Highways and byways in Surrey . at the end of a longstraight open ride of grass, edged and shaded by oak trees,green, smooth and silent. Into such open glades dark fallowdeer should come, and roedeer dancing out from the shadowsto listen and snuff. If bearded men with jewelled feathers andcrimson cloaks rode across the patches of sunlight, it wouldbe nothing strange in that deep wood. The illusion ofvirgin solitude is perfect. Yet the green ride was oncethe main road south from Godalming through Hambledon toChichester. I ought not to leave the Fold Country without mentioningthe Chiddingfold fo
Highways and byways in Surrey . at the end of a longstraight open ride of grass, edged and shaded by oak trees,green, smooth and silent. Into such open glades dark fallowdeer should come, and roedeer dancing out from the shadowsto listen and snuff. If bearded men with jewelled feathers andcrimson cloaks rode across the patches of sunlight, it wouldbe nothing strange in that deep wood. The illusion ofvirgin solitude is perfect. Yet the green ride was oncethe main road south from Godalming through Hambledon toChichester. I ought not to leave the Fold Country without mentioningthe Chiddingfold foxhounds, a pack which hunts the countrysouth of Guildford to the borders of Lord Leconfields Huntin Sussex. It is poor riding, for there is too much woodland. 172 THE CHIDDINGFOLD HUNT and on the heather there is hardly any jumping. Theprettier the country the poorer the hunting, Mr. CharlesRichardson quotes in writing of the Chiddingfold foxhounds :perhaps one might add that in a i)oor country there can besome pretty Black Down, fioin Hainblcdoti. CHAPTER XV CRANLEIGH AND EWHURST A coffee-pot yew—Vacheiy Pond—The osprey as a guest—Baynards andits ghost—Ewhurst—A pet lamb—Children and a gipsy—Bilberrieson Pitch Hill—Lost in Hurst Wood—Parley Heath—Mr. Watsonspoem—Blackheath well named. Cranleigh lies on the edge of the Fold country, neither init nor of it. In the Fold country the villages are set deep inwoodlands and grass fields, and the railway runs too far awayto bring the slate for the villas. But the railway runs throughCranleigh and stops there, and so does the builder. Thefields and woods are being developed. But in the heart ofthe village there is a touch of what is old and quiet. Astrange, towering figure of a clipped yew stands up in themiddle of a small garden, whether most like a peacock on apillar, or a colossal coffee-pot, I cannot determine. A wheel-wrights yard is near by—one of the best of all sights of anycountry village. Farm
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