The drawing of Pound's Bridge, near Penshurst is in itself a valuable document, recording the condition of the house as it was during the first half of the nineteenth century. Some time however between 1847 and 1868 the fabric was sadly altered. The picturesque doorway and porch-passage formed in the open timbering of the left hand wing are now no more; the whole of the ground floor wood-work (with the exception of the window frames) having been swept away for a re-facement of plain wall. The house, subsequently turned into an inn, was originally the parsonagee. It bears the date 1593 and the wooden initials W.D. in the centre of the front, showing that it was erected by Rev. William Darknoll, who however, only lived to enjoy it for three years. He died in 1596 and was buried in Penshurst Church, where his memorial slab may still be seen on the north wall of the chancel.”

Above engraving 1906.

Above postcard, circa 1910, kindly sent by Rory Kehoe.

Above photo 1920.

Passage taken from the book "The Old Inns of Old England" Vol 2.

An inn with a similar history to that just mentioned—although by no means so humble—is the “Pounds Bridge” inn, on a secluded road between Speldhurst and Penshurst, in Kent. As will be seen by the illustration, it is an exceedingly picturesque example of the half-timbered method of construction greatly favoured in that district, both originally and in modern revival. It is, however, a genuine sixteenth-century building, and was erected, as the date upon it clearly proclaims, in 1593. The singular device of which this date forms a part is almost invariably a “poser” to the passer-by. The “W” is sufficiently clear, but the other letter, like an inverted Q, is not so readily identified. It is really the old Gothic form of the letter D, and was the initial of William Darkenoll, rector of Penshurst, who built the house for a residence, in his sixty-ninth year: as “E.T.A. 69”—his quaint way of rendering “aet.,” i.e. aetatis suae—rather obscurely informs us. Three years later, July 12th, 1596, William Darkenoll died, and for many years—to the contrary the memory of man runneth not—the house he built and adorned with such quaint conceits has been a rustic inn.