If Surrey were a restaurant, it would be a drive-thru. Sandwiched between London and England’s south coast, famous for its wealthy commuter-belt towns and the great thick scar of the M25, it’s a place people whip through on their way to somewhere else. I’ve spent several decades doing it; back and forth between Sussex and London, occasionally meeting friends in Guildford or Dorking, but never really exploring any further.
My husband and I had our first date in a pub in the Surrey Hills (an AONB since 1958, the second in the country) – the lovely Fox Revived at Norwood Hill – and I remember thinking at the time, “Oh, this is quite pretty.” A decade later, sitting in the same pub, and slightly less distracted by first-date nerves, I decided it was somewhere I really should get to know.
The news that Raymond Blanc’s gastropub chain, Heartwood Inns, had taken over the White Horse in Dorking was another reason to spend a few days in the area. One of England’s oldest coaching inns, dating back to the 13th century – and said to be where Charles Dickens wrote The Pickwick Papers – the pub is in the middle of Dorking’s long high street, with firelit bars for winter, an outdoor terrace for warmer evenings and 56 chic bedrooms (with homemade cookies on the tea tray and luxe Bramley toiletries in the bathrooms).
We arrive at the White Horse a little weary after our three-mile walk from the top of nearby Box Hill proved a little more taxing than we’d imagined. We’d driven the famous zigzag road up to the National Trust car park – so busy on a Friday afternoon, I’ve no idea how you’d park at a weekend – and stood and gawped at the spectacular views. It’s claimed you can see 14 counties on a clear day. It seemed rude not to lace up our walking boots, lured in by the romantic-sounding Happy Valley trail; only as we navigated our way down the extremely steep hillside did I realise we would also have to clamber back up.
The effort was worth it. Everywhere, great swathes of lush, wooded countryside rolled out in front of us, with barely a house or settlement to be seen. It seemed unfeasible that we were in a built up commuter-belt just a few miles from London – it felt more like the West Country.
Our room at the White Horse – with fluffy robes, well-stocked tea tray and the kind of bed…
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