R USHING around the area in last week's hot weather left me thirsty but being late in the day I was worried I might have to search high and low for a cuppa and a cake.
I need not have worried for my attention was drawn to a charming new tea shop which has opened in the last few days in Reigate town centre.
It was well gone four o'clock so I was a little concerned my intended destination would be closed for the day. It wasn't.
The tea rooms – simply called Tea – have opened almost opposite The Bull public house.
Reigate is certainly spoiled for choice what with the Vintage Tea House doing a roaring trade in Church Street and another new outlet, Beryl and Peg's, having opened in Holmesdale Road.
I stepped into Tea and instantly felt at home. A personable, young smiley waitress wearing a cotton pinny decorated with prints of teapots, enquired of my order.
I asked: "What time do you close?" and she replied: "Well, it's meant to be half-four but we're quite busy, so it'll be later today, so hey, what would you like?"
I said: "Phew! That's good," and ordered a cream tea.
"No problem," she said – her infectious smile stretching from cheek to cheek.
I discovered that the tea shop is on two levels and was inquisitive to see what was upstairs. There, I found a room furnished with traditional tables, comfy modern chairs and the walls painted a lime green. The door opened on to a patio where there was a rustic table for two available.
A blonde lady arrived with her female friend and gasped: "Oh! It's so cute – look, you can sit outside! Wow!"
On the next table, a couple of ladies were chatting about their plans.
"No, we're just going to Pizza Express in Epsom, so nothing too special."
The waitress arrived with my pot of tea served in a porcelain pot paired with a dainty tea cup. The pot was decorated with blue and mauve pansies; the cup with old-fashioned roses and the like.
It was the type of olde worlde crockery you'd expect to find in a country farmhouse kitchen.
The waitress also placed on the table a three-options egg timer containing glass tubes of sand. The orange sand was to measure three minutes, the blue, four minutes, and the green sand, five minutes. I gleaned that you chose the time you wished your tea to brew for, so that its strength was to your liking. Once the sand was through, you removed the tea bag and placed it on a special saucer.
Sitting behind me were a few people constantly chuckling.
"We ended up having swordfish but he kept moaning about it, all the time eating it." There were gales of laughter.
I tucked into a delicious scone served with jam and clotted cream.
This was all very nice. A fine way to start the weekend, I thought.
"Do you do Darjeeling tea?" enquired another customer of the waitress. ". . . and a shortbread, please."
A more senior lady behind the counter downstairs, was, I took it, the proprietress. She carried a tray of teas to one of the tables upstairs. When she reached the table she explained the egg-timer to the customers. "When you feel it's reached the optimum... It's five minutes for the green..."
Despite the time approaching five o'clock, people were still arriving, delighted to find somewhere open at teatime.
Playing gently in the background was a Vera Lynn-style singer, performing songs from, perhaps, the 1940s.
I gazed up at a hanging lamp with glass shades in a variety of vivid colours. My eyes then wandered to two empty tea chests that were being used as stools or small tables on which magazines were placed.
It was now 5.20pm. The lady behind me was collapsing in laughter. Throughout my visit she had been in fits of giggles as her friend regaled her stories of mishaps on foreign holidays and so on.
The two young women on the next table continued to relax and sip Darjeeling tea.
On another table, plans for the evening were being drawn up.
"I'm not having too many drinks tonight because I've got football in the morning. The others are going on a pub crawl in Reigate but I may have to give that a miss."
Outside, the late afternoon sun filtered down on to the patio garden, illuminating the pink hydrangeas.
I reluctantly got up to depart and walked down the stairs, bidding farewell to the owner who was still busy at the counter.
I commented that I could imagine the steep garden at the back having three levels with a few tables and chairs on each.
"Oh, I've already thought of that," she said. "But at the moment it's one thing at a time."
I wished her luck with her new venture and wandered out into the High Street which reverberated with the sound of the evening rush-hour traffic.
