Folkestone Magazine - SUGAR-LOAF HILL AND HOLY WELL

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SUGAR-LOAF HILL AND HOLY WELL

Written by Henry Ullyett 1880

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

Sugar Loaf Hill

As the visitor, approaching Folkestone by rail, passes over the Viaduct, the most prominent object on the landward side is undoubtedly “Sugar-Loaf Hill,” projecting from the long escarpment as if thrusting itself on his notice. Let us on some quiet summer evening pay it a visit.

We will start from the foot of Grace hill going up the opposite slope and ascending the “Bull-dog Steps.” Only a few years ago, and this road was a narrow undrained lane affording a passage past the Mill, with a spring of beautiful clear cold water at the foot of a flight of fragmentary and dislocated steps—a spring noted for its hygienic virtues certainly for the last two hundred years, for do not the town records give evidence of the care with which it was protected? But this, with many other interesting evidences of antiquity, has lately made way for what I suppose we must call improvements, but we get them at the expense of the picturesque, and in the eye of the antiquarian and the naturalist such improvements are not always regarded as worth the sacrifice. But it must ever be so it would seem; the age is one of utilitarianism, and apparently that is incompatible with the picturesque.

Viaduct

At the top of the present flight of steps we were formerly able to get a good view of the Railway Viaduct, a light airy 8tructure by Brunel, the middle arch standing 120 feet above the stream that drains the valley. Often have I paused at this spot, just at set of sun to enjoy the prospect; there was then a splendidly luxuriant specimen of the Horse Chestnut tree on the right, the only one of any size in Folkestone, it has since been cut down to make room for a shop. Leading thence by the banks of the stream up to the Viaduct was a fine row of tall poplars, for them too we mourn, unconsoled even by the pleasant row of comfortable houses occupying their place. We keep grumbling at the lack of trees in Folkestone, but all the time we go on cutting down what few we have. Very grateful to the eye was that row of poplars leading up to the arches, and beyond all was the background of hills fading away to the west in the purple twilight. It is difficult now to find any spot on this side from which to get a good view, and streets are springing up so rapidly that if we allow a few months to elapse we can hardly find our way about old familiar spots.

On passing through the arches we seem at once to emerge into a new country, the whole scene changes and so does its character. There before us stretches the bold chalk escarpment of the North Downs with its hollows and gently swelling sides; and across the grassy slopes falls the evening sunlight in long golden gleams It looks like some grand old earth fortification of the giants
“To sentInel enchanted land ;“

one feels an instinctive desire to go up and see what lies on the other side. The contrast between plain and highland seems to give great pleasure to the mind. 1 shall never forget the feeling of pleasant astonishment I once experienced when, after a few hours’ ramble among the Buckinghamshire chalk hills, I turned a corner of the road and suddenly found myself on tke edge of the escarpment, the flat plain lying three or four hundred feet below mc, and stretching away for miles in the distance. So again, after climbing up Wansfell near Ambleside for 1500 feet one July evening, did an exclamation of wonder burst from my companion on seeing the grand lowland on the other side.

But revenons nos moutons,(let us get back to the subject) we are in the suburb of Foord and not in Westmoreland. And there in front of us, prominently outlined against the clear sky stands the hill up which we intend to wend our way. We go on through the rapidly growing hamlet, and past the old sham ruins the destruction of which has already commenced. Inside, so the old guide books tell us, a few years ago, was a mineral spring, even dignified as chalybeate, but no trace of it can be detected now. On, past the new church of St. John Baptist, missing the interesting old cottages on the right which have long since given place to brick and Folkestone cement; the very stream itself which bordered the road a little further on has been diverted, I suppose because of the projected street through the old Pavilion Gardens. On the left here is the only spot in the neighbourhood where the Sand Martins used to build, perhaps 1 ought to say attempted to build, for I question whether they were ever allowed to succeed, so strong is the juvenile desire for ornithological research. But here again the pickaxe and shovel are at work, rapidly removing temptation out of the way of the birds. All this, ten years ago, was in a very deed a country lane—a very pleasant stroll for those whose walks were limited in extent.

We now turn down a short lane leaving the two laundries on our left and enter the borders of Park Farm. There are just sufficient traces of antiquity here to make us wish there were more. Part of the moat still remains, which is said to have surrounded the old Manor House of the Middle Ages, the site of which is now occupied by a small cottage. The plot of ground thus partially surrounded by water must originally have been much larger; it is about 120 feet square.

On, over a couple of meadows and we reach the gate at the foot of the Sugar-Loaf. Here let us rest a few minutes, and look at the scene we have left behind. From no place (except perhaps from the summit) could we get a better or prettier view of Folkestone. There is the Viaduct, showing now to advantage as it gracefully spans the valley; beyond it the town, lit up by the evening sun; further still the sea, quiet and calm, for there is scarcely a breeze to ruffle it—a perfect picture of rest for the vessels themselves seem at this distance to have no motion at all. And between this and ourselves the spacious domain of Park Farm, alas! no longer a park. Once upon a time—that time when we are apt to fancy (is it all fancy?) everything was more perfect than now—once upon a time all this was a beautifully wooded district, and now the only complaint against our town is as I have said, that there are no trees. Little more than 300 years ago the estate was cleared by order of Henry Herdson, then Lord of the Manor; the small patches of wood still existing near Cheriton and Newington are probably the remaining trees of this once noble park. In the words of Mr. Mackie “Peace be to his ashes, but I wish he had let it alone;” why he did it we cannot say, probably from circumstances over which he had lost control; since then Folkestone has been treeless. May success attend the efforts recently made to restore them in the town itself.

From our resting place an easy path leads up the side of the bill, bordered by a hedge in which flourish luxuriantly wild Roses, the White and Black Bryony, the Mealy Guelder Rose, Dogwood and Privet. At the top on the right is a little copse charitably spared (let us hope) by the farmer, rich in Orchids, Legumimosae, and Knapweeds. It was here that in 1870 I saw my first and only Golden Oriole, and a splendid bird it was. A gorgeous visitor like this is soon noted, and as it went down into the hollows I saw the bird catchers on the alert gazing with wistful eyes and ready nets. I am happy in being able to record their disappointment. Now let us mount to the summit; have you not already wondered at the curious shape of the hill, and what the meaning is of the evidently artificial formation of the top? Well, in all probability, it is a barrow, an old British or Saxon burial place; but as to who it was, or how long ago the burial took place, I can tell you nothing. Men talk of a bloody engagement in the year of grace 456, somewhere in the neighbourhood, between the Saxons under Hengist, and the Britons led by Vortimer who vainly sought to make up for his father’s lack of patriotism; it has even been said that this was the sepulchre of the British prince. Who knows?
“I cannot say how the truth may be,
I say the tale as ‘twas said to me.”
But they are pleasant things to chat about, these old legends. I give you this for what it is worth. Anyhow, it is very delightful to look around us from such a vantage ground,—the Farm, the Railway and the Town in the foreground, and beyond, “the white sails of ships “—on the left the old cliffs of the Warren, to which we mean to devote another ramble, and here, down the steep slope on the right is a curiously shaped recess in the escarpment, the lower portion of which is covered by the quiet waters of Holy Well fed by two or three streams issuing from the base of the chalk. Why “Holy” Well I cannot say, we must again fall back on tradition; it is also “Lady Well,” and about a mile from it over the brow is “Lady Wood,” but whether any connexion exists or ever has existed between the two is all unknown. We might indeed, give full and free scope to our imagination without incurring any severe criticism. The hand of man is evident all around, the artificial bankings and smoothings of the surface, the made road now covered with grass leading up to the top, speak plainly enough of his work. May we not think of an old Religious House standing here, whose inmates drank of the cool clear waters of these springs in the days when Christianity was less of a “civilized heathenism” and more of a grand reality in the world than it is now;—when men instead of saying “I believe," felt it, lived it, and acted it out— when “their religion ‘as Carlyle says “was the great fact about them ?“ Tradition supports us thus far, for the Well is said to have been a stopping place for pilgrims landing on the coast close by on a visit to the shrine of the murdered Becket at Canterbury. Truly the spot seems well suited for such a house; let us descend, and seating ourselves on that little grassy platform in the middle, indulge our thoughts still further. Here the inmates would be wholly and completely shut out from the busy world, all its traffic, all its disappointments. You can now perhaps see one or two of the mansions at the new West End, but in those days Old Folkestone was out of sight here, snugly hidden beneath the cliffs, not even the smoke of it would be visible. And so, free from all distraction, from all sounds save those sent by GOD Himself—the voices of the birds and the trees, and ever and anon the swell of the ocean borne aloft on the breeze above the old forest, they could give themselves up to that contemplation which finds no con• genial home among the busy haunts of men.

And now, what have we here in the way of botanical treasures? Nothing very extraordinary, but much to give pleasure. The slope we have just descended is covered in June with the Spotted and Pyramidal orchids (Orchis maculata and O.pyramidalis), later on we find a few stray specimens of the Bee Orchis (Ophrys apifera), and in the autumn the Lady’s Tresses (Spiranthes autumnalis). The waters themselves are well nigh hidden by the abundance of Ranunculaceae, Pondweeds, Reeds, and Rushes. The banks round about will yield in their season at least three species of violets—the Hairy Violet (Vioia hirta) and two forms of the Wood Violet (V. Riviuiana and V. Reichenbachiana)* with Cowslips and Primroses; the marshy spot over which the waters find an outlet give us shining masses of the Golden Saxifrage (Ch rysospleniu m itifoliu m) and spear forests of the Yellow Iris (Iris Pseudacorus). In the little gully beyond is the Twayblade (Listera ovata), not very common at Folkestone, but found also in Lady Wood, and further along large patches of what you might at this distance take to be Lilies of the Valley, but which on a nearer approach betray them. sel\es as Garlic (Allium ursinum).

A very pleasant path leads from the gate above, along the slope to the foot of Caesar’s Camp, but as the shades of night are already beginning to close in round us, we must postpone any farther explorations till our next ramble.

*Along the south side

of the hedge, running at the base of the bill the specimens of V. Biviniana are remarkably fine, growing seven or eight inches in height.

This is a walk that we could all recognise today as all the landmarks he mentions are still there though he has the builder/designer wrong for the viaduct. What I find amazing is that he takes a rest at Park Farm which must have been in the area of the schools and allotments and he can see down into the harbour or harbour area, of course there would not have been cars, buses or trucks blocking his view. The Pent stream is being diverted but not yet covered, the brickfields are still recognisable and Folkestone has a problems with trees that they are desperately trying to resolve. Foord is just being built up, the ruins are still there, is the cottage the Castle pub or is today’s Castle Pub the ruins? The water mill is working and his route suggests that Foord Road is but a track.

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Last Updated ( Tuesday, 23 October 2007 )

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Headline

Death In The Trees

It appears the Telegraph has death on the mind or there is very little interesting news to report from around the world. We do not need too much convincing that we are not only running out of space to build new homes we are also running out of space to bury the dead.
The Victorians recognised this problem and began building crematoriums the most majestic of these I believe to be the North London Crematorium at Golders Green. I say that because the majority of my ancestors from the past one-hundred years are scattered there as are some of the most famous British people. The Victorians’ thought that it would be a little like a library or block of flats with row upon row of shelves and cubby holes were we could store our loved ones ashes. Regrettably, they ran out of space. A similar problem has occurred in churches and the graveyards have run out of space. The Church has now agreed to woodland burials and have, in some areas, consecrated the ground for Christian burial. This was a very urgent matter as many towns in England no longer had space to bury the dead.
There has been some concern that the Church of England, having had difficulty managing and caring for graves near churches will find it even more difficult to care for woodland graves that may be some distance from a church. The Church of England dismiss this though have made it know that there will be no gravestones only biodegradable wooden plaques; they have also suggested that a tree be planted with the body. Tree and body planting would probably be more acceptable to many than heating and lighting the crematorium. Folkestone Magazine would like to take that a little further and suggest the burial be handled by the family and a tree chopped down and hollowed out and used as a coffin. The bark, branches and chippings could be put to one side for Indian Funerals. A woodland funeral could become a regular event for families bringing them back together. The celebrity chefs could show us how to prepare backed potatoes in their jackets, hot roast chestnuts and mulled wine for the winter and light smoked salmon salads using woodland herbs for the warmer days.