with Mark Davison
Cullenders, Linkfield Street, Redhill and Redhill Common
T HE summer sun continued to shine as I stopped off in Redhill to do some shopping.
After the chores were completed, I parked the motor and decided to take a picnic on the slopes of Redhill Common and soak up the late August sunshine.
I turned round to peer at the town centre with its conflicting cocktail of old and new architecture. Just a few hundred yards away, however, I found streets of great Victorian beauty and craftsmanship. Hollyhocks, gladioli, honeysuckle and dahlias added much colour to the gardens of the smart 19th century villas in Linkfield Street.
Opposite Redhill's oldest public house, The White Lion – which stands on what was once the main road through the town – is a charming delicatessen's.
Cullenders opened in November 2008 and the shop fascia has a delightful olde worlde design. It was once a stationer's and tobacconist's but before it opened as a deli, it had been derelict hair salon for perhaps 20 years and pigeons and rainwater had got in through holes in the roof.
Marc and Joelle Cullender, from Redhill, gave up their jobs in London to fulfil their dream of restoring the property to its former glory and opening up a delicatessen's selling breads, coffees, cakes, cheeses, baguettes, olives, sauces, pies and patés.
I gleaned that decades ago, a caged myna bird talked to customers calling in at the tobacconist's here.
I decided to pop in and gather a few items together for a picnic.
A young man appeared at the counter having emerged from the kitchen at the rear and enquired of my order.
I requested a baguette filled with brie and some onion chutney, for starters.
"I'm afraid we haven't any onion chutney left at the moment," said the man, apologetically.
He suggested tomato chutney and I said that sounded good.
I picked up a packet of Piper's cheddar and onion crisps and a bottle of both Fentiman's traditional Victorian lemonade and another of ginger beer, and for afters, a pecan nut slice. Already my mouth was watering in anticipation of the picnic.
I thanked the shop assistant, left the store and paused to look up at the date plaque on the old cottages next door: "Percival Villas 1888".
Climbing up the grassy slopes of White Post Hill, I sat on a tree trunk as there were no benches anywhere to sit.
I gazed towards a beautifully kept house, The Old Rising Sun. I was to later discover that this used to be a pub which lost its licence in 1910 amid reports from Chief Constable James Metcalfe that there had been complaints of disorderly characters nearby although no "loafers" were found in the well-run pub itself. The Chief Constable stated that it was undesirable that there should be a public house so near to the common. The building dates to about 1750. In a contemporary report it was said that people picnicking on the common would go there for hot water.
The licencee, John Thorning, said he was able to live and keep his family at the house on the profit of £63 per annum. Mr Thorning also worked at the Rose Brewery in nearby Mill Street.
I crossed the main road at the top and headed for Redhill Common, taking a slightly muddy path that rose up through the glades. Shafts of sunshine filtered down through the silver birches and centuries-old oaks onto the woodland floor. The fragrance from the ferns and leaf mould reminded me of childhood walks on holidays.
It was hard to imagine that the common was almost tree-less in Edwardian times, as evidenced by picture postcards from the time.
Near the summit, I looked down on the steep sandy earth banks, some streaked with a layer of deep pink sand. This is where the "red" of Red Hill (Redhill) comes from.
Before the 1880s, landowner Earl Somers use to dig for gravel here. The subsequent erosion of the common upset locals so much that High Court action was taken to stop it and a large financial settlement was made to the earl and the work halted. Lawns were later laid after the extraction stopped.
Suddenly, there was an opening in the trees and a breathtaking panoramic view could be seen of the Weald.
I took a seat on a bench dedicated to the memory of the late Councillor Frances King, and admired the vista. The distant hills of Sussex could be seen beyond Salfords, Horley and Gatwick Airport.
A family were having a picnic nearby and young children, shrieking, were running across the open grassland and some were climbing the branches of an oak.
A cyclist arrived, propped up his bicycle against a bench and lay on his back for a rest after expending so much energy pedalling to the top of the hill. After about half a minute, he rose, took out his mobile telephone and took some pictures of the view. He then turned and walked towards me.
"Excuse me, please could you make a photo for me?"
I gathered he was a foreign visitor on holiday. I obliged and took his picture. He was delighted. He said he was from Portugal and had been staying in Redhill for a month but was returning home the following day. He said his name was Marco. I said mine was Mark. We shook hands.
