Horley to Crawley on foot (and a bus ride back home, straight out of Peterswood)

On a crisp morning in Horley, my transit hub while in UK, we find our way along field-edge paths, old hedgerows, stiles, and little footbridges over slow, brown streams. Every few minutes a plane rises over the trees from Gatwick, but down on the path it feels a different world: just birdsong, squelchy mud, and the odd dog walker nodding hello.

Somewhere along the way, we reclaim the Five Find-Outers country that we grew up on, courtesy of the one and only Enid Blyton. All this in 2026. Unbelievable but true.

Every garden shed we passed looks like Fatty's: the one at the bottom of his garden, stuffed with false moustaches, wigs, red-rimmed glasses and a telegraph boy's uniform, ready for his next disguise. Every man in a flat cap leaning on a gate could have been Fatty in disguise, about to fool Mr Goon yet again. I half expected Buster to come racing round the corner, yapping at Mr Goon's ankles while he went purple and shooed us all away.

Ern, Mr Goon's adoring nephew, would have tried to match him, scribbling away at his "pottery" (as he always called poetry), with plenty of slips and crossings-out, and never getting past the second line before running out of rhymes.

pic courtesy: Snooty Fox

As we reached Three Bridges, we stop at the Snooty Fox for a well-earned coffee. With a name like that, it could have come straight out of a Blyton book. Warm cups, tired legs and a window seat for people-watching made it the perfect Find-Outers' headquarters.

The Find-Outers never held a meeting without buns, macaroons or ice creams, usually at Fatty's expense, so a coffee and something sweet felt only right. We sit there going over the morning's "clues" (a muddy footprint, a mysterious parked van, a man who looked far too interested in his newspaper) and decide the case would have to wait.

Refuelled, we wander on into Crawley and hop on the Fastway 20 back to Horley, which turns out to be the best part. It whisks us back past Three Bridges, Manor Royal and Gatwick, undoing hours of walking in a few easy minutes. On seats at the front, we watch the green verges and planes roll by, and quietly make up mysteries about the people we pass.

No crimes solved but a childhood adventure reclaimed and relished in adult years with nothing more than a passport, comfortable shoes, google map, a coffee stop, and lots of imagination.

All Enid Blyton loyalists will agree profusely, even in this post-J K Rowling era, and despite the Golem-like AI encroachment into our notions of life, work, and fun…we are sure of that!