Knockholt was originally centred on our simple, but beautiful, St. Katharine's Church, which was built in the reign of Henry III. It was only later that Knockholt Pound – originally just that, a pound for stray animals – became the focus of development. Knockholt runs from Scotts Lodge to Rushmore Hill and can be viewed as a linear village. But for the people who live here today, there's no distinction: it's all 'Knockholt'.

By their nature, villages and village life are slower to change than urban areas and tend to be more people-oriented. Certainly, Knockholt can be seen that way as most of the histories revolve around the families who lived here over the centuries. Until relatively recently, they depended largely on agriculture and of the 290 males in the village at the 1851 census, 77 were agricultural workers. There were 11 farmers, supported by ancillary trades such as blacksmiths and saddlers, and of the 1,701 acres in the parish, 1,668 comprised woodlands, pasture and arable land.

That's changed of course. In 1820 there were 83 dwellings in Knockholt, though there was a steady rise to about 240 over the next 90 years, a nearly threefold increase. Over the past 90 years, building of new homes slowed and today we have around 450, including some 13 listed buildings, most of local stone and flint.

Despite that, Knockholt is not listed a Green Belt area of Outstanding Natural Beauty for nothing and still has a remarkable legacy of open space with an admirable network of footpaths from which to enjoy it. The painter Henry John Boddington (1811-1865) certainly appreciated that beauty: his A Lane at Knockholt, Kent (1841) finds many echoes in the village of today.

Other famous people have also drawn inspiration from Knockholt, not least William Frederick Wells who lived at Ashgrove where his friend J.M.W.Turner was a frequent visitor. It was here, in October 1806, that the idea of the world famous Liber Studiorum was suggested to Turner by his host – the series of six Knockholt Studies can be found in the British Museum.

Ashgrove was also home to Dr. Samuel Johnson's famous 'Summer House' for 136 years before its restoration and removal to Kenwood House where, sadly, it burnt down in 1991. Johnson was a great friend of Hester Thrale, whose daughter Susanna bought Ashgrove in 1807 and moved the Summer House, where Johnson spent many happy hours, from her mother's old home in Streatham to Knockholt. It's possible, though not recorded, that Johnson visited Susanna in the village.

More recently, as the railway arrived (the station first called 'Halstead for Knockholt' in 1876, changing to 'Knockholt' in 1900) village resident E.S. Nesbit set her famous novel The Railway Children (1906) in and around the station. At that time, a battle was going on as Knockholt had been 'moved' from Kent to Bromley and London. Not the first battle villagers fought and won for what they held dear, and we were formally returned to Kent in 1899.

More serious struggles lay ahead. The two world wars, commemorated by our recently restored Memorial at the church, made their mark. In the Great War, 182 Knockholt men served, 24 of them losing their lives. Of them, Major Alexander Malins Lafone of Court Lodge won the Victoria Cross. Major Norman Smithers, who won the Military Cross, was more fortunate, living on to become supervisor of the special constabulary during World War Two.

That war also took its toll, 17 Knockholtians dying, including the Rev. Charles Hobley who was killed at the rectory during an air raid.

Perhaps the best kept secret of the war, however, was that Knockholt's Ivy Farm was an outpost of Station X, the Bletchley Park-based centre that broke the German Enigma Code.

People change, but a remarkable number of old Knockholt families live on here and though agriculture is no longer the main source of employment, we are not a 'commuter' village. People live full lives in Knockholt, evidenced by the plethora of social, sporting, artistic and other societies and organisations listed in our Parish Magazine. Our bi-annual Carnival is also the biggest of any village in Britain.

We take pride in our village and its way of life and while we are not against change, continue to fight to retain not just those links with the past, but what's brightest and best from modern times – the famous 'Battle of the Phone Box' in 1987, to retain the red box synonymous with Britain, is a case in point.

What lies ahead? Who knows, but we are determined that the quality of life in this village – and that means the quality of any future planning – will be our legacy for the generations to come.

*I am indebted to Sir David Waldron Smithers, late president of The Knockholt Society, for both inspiration and for his book A History of Knockholt in the County of Kent (Dragonfly Press, ISBN 0-9513500-4-8), without which much of the above could not have been written.

An Account by One of the Fairbridge Children

Knockholt to Australia

It was 1953 when my mother fled from my violent father and later divorced. I was 4 and a half years old, my brother Paul was just a baby.
We moved to London from the West Country and lived with my Gran in a one bedroom flat for a short time before being evicted. From London we went to Margate in Kent and after living in Church halls for awhile were offered a home and Mum a full time clerical position with the Council.

The following 5 years weren't easy but we coped. My Granny became my Mum while Mum worked endlessly as the provider for our little family.
September 1958 – The moment never escapes me the day Paul and I had walked home from school for our usual cooked lunch.
Without lunch, without our usual fuss and cuddles Granny stood quietly at the top of the stairs and calmly instructed us to return to school.
She looked down and simply said ‘Good-bye'. Unbeknown to us she died an hour later.
With no-one to take care of us while Mum worked, life for my brother, Paul and I took a dramatic turn the day a strange man collected us from our home in Birchington, Kent and drove us to Knockholt.
Vivid memories recall my 6 yr old brother crying and vomiting on the long and pained journey. As a 10 year old, I knew only to comfort him and reassure him we would see our mummy soon.

I remember John Howard Mitchell House for its Grandness, its opulence, the many chimneys and large windows and the magnificently manicured gardens.
We were the only children on arrival and caregivers spoilt us with attention and kindness.
I recall a large map of Australia on a lined oak paneled wall in the playroom. We ate fine food off fine china, slept on clean quality linen and staff pandered to our every need.
Paul and I settled into the little Primary School opposite and as spring approached we were unaware that the odd trip to London to buy clothes and visits from doctors and officials was in preparation for our journey to Australia .
As weeks passed other children arrived, a total of 13, Paul being the youngest, 2 of us were 10, the rest aged from 12 to 15yrs. All but one was to be sent to another land.
Mum stood with an official and showed Paul and I where Australia was on the map. Paul flatly refused to go anywhere and just wanted to go home. It was not a good time.

April 1959 –
A mixture of feelings was felt over the following 6 weeks as we cruised our way to an unknown land. Naivety and the novelty of new surroundings disguised uncertainty and we were among children we knew although the older kids were left pretty much to themselves. The younger ones were cared for by two young ladies, one a nurse, the other a teacher returning to Australia .
Paul shared the girls' cabin and suffered terribly from home-sickness. I would read a bed-time story each night. We wrote in our diary daily – an amusing read these days.
Calls into various Ports were a life-time experience and memorable.

June 1959 –
Our arrival to Sydney Australia was also very memorable and although a trip to the zoo and lots of ice-cream would soften the blow initially, the 300 km odd extremely cold night on the train into Australia 's barren outback and early morning arrival to Molong and onto Fairbridge would be a harsh reality.
After a long wait in the freezing cold we were greeted and crammed in along with luggage into a small truck, its canvas roof providing little shelter.
I won't go into Fairbridge's history as this is well documented but the early dark hours of that morning can never be forgotten.
After a warm drink we stood quietly and waited as each child was escorted away and taken to their designated cottage.
Horror struck, as one by one we were parted and apart from one I never saw my friends again. I was lucky Beryl my little 10 yr old playmate would live in the same cottage but Paul went on his own. That destroyed me and Paul cried uncontrollably.
I lived in Molong cottage, one of three girls' cottages and one of the first built in 1938.
They were all similar in design from what I gather. Small kitchen with an old wood-fuelled stove, a large open plan lounge/dining room, a locker room for clothes and to get dressed in, a large dormitory with 16 kapok plastic-covered mattresses on wired camp-type beds and a large bathroom that consisted of 2 showers and 2 toilets.
An untrained cottage-mother looked after the children in the 15 odd cottages, some were okay, and others weren't. Children's experiences seem to vary considerably over the years and from cottage to cottage.
My cottage-mother was strict – very strict. There was a lot of cleaning in our cottage, we were forever washing the timber floors, waxing and then polishing them madly.
The girls were jealous because I had a parent and at times they bullied Beryl and I.
Of course I look back now and realise the poor girls didn't know their parents, even if they had any parents or siblings.
We were unloved and no caring or emotion was ever expressed. This was heartfelt sadness among most who stayed there it seems.
It's institutional living as I see it. – It's cold, calculated and unforgiving. Abuse happened and there was no-one to turn too.
There was no communication with the outside world, no communication with family in England , and that's if you knew you had any.
Discipline was discipline in the harsh sense and that of the day. Caning happened; my brother was caned regularly for wetting his bed, and in the early days for coming to see me.
Paul was banned from seeing me and that would be my pet hate for ever more.

Fairbridge ran self-sufficiently and under supervision the boys and girls from the age of 12 yrs were rostered to work on the farm. They milked the cows twice a day, attended to the vegetable gardens, the pigs, the sheep, made the stodgy bread, the horrible porridge and cooked the meals for the main Dining Room.
Paul and I attended a two class roomed school at Fairbridge, sadly I saw little of Paul and he had already become a sad little boy and a loner.
After 2 years Mum who had come to Australia won her battle to have us home but after 6 months and three different flats all of which unsuitable for children, we were sent back to Fairbridge. Second time round I have no recall of Fairbridge until the day (18 months later) we were told we were being sent to Melbourne where Mum now lived. It was goodbye Fairbridge and hi to the tough world outside.

Below is a series of old photographs made available by kind permission of the Knockholt Society.
A larger image can be viewed by clicking the thumbnail picture.