with Mark Davison
Forest Green, near Ockley
M OTORING through the charming villages of Surrey on a warm and sunny early afternoon, I realised that there were few better places to be at this time of the year.
The sun shone strongly from a deep blue sky and hardly a cloud could be seen. Birds sang merrily from high branches of fresh green trees and swallows skimmed the buttercup fields in search of flies enticed out by the gentle summer heat.
I had a rather unusual mission to make on this weekday afternoon. For some time now, I had been intending to arrange a repair for my broken Victorian letterbox and was told I would probably need a blacksmith to carry out the work.
A blacksmith? I mused. Do they still exist?
I then recalled that there was one still at Tandridge village, near Oxted, and another at Forest Green south of Dorking.
As I was going to be in the Dorking area, I put the letter box with its dislodged flap in the motor and headed off.
I took the main A24 road out of Dorking and made my way down through the Holmwoods to the roundabout and then turned onto the A29 to Ockley, admiring the beautiful countryside along the way.
Taking the twisty country road from Ockley to Forest Green, the sun trickled through the glades leaving the road speckled with golden light.
I emerged at the unspoilt Forest Green, with its wildflower meadows, cricket green and historic country pub, The Parrot Inn.
Before thinking about partaking of welcome refreshments, I had to visit the smith.
Pulling up at The Forest Green Forge, I sauntered up to the lovely old workshop, seeing smoke rising from an old chimney. I peered inside what looked like an Aladdin's cave and the blacksmith appeared and quietly greeted me. His forge was fired up in the rear of the premises.
I showed him my letterbox and he frowned. It's brass so it would be very difficult to braze, he said, sighing. He had another idea and said it may be quite expensive, but if the letterbox was special to me, then he could do it. I left it with him, and cast aside any thoughts of what the bill would be.
I thanked him for his time, and ambled over the meadow to The Parrot for something to eat.
I fancied sitting outside at a picnic table and admiring the panoramic views of the wooded hills with Leith Hill tower just visible.
Sadly, the landlady said that the kitchen was closed between three and six o'clock.
"We can do crisps, peanuts, mini cheddars," she said.
I replied that I would return another time for a meal when the kitchen was open and headed off. It was then that I spotted that quite a new farm shop was open at the end of the pub's car park.
I was to learn that it had been trading in association with The Parrott for more than five years but the formerly disused barn had been converted into a farmshop much more recently.
A leaflet said: "Butchers Hall & Country Grocer where you can buy not just the most marvellous Surrey meat but also all the accoutrements you could possibly need: pies, cheese, jams, chutneys, charcuterie, fruit, vegetables, cakes, bacon, sausages, eggs and lashings of British beer to wash it all down with!"
The meat for the shop and pub is, I gleaned, from livestock raised at Home Farm near Coldharbour.
I suddenly had the idea of having a picnic in the meadows opposite. And seeing a sign which said that this farmshop had been given two gold awards for its pies, my mind was made up.
I selected a chunky mince and onion pie, a slice of quiche, a bottle of traditional "botanically brewed" Fentiman's Victorian Lemonade (with ginger and herbal extracts) and a slice of citron tart for afters and carried my little feast in a brown paper carrier bag towards the common.
More swifts and house martins were darting across the common and two girls out horseriding almost silently passed by.
I found a patch of warm grass and settled down to enjoy my afternoon mini banquet. This was heaven. The sun beat down and I was at peace with the world.
A jogger nodded as he ran past and another man with a panting dog shuffled by.
I heard the sound of a distant cuckoo which was soon drowned out by the chugging of a passing tractor and the far hum of an EasyJet aircraft preparing to land at Gatwick.
Now and again, a people carrier pulled up at the farmshop, mostly driven by trend-setting ladies from the surrounding villages.
I gazed up at the blue sky, while savouring every mouthful of my delicious quiche.
Nearby, a beetle crawled up a stalk of grass and scurried around the seedhead.
I tucked into the lemon tart and brushed an insect off my arm.
Two more house martins flitted over a cluster of young oak saplings near the cricket field.
It was now the start of the evening rush hour but I was in no rush. I could have stayed here all evening – especially if I had brought a deckchair and something to read.
