Out & About …

… on the North York Moors, or wherever I happen to be.

From Roseberry’s Shadow to Durham Gaol: The David Cobbold Saga

In those turbulent days of the 1930s, in the quaint village of Newton-under-Roseberry, there existed a shop of equally quaint nomenclature – “Ye Olde Village Shoppe.” Now, I am sure, there might well have been other shops in that village, but the tale I’ve uncovered revolves around none other than the proprietor of the said “Ye Olde Village Shoppe.”

David Cobbold, a man of no small renown, and his dear wife, Sarah, had long had their home in Redcar. Cobbold, by trade, was a humble cabbie. But Cobbold had something more to his credit than just plying the streets of that town. The couple prided themselves on their charitable deeds, having amassed a tidy sum for various benevolent causes with a rather melodious street organ they’d procured in times of adversity. They were the stars of “Ye Olde Englishe Fayre” at the Amusement Park, where their pockets swelled with the coins of generous patrons. And in their benevolence, they did their part for the Prince of Wales’ Fund, the Salvation Army Self-Denial Fund, the Distress Committees during the war, the Lifeboat Institution, and other such noble endeavours.

So, one fine day, the Cobbolds packed up their wares and made a bold move to the little shop in Newton-under-Roseberry. This quaint village nestled beneath the imposing shadow of Roseberry Topping, attracting hikers and wanderers aplenty. Holiday-makers flocked there, for it served as an idyllic starting point for jaunts into the scenic Cleveland hills. Whit Mondays, in particular, saw an influx of visitors.

But, in 1934, a misfortune befell Cobbold. He found himself in hot water with the law, accused of cycling in the dark, sans a proper light. The magistrate’s gavel fell, demanding a fine of £1, or the dreaded alternative: a stint behind bars. Now, let it be known that Cobbold had never brushed shoulders with the constabulary before, and he took this turn of events with much chagrin. His pride was wounded, and the notion of parting with his hard-earned coin rankled him. So, he steeled himself for a sojourn as a guest of His Majesty the King.

But there was a twist to this peculiar tale. Cobbold, you see, was determined to shield his dear wife from the ignominy of witnessing his arrest. And so he hatched a rather unconventional plan. He resolved to make his own way to Durham Gaol, the place of his impending incarceration, on New Year’s Day of 1934, the day after the fine was due.

Now, this was no ordinary New Year’s resolution. With the resolve of a bulldog, he set forth from Newton-under-Roseberry, embarking on a marathon thirty-four-mile walk to Durham Gaol. He commenced this extraordinary journey in 1933, and as the year turned, he heard the jubilant chimes of the New Year ring out, marking the dawn of 1934.

The journey began under a crisp, frosty sky, with roads glistening like glass beneath the radiant moon. But alas, the frost’s grip slackened, and rain began to fall. Along the way, just past Sedgefield, he encountered two black cats – an auspicious sign; he believed. Armed with a stash of sandwiches and a substantial bottle of peppermint, he trudged on.

For miles upon lonely miles, he journeyed, scarcely encountering a soul. Yet, whenever he crossed paths with a policeman, he made it a point to introduce himself, state his purpose, and divulge his destination – Durham Gaol.

Finally, upon reaching Durham, he made a beeline for the Governor’s house. To his dismay, he learned that the Governor, a Captain Scott, was within the prison walls. Thus, he ventured to the prison’s gate, where a warder greeted him.

Cobbold, with one foot literally in the door, explained his mission and produced the summons that validated it. But to his astonishment, he received a stern rebuff: “Get out; we cannot do with you here,” they said, directing him instead to the Chief Constable’s domicile.

Much to his chagrin, the Chief Constable echoed the same unyielding sentiment, urging him to return home. And so, with a heavy heart, Cobbold retraced those thirty-four weary miles to Newton, where he awaited the long arm of the law.

A week passed, and at last, the day of reckoning arrived. Cobbold found himself in custody, though without the indignity of handcuffs, as he was escorted to Durham Gaol. Yet, in an inexplicable turn of events, before he could even take the customary prison bath, he found himself a free man once more. It was a puzzling turn of events indeed. Within a mere two hours, he had arrived at the gaol at 4:24 p.m., assigned the number 6545, and partaken of supper. By 6:00 p.m., he was a free man; his wallet, which he had had sealed at his bank, had been opened without his consent, and a £1 note within extracted.

Cobbold must have harboured no small measure of vexation, for from Durham, he resolved to take his grievance all the way to the Home Secretary in London. And so, he immediately set off on an even longer walk to the metropolis.

“This is all part and parcel of a huge scandal, a 23-year-old scandal. … Here am I fined £1 or given the option of one month in prison, for supposed to be riding a cycle without a light, but it is a mere detail, with others, of part of a great scandal which I am determined to expose. … Nobody but my wife and members of my family can appreciate what we have gone through during these 23 years. It has been torment, it has been torture, it has been worse, and now I am determined to see that justice shall be done if it costs me even my life.”

A week later, the “South Bank Express” reported that Cobbold, the man they would not have in prison, was safely ensconced at home in Newton-under-Roseberry once more. He had furnished the newspaper with a stack of papers – copies of letters dispatched by registered mail or hand-delivered to the Home Office in London. These letters contained grave allegations that Cobbold wished to see published.

Alas, the newspaper hesitated, shackled by the spectre of libel laws. The allegations, it seemed, were a thorny thicket too dangerous to navigate, or perhaps nothing more than fanciful musings of a conspiracy-minded soul. And thus, their exclusive report fell into a hushed silence, leaving one to ponder the true nature of Cobbold’s ordeal – a scandalous conspiracy or a whimsical flight of fancy, lost to the annals of history.

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