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Reigate 21st Nov 2009
"The Curious Case of the Reigate Windmill" by Dr Arthur Watson
November was well advanced. As we drove through the Surrey lanes, the grey skies matched the bleakness of the trees; now devoid of leaves.
Earlier that Saturday morning I had been in my consulting rooms, putting the finishing touches to an article I was writing for The Lancet on the treatment of Schroedinger's syndrome, a condition increasingly found in the Catford area of London - involving feline transmogrification. Suddenly the telephone rang.
"Watson," said the familiar voice, "Get dressed and find your bicycle! We leave for Surrey in ten minutes!"
My protestations were in vain. Precisely nine minutes later, the Land Rover, with Holmes at the wheel and Mrs Hudson by his side, was at my front door.
"Strap on your bike man, and be quick about it!" barked Holmes.
My door was barely shut, when Holmes released the brake and the powerful motor glided out on to the main road.
"Holmes, what on earth is going on?" I asked. "Well my dear Watson, here's the thing" replied Holmes in that irritating Irish accent he would occasionally affect. "Mrs Hudson here has to attend a Guides meeting down in Reigate, and I thought the two of us could go for a spin through the lanes, look for a nice little mystery to solve, and round off with a pub lunch in one of those cute little villages where the stockbrokers hang out. What d'ya say?"
"Really Holmes", I replied tersely, "Firstly you have dragged me from most important work, and secondly would you please talk properly!"
At this point I must have passed into slumber, for the next thing I remember is pedalling out of Reigate behind Peter Stutchbury, bound for Reigate Heath.
On arrival, we spot an impressive Windmill on a hill. Leaving the road we scramble up a sandy path and, thanks to some affable members of the Reigate Heath Golf Club on whose land the Windmill stands, make a fascinating discovery. Just behind the Clubhouse, in a chamber, directly beneath the vast wooden working beams of the Windmill, behind a padlocked door, there is….. ornately decorated, magnificently preserved, and still used on the third Sunday of each month……a Chapel!
"Just look at that gudgeon", said John gazing at the roof. "Surely it is most unusual for the 'main post' to have a cross tailed gudgeon at the top, giving it a 'gunstock head' effect". "Indeed it is", replied Peter.
"See how those pintles have been reinforced!" said John.
"They certainly have", said Peter.
The mill is thought to have been built around 1765, but a mill is also shown on the "Rogue's Map of Surrey" in 1762. In 1728, a man known as Roly-Poly (absolutely true) was hanged in chains on the gallows at this spot on the brow of the hill, now the site of the Reigate Heath Golf Clubhouse. The spurs of the gallows were dug up in 1817 and trees planted in their place. It is now the first tee.
Reluctantly we drag ourselves back into the 21st century and proceed to the neat and pretty village of Leigh -which brings us to our first conundrum! How do the locals pronounce LEIGH? Is it Loy, Lee, Lay, Leggy, Low, Louie, or Lie? Small prize (very small) for the first person who emails the correct answer to Peter S. (Clue: Check the photo album andlook carefully at the man on Peter's right in Reigate High Street; he is using the correct pronunciation).
Leigh is a cornucopia of delights for curious cyclists. Manor House with a moat, Church with carved wooden verandah, row of cottages with stone roofs, house with distinctive mediaeval architecture (see Peter for details).
Our next destination will forever be associated with the 1960's political scandal which triggered the resignation of Britain's first naturist Home Secretary - Newdigate. Mercifully on this blustery November day the inhabitants are fully clothed. Newdigate had been selected as our lunch stop and John seeks directions to the best pub. "There be only one!" croaks the man by the roadside, rolling his eyes. "The Six Bells. Round the bend". John thanks the man and wishes him a speedy recovery.
The young Australian barmaid at the Six Bells greets us warmly; she is practicing with a couple of bells behind the bar. "Forgive me young Sirs" says she, "for you find me a-peeling". We do, but lunch comes first - at least at our age. Meat pie and mash for Peter, Rainbow Trout and new potatoes for John. The local ale is Googly; not a description but an apparent reference to a devious bowling manoeuvre in cricket. Peter's pie is tasty,but John's trout is seriously undercooked, and for the first time on these travels, a dish has to be sent back. The frozen fish produces a less than fulsome apology from the kitchen, but is thankfully replaced by a meat pie and mash.
After lunch, we pay a brief visit to the Church of St Peter across the road. Peter is beginning to wish he had based his dissertation on Church porches in Surrey rather than Kent.
Rain is forecast so we make our way back to Reigate - supposedly via a slightly different route. However on the outskirts of the town, Peter checks the map and says eventually: "Well, we came back the way we intended to come back, but I hadn't realised that it was the way we went". John asks for Peter's permission to reproduce this sentence in the blog in case it may help future generations of fellow cyclists.
A long climb brings us back into Reigate, and it begins to rain heavily. In spite of the discomfort, we retrace our outward route to get a picture of an old garage which had earlier caught John's eye. (See photo album so our deprivations will not have been in vain!)
We decide to forego the charms of Reigate's lengthy, congested and very wet, gyratory road system and take the direct route back to the Land Rover on foot through the High Street.
After putting the bikes back on the vehicle, there is just time for hot refreshments in trendy Café Rouge, before returning to meet up with Rosemary after the Guides' meeting…………….
Later that evening, I was back in Harley Street and settling down to my work. A fire blazed in the grate, and I poured out a generous measure of whisky. My concentration was interrupted once again by the telephone, which I reluctantly answered in case it might be a patient in urgent need of my services.
The voice on the line was guttural and harsh. "Schroedinger here; we need to talk".
"Miaow" I replied, then replaced the receiver; stroked my fine new whiskers, and curled up in front of the fire.
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