Hilaire Belloc was a writer, editor, sailor, traveller, MP and lover of Sussex, and history remembers him as one of the most prolific writers of his age. He wrote essays, poetry and novels, and wrote about almost everything, anything and indeed, sometimes nothing at all.
Born in a village on the outskirts of Paris, Belloc spent much of his life in Sussex, for which he developed a profound fondness. And if you want to understand what made Belloc such an extraordinary poet and writer, and what inspired his love of Sussex, there is no better place to start than the places that he loved, lived in and called home.
Slindon
Slindon, just south of the South Downs between Arundel and Chichester, is chocolate-box pretty, strikingly quiet and in terms of appearance, little changed since Belloc’s time there. He arrived in 1878, aged eight, but even by that young age, his backstory involved loss, grief, war, exile and financial insecurity. Forced to flee the horrific Franco-Persian war, his father died when he was two and his mother lost much of their inheritance.
Against that tumultuous backdrop, and with its encompassing flint stone walls and cottages, elegant red brick houses and sleepy lanes, the village must have felt like a solid and calm refuge. Stroll through the village on a late Sunday afternoon and you’ll hear little more than the occasional passing car or the distant hum of an aircraft. Sheep still graze lazily. Holly hocks bow to passing walkers and the dark red of the estate colours grace doors and windows.
From the outside, St Richard’s Catholic Church, where Belloc worshipped and where a memorial to his mother can still be found, appears imposing, almost forbidding, yet step inside, and it is unexpectedly light, warm and welcoming.
The places he lived (Dower House, Bleak House, The Grange, Court Hill Farm) are effortlessly elegant and impressive. But whilst now, Slindon is a quiet place of prestigious homes and an affluent place of retreat, in Belloc’s day it would have revolved around the Slindon Estate. Life would have been immersed in tradition, with agriculture and local trades such as blacksmithing and the timber industries. All attributes and aspects of life that he held dear for the rest of his days.
The poetry writes itself
Belloc made much of the surrounding landscape his playground. He walked to Halnaker, over Duncton Hill and, no doubt, countless times, up to Nore Folly on the edge of the village. It’s a landscape where the poetry almost writes itself and feelings of gratitude, reflection and awe are almost impossible to resist.
Follow the flint and chalk paths on a hot summer’s day to the folly and the verges are alive with the colours and scents of the South Downs: sun-bleached grasses, wild thistles, ragwort, bindweed and wild mint spill from the hedgerows, butterflies flutter and the occasional fox slips quietly into cover. Across the fields, tractors gather the summer hay while the views widen with every step, revealing views across to the sea and a timeless Sussex landscape. It’s no surprise that Belloc fell in love and was so inspired.
Shipley
Belloc bought the farmhouse, King’s Land in Shipley in 1906 and lived there until his death in 1953. He also bought the windmill next door and ensured it continued to operate. Never a fan of modernisation, and acutely aware of the consequences of a changing world, unsurprisingly Shipley was and still is a quiet, off-the-beaten-track corner of Sussex where life once again would have centred on agriculture and traditional trades and crafts.
Shipley doesn’t have the flint stone walls and cottages of Slindon, but there are unmistakable similarities. Nearby Knepp Estate has always dominated the area and sleepy Shipley would have centred around a simple lifestyle of tradition and local trades. The views are less awe-inspiring, but there is an intimacy to Shipley which would have made it a great place to raise his five children. And the sense of being off the beaten track and enjoying a heady silence disturbed only by the wind is hard to ignore.
Belloc was a reasonably devout Catholic but the nearest Catholic church to Shipley is at West Grinstead, over three miles away either by foot or by car. Once again, like Slindon, it has an almost imposing, flint stone exterior and grandeur wrapped around a warm welcome inside.
Belloc is buried here.
Halnaker and Duncton Hill
From Slindon, Belloc could also have walked west towards Halnaker or north-west to Duncton Hill, two routes that thread their way through some of the finest scenery in West Sussex.
The hamlet and windmill of Halnaker are four miles cross country from Slindon and Belloc may have walked via the pub at Eartham. Halnaker windmill was struck by lightning in 1905 and was derelict by the 1920s. It was a favourite haunt of Belloc’s and understandably so. You approach the windmill through a tunnel of trees that steadily climbs to the hill and at the top, you’re met with 360 views that once again spread to the sea. The 18th century, Grade II listed mill was the inspiration behind Belloc’s haunting 1923 poem, Ha’nacker Mill.
“Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation:
Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.
And Spirits that call on a fallen nation
Spirits that loved her calling aloud:
Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.”
Duncton Hill is a six-mile walk north of Slindon and seems to have held a special place in Belloc’s affections. From its summit, the views stretch north across the wooded Weald towards Blackdown and the Surrey Hills beyond. Today, Seaford College lies below, but in Belloc’s day the valley was occupied by a country estate and stud, with horses grazing where schoolchildren now play. It was here that inspired the closing lines of The Old Road:
“So, therefore, though myself be crosst
The shuddering of that dreadful day
When friend and fire and home are lost
And even children drawn away
The passer-by shall hear me still,
A boy that sings on Duncton Hill.”
They are often read as a reflection on how our love of a place outlives us, that those who cherish a landscape become, in some small way, part of its story. Read today, they can also evoke the poignancy of lives cut short and voices that echo long after they have fallen silent. Belloc lost two sons, one in WWI and the other in WWII, and standing on what is now a viewpoint on the side of the road, surrounded by the landscape that shaped him, you cannot help but be moved by the depth of the emotion these lines hold.
Of course, Belloc loved Sussex deeply and travelled much of it, always rejoicing in an inn or pub. There are plenty of walks you can do to follow in his footsteps, books you can read to soak up his words, and talks you can go to hear about the man. But perhaps, just perhaps, the best place to go to start to understand what makes a poet and a writer tick, are the places that shaped him, man and boy, and which gave him such a love of Sussex.
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