. So, top marks for a genuinely nice pub, offering friendly service and good beer. The food looked good as well, and I’m pleased to report the place wasn’t crowded out with foodies.

Thinking back, it’s strange that I didn’t stop at the White Horse, on those journeys, all those years ago. It might have had something to do with the beer, as the pub belonged to Allied Breweries in those days, and closer to home, there were several prominent free houses, offering a more exotic range of beers.

Places such as the Crown Point Inn, the other side of Seal, the Padwell Arms, or the Golding Hop, both just outside Plaxtol, and both sadly closed. These were the establishments that appealed to a young real-ale aficionado, such as me, back in the early 1980’s.

Times change, as do pubs, and as just mentioned, some are no longer with us. Forty years on, things are rather different, so it was perhaps appropriate that I should have waited this length of time, before discovering the White Horse at Sundridge.

 

Groundforce - an early June update

Blogging has taken something of a backseat, at the moment, with the majority of my free time being devoted to gardening.  Some might say I should be out there saving pubs, and whilst I agree – to a point, the gardening blitz is only a temporary situation and is very much a case of making hay whilst the sun shines.

The plan has been to add both colour and interest to the brand new, but rather dull-looking fencing panels between us and next door. In order to reach and replace the existing fencing, the wretched leylandii hedge had to be ripped out;  although there was no loss there, and in the process we gained a four foot stretch of garden. There were also umpteen tomato plants that were getting out of hand on the kitchen windowsill, and in dire need of a new home, outside, and so the list went on.

The other evening, I was outside until nearly 10pm, planting out some of these tomato plants and tying them in to bamboo canes, for support. It’s actually rather pleasant being outside whilst the light slowly fades, even though as time marches on, you eventually have to concede it’s getting too dark to see, and then scurry back indoors.

Friday brought some welcome rain, and seeing as I was at work, it had minimal impact on outdoor activities. It has cased both the grass and the weeds to grow, so there will be mowing and weeding to be done, but not for a few days, and I’m pleased to report that the weekend did allow time for socializing, and a brief pub visit.

Back to the subject of work for a few moments, the person who will be taking over my role, when I step down in a few months’ time, started with us on Tuesday and already seems to be making her mark. This is good news, as not only will it make the handover easier, and a lot smoother, it will benefit both the department and the company as a whole.

The downside, albeit temporary, is I am being kept extremely busy. It’s all in a good cause, and by the end of September I should have fully transitioned to my new, part-time role which involves looking after Health & Safety, along with site-related matters.

We really need this virus nonsense to have disappeared by then, so I can properly enjoy my new-found freedom, but it’s not looking particularly good on that front, at the moment. Still, with the self-serving buffoon who is running the country, waiting nearly three weeks before stopping flights from virus-hit India, it is perhaps not surprising. And all this for a dodgy trade-deal that won’t go anywhere near compensating for the loss to our economy, caused by a damaging hard-Brexit which, incidentally, did not feature on the ballot-paper.

So, two dark clouds on the horizon at the moment, as along with the effects of the pandemic, the mountain of extra paperwork caused by the UK’s exit from the Single Market & Customs Union, is creating all sorts of unwelcome problems with my company’s lucrative export business to Europe. Perhaps those idiots from the ERG (the group of disaster capitalists extreme free marketers, running the Tory party), would like to come and witness these difficulties at first hand, and then explain exactly why we are better off.

Rant over, and back to more positive things, we took a drive over to Gravesend on Saturday, to visit Eileen’s brother and his partner; both of whom we haven’t for nearly a year. They both looked fit and well and with the return of the sunny weather, following that rather damp end to the week we sat out in the garden enjoying a barbecue.

It was all very nice, but there was rather too much meat for my liking. Brother-in-law David had thoughtfully picked up a four-pint container of Best Bitter, from local brewery, Iron Pier. The beer was a pleasant, malty, brown bitter, and David told us about Iron Pier’s taproom and outdoor drinking area.

I had to do a fair amount of tidying up when we arrived home, as the plan was for us to have a barbecue of our own on Sunday (today), so yesterday evening I was frantically shifting the stack of logs, that has been on the far patio, since March. I’ve re-vamped our log store, so at least there is now a dry shelter where they can be stacked and left to dry out.  Woodsmen refer to this drying out process as “seasoning,” so as that sounds good to me, my large stack of logs is now seasoning nicely!

I woke up and got up quite early for me, on a Sunday, and after bringing Mrs PBT’s her morning cup of tea, I was straight out in the garden again, putting the finishing touches to the patio, moving a few more plants, and all this before breakfast.

If I thought being out late, the other evening, was good, it was even better being out in the garden, shortly after 8am, enjoying the cool freshness of early morning. Mid-morning, the lad and I took a drive over to my workplace in Chiddingstone Causeway, to carry out the monthly check of the site’s emergency lighting system.

I wouldn’t normally go into work on a weekend, but the lighting system comes under my new remit of health & safety, and because of his own experience in checking the emergency lights at the store where he works, son Matthew offered to accompany me, and show me the ropes. It was quite straight forward in the end, as I had already printed off a floor plan for each area, showing the position of these lights, along with the points for activating them. It still took us over an hour, and when we finished, we had another task to perform.

This was to pick-up our pre-ordered “click & collect” grocery shopping, from the Tesco superstore at Riverhead. You might remember we did the same thing, a couple of weeks ago, and on that occasion stopped off for a pint on the way home.

This seemed like a plan, so we decided to do the same today. However, a combination of warm weather, and the relaxing of restrictions affecting pubs, meant it was a case of the best laid plans going astray. Our pub of choice, was absolutely rammed, with nowhere to park and what looked like a queue just to get in.

Plan B was to continue driving and see where we ended up – preferably at a pub that was less busy. Our quest was successful, but you will have to wait for the next post, for me to reveal its identity, along with that of the pub where there was “no room at the inn.”

Finally, after 42 years, the Wheel Inn at Westwell

I said in the previous article that despite living less than 10 miles away, I was of the opinion I had never visited the tiny village of Westwell. That may well be true, but standing outside the Wheel Inn, in the centre of the village last Friday, did bring a faint ray of recognition, and this got me thinking.

I spent my formative years in East Kent, having moved there from London, at the age of three, with my parents. We lived in a newly built semi in the village of Willesborough which, even then, was more or less a suburb of Ashford. When I was 14 years old, the family moved out to the country, buying another modern property, this time a detached bungalow in the village of Brook.

My parents seemed to have had a fascination with recently built properties, as the bungalow in Norfolk, they retired to, was also relatively new. None of this is really relevant, but it is only when you start looking back, that you pick up on these things.

More to the point, apart from a fondness of trips to Tenterden, my parents didn’t tend to travel much to the west of Ashford. I am not sure why, but for some reason they preferred going east, and this meant the coast, and towns such as Folkestone, Hythe and Sandgate. There was also Romney Marsh, with its associated beaches.

It wasn’t until I received my first motorbike, at the age of 16, that I was able to travel independently of my parents. Prior to that I relied on “dad’s taxi,” as bus services were limited, and even then, were being cut back. I had a push-bike and used it daily for my early morning paper round but cycling much further than the neighbouring village of Wye, was more or less unheard of.

Wye was the gateway to Canterbury, as far as my friends and I were concerned. We would cycle to the village, leave our bikes at the station, and then take the train into Canterbury. Brook itself, lies at the foot of North Downs escarpment, and the hilly nature of the local terrain may have been the factor that put me off cycling, or perhaps I was just lazy – as teenagers often are. 

When I obtained that motorbike, I joined up with a school friend, and we rode all over Romney Marsh, visiting local pubs. Yet again, for some reason, we never travelled to the other side of the Stour valley.

I returned to live in Kent after an absence of five and a half years; three years as a student at Salford University, plus an additional year at Manchester Polytechnic. I wonder what the latter institution is known as these days. This was followed by a year and a half living in the Norbury area of south London.

That return to Kent came in late 1978, when the previous Mrs Bailey and I bought a small, terraced house house in Maidstone. Property was much cheaper in the county town than in our preferred location of Sevenoaks. This was despite my first wife having a well-paid job with the MOD in Central London.

 I also worked in the capital, after landing a full-time position, working in my chosen field of quality control, but a few months after moving to Maidstone, I secured a job in nearby Tonbridge. This not only paid considerably more, but at a stroke removed the expensive commute into London.

We didn’t have a car back then, so explored most of the nearer pubs by bike instead, occasionally venturing further afield by train. Lenham was probably the limit of our eastward ventures, which coincidentally was the boundary between Maidstone and Ashford CAMRA branches. Westwell never really feature on the radar, and given its isolated position, on the road to nowhere, this wasn’t really surprising.

So, 42 years after my return to Kent, my walk last Friday, along the NDW finally provided the opportunity of visiting Westwell and its pub. I am pleased to report, is still trading, and offering good beer, food for those who want it, and a friendly welcome.

Whilst doing a spot of research for this article, I came across an old CAMRA guide to Real Ale in Kent. Published in 1993, the guide describes the Wheel as a multi-roomed pub, belonging to Shepherd Neame, but a much older guide shows it as a Whitbread house. Today, it is a free house, listed on WhatPub as stocking Fuller’s London Pride, plus a couple of local guest ales.

I hadn’t pre-booked a table or anything, when I stepped inside the Wheel, primarily as I was uncertain of my time of arrival. With no-one else in the pub when I arrived, that was not a problem., so after signing in (no track and trace for me), I was directed to a table opposite the bar counter.

With no pump clips visible, I was concerned there was no cask ale available, but the friendly barmaid informed me there were two beers from Musket Brewery on tap - Trigger and Ball Puller. I opted for the former, a crisp, hoppy and refreshing pale ale of moderate strength, that really hit the spot, as far as its thirst-quenching properties were concerned.

The photos show the interior, painted in contemporary colours, which adds both light and colour to what might otherwise have been a dull interior. However, being something of a traditionalist, I prefer the feel that goes with darkened wood wall paneling and floors, that are normally associated with a centuries’ old village inn.

No matter, the pub seemed to be doing just fine, as shortly after I arrived, two separate couples arrived and ordered some food. They asked if they could sit outside in the garden, and under normal circumstances that would have been my preference as well. But with pubs only just re-opened for indoor drinking, I wanted to show my support for this welcome return to some semblance of reality. I also couldn’t resist the simple pleasure of just being able to sit there, enjoying a nice cool pint of locally brewed beer, along with a packet of crisps.

My first visit to the Wheel Inn proved worthy of that long wait, but with Westwell really being on the road to nowhere, the village really is a place where it’s necessary to make a detour. For ramblers, walking the North Downs Way, the detour amounts to just half a mile, and comes as highly recommended.

New boots pass muster along the North Downs Way

My brand-spanking new pair of Meindl boots had their first proper airing on Friday. I’d taken a hard-earned and well-deserved day off from work, in order to enjoy a lengthy, four-day weekend – the taste of things to come! So, with the weather set fair at last, after what has to be one of the wettest Mays on record, it was the perfect excuse to try out the boots by hitting the North Downs Way.

I realised it had been nearly eight months since I last set foot on the trial – a combination of two lockdowns and inclement winter weather preventing me from getting back out there. And before any of you say I could have walked a section of the NDW without stopping off at a pub, or two, yes, I could, but a “dry” walk isn’t half as much fun.

Friday’s section covered the eight or so mile stretch between Wye and Charing, or more accurately their respective railway stations. Completing this stretch would mean I have now walked an unbroken line from Dover to just north of Sevenoaks, at Dunton Green.

In addition to this, I have also completed the so-called “Canterbury loop,” which is an alternative route that runs from just west of Wye, at Boughton Lees, northwards to Canterbury, before heading back to join the main line, where the trail finishes at Dover. I can now concentrate on completing the remainder of the NDW, as it heads west, out of Kent, through leafy Surrey to the start/end of the trail at Farnham, on the border with Hampshire.

In completing the various sections I have walked in either an easterly, or a westerly direction, rather than sticking to just one, as some purists would do. My choice of which direction to take was in the main, dictated by rail connections plus train times and connections. Friday’s walk was no exception, and even though I would have preferred to have set off from Charing, rather than the other way around, the connections at Ashford would have meant a lengthy wait.

I allowed this factor to override the opening times of the handful of pubs on the route, as by starting from Charing I could still have enjoyed a pint at the Wheel Inn at Westwell (which worked out OK both ways), followed by another pint at the Flying Horse at Boughton Lees. Finally, unlike Charing which is a pub-less village (apart from a micro, that doesn’t open until the evening), Wye still has three hostelries, all of which I know well. This dates back to my late teenage years, when the Bailey family resided at the nearby village of Brook.

That’s enough of the waffle, and background information, let’s get started on the walk itself. Friday represented my first ride on a train since last December. There was a reasonable number of passengers onboard, but without the need to sit opposite a stranger, or indeed opposite one. Sooner, rather than later we’re going have to get over this unnatural phobia of being close to people we don’t know.

 My journey to Wye involved a change of trains at Ashford, and as the train was a few minutes behind schedule, I was beginning to think it necessary to put Plan B into action. The latter was to take the train to Charing and walk the route in reverse. As things turned out, I made the connection with minutes to
spare, thanks to the Wye train departing from the adjacent platform, but I wasn’t so lucky on the return journey.

Alighting at Wye station, my route took me in a roughly easterly direction, although after crossing the A28 Ashford-Canterbury Road I allowed by cockiness of not needing to look at the map, to get the better of me.  Net result I ended up slightly to the north of where I was supposed to be, which was rather silly of me, given that I’d walked this section of the trail four years ago.

That occasion was back in June 2017, when I accompanied a group of friends, on a walk along the NDW from Wye to Chartham. One member of the group was nearing completion of this long-distance footpath, and after joining the same friends a couple of weeks later, on a walk from Shepherdswell to Dover, I was able to help Simon celebrate completion of the NDW, by enjoying a few pints at the now sadly closed, Lanes micro-pub in Dover.

This second walk inspired me to have a crack at the North Downs Way, not thinking that my timetable for doing so would be delayed by my wife’s near-death experience in January 2018, or the worst pandemic in over a century, but having found myself back on the right route for a short while, I veered off to the left at the point where the Canterbury loop branches off in the opposite direction.

I soon reached the pleasant little settlement of Boughton Lees, with its large village green, known as the Lees. Cricket has been played here for some 200 years, including several games that featured my father, when he was a member of the neighbouring Brook Cricket Club.

Teas have always been an important feature of village cricket matches, although I understand this tradition was abandoned last summer due to unfounded concerns regarding Covid. I am sure that some visiting team members would have joined the home side for a few post-match drinks at the Flying Horse pub, which overlooks the green. With dad not being much of a drinker, plus my mother expecting him home as soon as the match had finished, it’s unlikely my father would have ventured into the pub, although I do remember it being frequented by my sister and her boyfriend of the time.

As I approached the Lees, the grounds man was busy getting the cricket pitch and outfield ready for the coming Bank Holidays’ match(es), but unfortunately the Flying Horse didn’t seem very open. I asked a couple who were sitting at a table outside, if they knew what time the pub opened.  They said they’d been told, by the landlord, that it would be opening at midday, but with my watch showing 11:10 AM, I didn’t fancy a 50-minute wait.

Instead, I decided to press on, circumventing the green and crossing the busy A251 Ashford-Faversham Road, before passing into the relative tranquility of Eastwell Park. This extensive area of prime country parkland is now run as a country estate, with the former manor house now functioning as an upmarket Champneys Spa Hotel.

It’s worth mentioning the impressive, redbrick wall that separates the estate
from the A251 road. It must have cost a fortune to build, back in the day, and seems to go on for miles. It certainly seemed to as far as my sister and I were concerned when, as children, we drove toward Faversham with our parents. We nicknamed the owner of this massive estate, “Lord Greedy Guts,” as it seemed incomprehensible that one individual could own so much land!

Today, it all seemed very prim and proper, as I followed the road towards Home Farm. To my right I could see the Champneys hotel, half hidden by the trees, whilst to my left were the tranquil waters of Eastwell Lake. Unfortunately, it is no longer possible to get close to the ruined St Mary’s Church, which lies at the head of the lake. I remember looking around the churchyard as a young boy, with my father, and also visiting with a couple of friends, during my teenage years, but the church now stands alone and forlorn, fenced off, either because the structure is unsafe, or to protect the ancient building from further vandalism.

Leaving the estate road behind, I headed up hill, along a track and into woodland. A mile or so away, at Dunn Street Farm, I turned onto a lane that took me down into the tiny village of Westwell. I’m fairly certain this was my first visit to the village, despite having lived less than 10 miles away, in Brook. 

I was making for the Wheel Inn, in the centre of Westwell, where I stopped for a well-earned pint.  I will tell you a bit more about the Wheel in a separate post, as it is certainly worthy of a decent write-up. For me it provided a cool and refreshing pint of locally brewed cask ale, which was just what I needed to slake my thirst.  I didn’t stop for more solid refreshment, as time was pressing on, but I did walk over to the local playing field, where I sat on a bench enjoying the cheese sandwiches I had brought from home.

Afterwards I headed back up towards the NDW, for the last section of the walk. There’s not a huge amount to say about this two and a quarter mile section, as most of it is through woodland. The majority of this part forms an off-road, cycleway that runs all the way from Ashford to Maidstone.

I emerged from the woods at Burnt House Farm, just past a chalk pit which is still being worked. It led me to the top of Charing Hill, and the busy A252, before I thankfully turned off, away from the traffic and down into Charing village. I had followed this route up, out of Charing, when I commenced my last NDW walk, last October, but this time was blessed with warm and sunny weather.

I stopped in at the village shop, for an ice cream, before continuing down to the A20, and the road to Charing station.  On the way I passed the long-closed, Royal Oak pub, as well as the Bookmakers Arms micro-pub. The latter doesn’t open until 6pm, weekdays, so presumably with the Oak, plus another pub both closed, the villagers are obviously a very sober bunch!

Upon reaching the station, I checked the miles I’d walked by means of my Smart Watch. They amounted to 10.43 miles, station to station, the detour down into Westwell having added a mile or so to the distance indicated in my NDW Guide.

Arriving at Ashford station, somewhat predictably, I missed connection my connection back to Tonbridge by about 30 seconds – the distance between platforms five and one being too great to cover in a couple of minutes. I could, therefore, have waked the route the other way around, thereby being able to enjoy a pint in the Flying Horse as well as the Wheel, but you know what they say about hindsight, being a wonderful thing!

All in all, I enjoyed this section of the NDW. There were no steep hills to climb and no tricky steep descents either. The weather wasn’t too hot, the rain kept well away, and surprisingly it was much drier underfoot than I’d anticipated. My Meindl boots needed just the briefest of brush downs, a quick wipe, followed by a coating of Nikwax, so much so they looked as if I’d just taken them out of the box!