From the Folkestone Herald, 2 January, 1926.

ABOUT THE NEIGHBOURHOOD By Felix

The “Dog” is No More.

In order to stretch the limbs and walk of the extra fare at Christmas a party of half a dozen young citizens took train to Elham on Boxing Day, their real objective being the lonely and isolated inn known as the “Dog” at Chambercrown. Out of all the thousands in Folkestone how many have tramped, as I have often done, across a part of Rhodes Minnis, through Wheelbarrow Town (about a dozen houses0 and on through densely wooded country to Clambercrown. As I wrote once in my “Rambles,” one could imagine themselves out here in the centre of Africa, so far as loneliness is concerned. The “Dog” stood on the borders of the great Covet Wood, and the license was jointly held by Miss Philpott, widely known over the countryside as “Lizzie” and her brother John. They were what might be described as a couple of “characters.” They belonged, it would almost seem, to a past age. One lived, as it were, a hundred years ago in that old place. There was a great open fireplace with lintel, a chimney corner on either side. Coal was almost an unknown quantity up yonder. On the hearth generally smouldering a big log. From the chimney hung a chain with a big hook at the end. From this was usually hanging an immense iron pot. There was no bar in the accepted sense of the word. Customers were accommodated in a kind high-backed pew, whilst the necessary beverages were served from behind a screen. I had the pleasure of conducting several little parties up yonder, amongst that my departed friend, the late Mr. Andrew Bromley, who sketched the fire place.

The Jersey had “Run Dry.”

I cannot resist a smile even now when I recall how one Saturday afternoon a little party of us had tea at the “Dog.” Mr. Bromley was one of that party. It was left to my humble self to ask dear old Lizzy if she could provide us with tea. She consented. After some delay the tea was placed on the table. Where, however was the milk? On enquiry we were informed that the Jersey cow (which grazed in an adjoining meadow) had “run dry!” There was no milk in the house, and no neighbouring farm where we could secure a supply. We consented then to partake of the beverage without milk. We desired an egg each, but back came the information that there were only three in the nests. As a result we had to toss, the odd man standing out. We “enjoyed,” too, spread on slices of bread, what is known as “crock” butter. This was of a varied colour – a queer mixture. However, we pulled through somehow, and really enjoyed the fun. I know of a certain Councillor and his wife who tramped across to the famous “Dog” on a certain Bank Holiday. Their intention was to partake of lunch at the old inn. They experienced a shock. When the aforesaid Councillor asked for “lunch for two” the good old landlady replied that they did not do that kind of thing up at Clambercrown. As there was no other form of food available in the house, it was a case of tramping on in a semi-exhausted state to Bishopsbourne. I was stranded up that way in a similar manner some years ago. I tramped over from Barham, across “Heart's Delight,” and then up through the mazes of the Covet Wood. I had forgotten to take any sandwiches, or other form of food. I asked one of the joint proprietors if they had any bread and cheese. The old lady replied slowly, “yes,” but added “Not for sale.” I don't mind admitting that at the time I felt what is known as a bit faint. There were two haymakers sitting in the “pew” before referred to. One of these eyed me up and down several times and at length remarked: “I ‘eered you ask for a bit o' bread and cheese.” He then dived into the recesses of a rush basket and brought out what might be termed a good hunk of bread and cheese and what is known in the rural districts as a “thumb piece.” This Christian gentleman (and so he was) remarked: “Take yer choice. Yer welcome.” This was pretty good, thought I, for a stranger, I accepted the “thumb piece.” This was a nice slice of home-made bread, on the top of which was a layer or two of nicely pickled pork. Well, I showed my gratitude to the farmer-hand friend in some other form than words. I have attended many a banquet at the principle hotels in Folkestone and other places since that now distant date, but never have I enjoyed anything with more real rest than I did that “thumb” piece from the old rush basket.

Only a Memory.

I had heard from several sources that of late the old inn, owing to lack of custom, had closed its doors for good. Since the Philpott's relinquished it, others have “tried their hand” at the place, but to no purpose. The “Dog” has “gone to the dogs” through lack of trade. No one can quite understand how a living was ever made up there. There are a few who, as I have said, penetrated through “the unknown” to the old place, but there are thousands (and some of then that pride themselves on a knowledge of the countryside) who never did reach that “promised land.” I am sorry my young friends on Boxing Day had a lost journey in a certain sense, but I am glad to have the means of introducing them to as glorious a stretch of country as is to be found around those parts. The roads are better now, and thus there has been less difficulty in reaching Clambercrown, but at the time I am referring to the narrow highways were covered with jagged field flints. Thus another old and quaint institution has vanished. Around that country, including Lower Hardres, I have spent some of the best times of my life.