Text first published in Along the Furlong, February 1999.

The fog that suddenly arises on the Findon Downs has always been most erratic. On occasions the southern slope of Cissbury Ring is bathed in sunlight whilst the north scarp has almost disappeared in mist. In these sudden mists, it is possible to be utterly lost. In the last century it was even more dangerous because in places the unsuspecting steep chalk climbs were unfenced.

On one particular day during Robert Cholmeley's time in Findon, fog settled over the district and enveloped the village. At first the haze blotted out the valley and then rolled sluggishly up towards the heights and hung low all day. In the evening the Reverend was called to minister to an ill parishioner at Mill Cottages, just west of the windmill on the Downs. The pea souper grew thicker as Dr. Cholmeley left the warmth of the cottages behind him and made for home. He could hardly see the outline of the windmill. The mist swirled making fantastic shapes of the familiar countryside and he thought with affection of the comfort of the Vicarage and the supper awaiting him.

All the familiar outlines of the unfenced landscape had vanished from sight, and the fog encompassed him wherever he turned like a fleecy cloud. Having walked for some time in the limited visibility he began to believe he was hopelessly lost. Then, to his utter amazement, the dark blur of the flint wall surrounding the windmill’s roundhouse loomed before him. (This still shows clearly today as depicted in the photograph). The sweeps hung motionless, obscured in the darkness. The thick fog wrapped around the crown of the windmill as if searching for a way in. Robert Cholmeley realised with dismay that he had merely been walking in circles and he was no nearer home.

At least he had now regained his bearings, and could confidently make a second attempt to head back down to the village. He stumbled around for what seemed like hours in frightened bewilderment. The rolling fog wavered and moved like a stealthily shaken white curtain. The ground beneath his feet was rough and unfamiliar. He gazed about him in an effort to glimpse some landmark, which would tell him where he was. The creeping fog fell around everywhere and was thicker than before. Once more he looked hopelessly around, seeking to discover his position. In vain he shivered with the cold and resolutely stumbled on. He thought he heard the tinkle of a sheep-bell. The fog, as always, made the familiar countryside secretive and strange.

Meanwhile, back at the Vicarage, there was great concern when Constance found that Robert had not returned. The servants scurried hither and thither. Constance visibly panicked and his sister grew more anxious. The alarm was raised but no trace could be found.

Later that night, I can now reveal that the Reverend arrived in an exhausted state in Steyning — thinking he was heading all the while towards Findon. It was there, when the fog lifted, that he procured the services of a good Samaritan, in the form of a carter and his horse and wagon, to deliver him back to the Findon Vicarage to everyone’s great relief.

Continue if you would like to read more about the Reverend's days in Findon in The Findon Love Story - Frank Kilvert (1840-1879)   

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