Box Hill - Tales from the Home Counties

Box Hill lends its name from Buxus sempervirens, or more commonly, the Boxwood tree, a species whose members shade the western slopes of this Surrey summit. When venturing up by car you climb these very slopes, taking the appropriately named ‘zig-zag road’ from base to peak, in a slalom of single-track hairpin bends cocooned by both the aforementioned Boxwoods, and numerous gnarled Yew trees, a common sight around the area. It was at the top of this twisted road that I found myself at lunch time on a sticky summer’s day.

Upon leaving the carpark and picking up a (free!) map from the National Trust café, I made my way toward the first viewpoint, where I could fuel up on packed lunch before my adventure began.  I rounded the corner, and the hill dropped off ahead revealing the viewpoint as promised. It did not disappoint. What felt like the entirety of this beautiful home county was staring up at me, the river Mole flowing below, the railway line running alongside. As I sat watching the trains passing below me I found my attention captured by a group of girls having a picnic on the hillside. Probably only eighteen, they laughed and drank cheap cider, squealed when the nearby bees got too close, and with their speakers just loud enough to not be obtrusive they seemed to lose their minds dancing to Rhianna. As I sat in solitude, a robin hopped down onto the bench next to me, straggly and waterlogged from the recent rainfall. Finishing my sandwich, I bode both him and my less subtle neighbours farewell and set off down the hill, entranced by the contrasts behind me.

As my path led me down a trail of 275 steps I felt gazelle-like, sailing past the eerie knolls of yew trees, skipping over roots and flying past people trudging down; me taking one step for every two of theirs. I thanked the heavens for my good health and was once again captured by the complexity and contrasts of the people around me. Slow retirees plodding down with two feet on every stair; step, step, pause, down, repeat. A family with a hefty chocolate Labrador reluctant to move. A somewhat overweight couple, blue in the face trying to keep up with their spirited offspring.  A little too taken with these characters, I accidentally strayed off course and found myself once again in solitude, down a quiet path alongside the river. Despite my seclusion from the popular path, life was still buzzing around me. I disturbed a rather plump blackbird from her nest, the Mole bubbled along happily beside me and as I returned uphill upon realising my mistake, the path began to feel like a rainforest. The stench of nettle and thistle was thick in the air, my skin dripped from the humidity and insects buzzed around. I pushed through vines and back to the world of humans, making my way down to the trails’ highlight; the River Mole stepping stones.

Passing by an old dreadlocked man, as well as some familiar faces; the family and their Labrador, and a couple of girls I’d earlier seen laughing as they struggled down the stairs in ballet pumps, I made my way to the river’s edge, to cross by means of seventeen hexagonal stepping stones.  Spying little fish darting below my feet, I hopped across and continued towards Burford Meadow. As I walked away I heard the cries from the two girls I’d passed earlier, now struggling to cross the river.

Burford Meadow opened up ahead of me, a gloriously flat plain with the striking chalk cliffs of Box Hill (the Whites) towering above me. More faces kept showing themselves again to me; dreadlock man, Labrador family and as I passed across the meadow I found myself feeling less and less in solitude, questioning what it means to be alone. Crackles of radio music brushed past me, the source: a nearby campsite, home to just one or two campers. I passed by Burford Bridge Hotel, and stopped for a well needed toilet break, before rounding to the base of the hill once more, and bracing myself for the hard trek back up to the summit. A few minutes up I cast my eyes down to the base of the hill, where my travelling companions; the two girls in their non-ideal footwear came into view. I laughed to myself thinking how they would cope with this challenging climax. Pushing on up, I took less notice of my surrounding as the smell in the air became one not of greenery but of my own sweat. And, as the ground finally levelled out, I realised my error as I found myself once again off route. However, looking at my map I realised I could still get home from my current path, so I ploughed on, a choice which rewarded itself as I stumbled across the grave of Peter Labilliere, whose stone read ‘an eccentric resident of Dorking was buried here head downwards 11th July 1800’.

I finally made my way out of the Boxwoods, the café came into view once again, and the thought of Peter Labilliere stayed with me, a man who had spent his life stepping outside of the box. I cast my mind over the people I’d encountered today and the boxes one could put them in; loud, slow, foolish, yet how every person seemed happy, free and buzzing. And I thought about Peter Labilliere and how boxes didn’t matter to him - how they don’t matter, not really to anyone. And I thought about how Box Hill seemed like a pretty good place to be buried head down.

Driving down Box Hill, along zig-zag road, surrounded by Boxwood trees, you may find yourself moved by the beauty of these quintessential British woods. You may find yourself encapsulated by the history of the nearby Box Hill Fort. Or maybe, just maybe, you may be inspired by Peter Labilliere to grab life by the reigns, to dive in head down, and to step outside the box.

BOX HILL ESSENTIALS

How to get there:

Box Hill train station is only half a mile away, but driving is recommended as the carpark is in an ideal location at the top of the hill.

Box Hill Carpark: KT20 7LF

From London: Follow the M25, taking junction 9 onto the A24 towards Dorking.

Parking:

·         Up to 1 hours: £1.50

·         Up to 2 hours: £3

·         Up to 4 hours: £4

·         All day: £6

Where to eat:

There is a national trust café backing onto the carpark, which is open every day except Christmas day from 09:00-17:00, although opening times may vary in bad weather.

For more information:

Guided walks and maps can be picked up in the café.

Visit www.nationaltrust.org.uk/box-hill for more details or call +441306885502

Also - please read up on Peter Labilliere - he was a fascinating man, a fighter for political reform.

This post is the first of a new installment I will be doing called 'Tales from the Home Counties' where I will be talking about my local adventures during my final year of university. I hope you enjoy!

Happy travelling,

Vicky