The mist-shrouded roads of Oxfordshire have long been the stage for dark deeds and even darker legends. The history of this region is rich with stories of highwaymen—those shadowy figures who once haunted the byways, preying on the unwary. Yet, long after their demise, these spirits are said to linger, forever bound to the scenes of their crimes and the dark deeds that sealed their fate as their ghosts continue to ride the night.
John Clavell was a scholar and a poet, a man of letters whose feet once trod the hallowed halls of Brasenose College, Oxford. Born into an old aristocratic family, John was no stranger to privilege, but his family's wealth had long since faded. As a young man, Clavell was drawn to the scholarly life, yet the allure of wealth and status always lingered in his mind, gnawing at his soul with a hunger that could not be sated by books and study.
The young Clavell's ambitions led him down a dark path. He began to gamble, at first small wagers, but soon the thrill of risk became a dangerous addiction. When his luck turned sour, and debts began to mount, Clavell's desperation grew. It was during this time that he was caught stealing valuable gold and silver plates from his college—a scandalous act that could have seen him imprisoned for life. Only the intervention of his influential uncle, Sir William Clavell, saved him from the gallows.
Disgraced, Clavell fled Oxford and sought refuge in London. Here, the city's opulence and decay mirrored the dual nature of his own soul. He borrowed heavily, living the life of a gentleman on money he did not possess, all the while clinging to the hope that his father's inheritance would soon set him free from his financial woes. But when his father passed, Clavell was dealt a crushing blow—there was no fortune to inherit, only debts as vast as his own.
It was this cruel twist of fate that drove John Clavell to the roads. The life of a highwayman, though perilous, offered a chance to reclaim the wealth that had always eluded him. Clavell took to the highways with a reckless abandon, his wit and charm becoming as much his weapons as the pistol he carried. His exploits, though brief, were marked by audacity. Yet, as with all those who live by the sword, his time was short. In 1625, less than a year after he began his life of crime, Clavell was arrested and thrown into prison.
It was within the dark confines of his cell that Clavell's mind turned once more to the pen. He wrote "A Recantation of an Ill Led Life, or a Discovery of the Highway Law," a long-form poem that would bring him a different kind of fame. The poem was a vivid portrayal of the life of a highwayman, filled with remorse and regret, yet it also offered practical advice on how to avoid falling prey to such rogues. Clavell's verses captured the attention of many, including, it is said, the King himself. Impressed by the repentant tone of the work, the King is believed to have expedited Clavell's pardon.
Upon his release, Clavell attempted to rebuild his life. He wrote a semi-autobiographical play that enjoyed moderate success and eventually moved to Ireland, where he married and pursued careers as a lawyer and physician. Yet, the spectre of his past never fully left him. There are those who say that Clavell's ghost still walks the roads near Brasenose, a spectral figure draped in the shadows of his own misdeeds, forever haunted by the choices he made.
The Dunsdon brothers—Tom, Dick, and Harry—were the terror of West Oxfordshire in the late 18th century. Raised in Fulbrook, these three men turned to a life of crime, their exploits becoming the stuff of legend in the small towns and villages that dotted the countryside. The brothers were masters of the highway, robbing travellers on the Oxford to Gloucester road with ruthless efficiency before disappearing into the dense cover of Wychwood Forest.
One of their most infamous acts was the robbery of the Oxford to Gloucester mail coach, from which they made off with £500—a small fortune in those days. But it was a bungled attempt to rob Tangley Manor that would seal their fate. During the raid, Dick Dunsdon lost an arm in a brutal skirmish. After that night, he was never seen again, presumed dead from his injuries.
Tom and Harry continued their criminal careers without their brother, but their luck would not hold. The end came when they shot a pub landlord during an altercation. Though the landlord survived, the brothers were quickly captured by onlookers and handed over to the authorities. Tried and convicted, they were executed at Gloucester. But their story did not end there. The bodies of Tom and Harry Dunsdon were returned to Oxfordshire and gibbeted from an oak tree near Fulbrook—a gruesome display meant to deter others from following in their footsteps.
Yet, the Dunsdon brothers have not found peace in death. Locals claim that their ghosts haunt the tree where their bodies once hung, their spectral forms seen swaying in the wind on moonlit nights. The former George Inn in Burford, another of their favourite haunts, is also said to be frequented by their restless spirits.
Claude Duval was not an Englishman by birth, yet he became one of the most famous highwaymen ever to ride the roads of England. Born in Normandy in 1643, Duval was a man of charm and wit, qualities that served him well as he embarked on his life of crime. His reputation as a gentleman of the road, with impeccable manners and a taste for the finer things, made him a folk hero of sorts. The legends that surround him are many, and it is often difficult to separate fact from fiction.
One story that has stood the test of time involves a wealthy traveller and his beautiful wife. Duval is said to have stopped their coach, demanding money. The lady, fearing for her husband's life, offered to dance with Duval in exchange for their freedom. The highwayman, ever the gentleman, obliged, and after the dance was over, he returned some of the money to the couple before letting them go on their way.
The Holt Hotel, near Steeple Aston, was a favourite hideaway for Duval during his time in England. Originally a coaching inn, the hotel still bears the mark of its connection to the infamous highwayman. The carved sign outside, depicting a dashing figure brandishing a pistol with a noose hanging ominously behind him, is a stark reminder of the days when Duval rode the roads. The hotel is reputedly haunted by his ghost, particularly in Room 3. Women who stay there often report a strong sense of presence, as if they are being watched by unseen eyes. In the corridors, heavy footsteps echo through empty halls, and voices whisper in the attic, though no living soul can be found. Duval’s ghost, it seems, still lingers in the place where he once found refuge, his spirit bound by the life of crime he led.
The quiet village of Swinbrook was once the setting for a notorious gang of highwaymen, led by a man known only as Mr. Freeman. In 1806, Freeman arrived at Swinbrook Manor, a man of wealth—or so it seemed. He claimed to be a businessman from London, though he was vague about the nature of his dealings. His servants, rough and unruly, did little to endear themselves to the local population, and rumours began to spread.
Freeman’s household was an odd one. His servants were seen at odd hours, his horses were often mud-splattered and exhausted by morning, and yet Freeman himself always seemed to have money to spare. The villagers’ suspicions grew when a spate of highway robberies occurred on the Oxford-Gloucester road, with the culprits evading capture time and again. The truth came out in dramatic fashion when one of Freeman’s own servants was captured during a failed robbery attempt. Under interrogation, the man revealed the truth—Freeman was the leader of the gang, and Swinbrook Manor was their base of operations.
The revelation sent shockwaves through the village. Freeman and his butler were tried and hanged for their crimes, their bodies left to rot as a warning to others. Yet, some say that Freeman’s ghost still haunts Swinbrook Manor, his spirit restless and angry, doomed to wander the halls of the house that once served as his lair. The shadowy figure of a man, seen only in the dead of night, is said to appear in the manor’s windows, staring out into the darkness with eyes that have seen too much.
No account of highwaymen would be complete without mentioning Dick Turpin, one of the most infamous figures of the 18th century. Though born in Essex, Turpin’s exploits took him across England, and Oxfordshire was no exception. The George Hotel in Wallingford claims a connection to Turpin, who is said to have stayed there on several occasions. The most famous story associated with Turpin in Oxfordshire involves a daring escape. The law had come for him while he was staying at the hotel, but Turpin, ever the quick thinker, leapt from his bedroom window onto the back of his horse, Black Bess, which he had conveniently stationed below.
Turpin is also said to have frequented the Crooked Billet pub in Stoke Row, a remote and secluded place that would have made an ideal hideout for a highwayman. Though there is little concrete evidence to support these claims, the legends persist, and the image of Turpin—a man who lived by his wits and his pistol—has become deeply ingrained in the local folklore.
But Turpin’s ghost, unlike those of the other highwaymen, does not seem to haunt these places. Perhaps, in death, he finally found the peace that eluded him in life. Or perhaps his spirit, like his legend, continues to ride, forever on the move, always one step ahead of the law.
The legend of Black Stockings is one of Oxfordshire’s most mysterious tales. The ghost of a highwayman, whose identity is lost to time, is said to haunt the stretch of road near Asthall between Witney and Burford. The origins of the name “Black Stockings” are unclear, and the stories surrounding this phantom are varied and strange.
One account describes Black Stockings as a malevolent spirit, a ghost who physically manifests to stop travellers and drag them from their horses. This version of the legend paints Black Stockings as a vengeful soul, perhaps wronged in life, who now takes out his fury on the living. Another explanation, more practical in nature, suggests that the legend of Black Stockings was a ruse concocted by actual highwaymen to scare travellers away from the area. By spreading the story of a ghostly presence, they could carry out their robberies unchallenged, the fear of the supernatural driving potential victims away.
Whatever the truth, the legend of Black Stockings persists. Those who travel the old roads late at night still speak in hushed tones of the ghostly figure who might appear, black stockings covering his spectral legs, waiting to claim another soul for his dark realm.
Our final tale is one of tragic folly—Horace Wright, Oxfordshire’s least successful highwayman. By the mid-19th century, the era of the highwayman was all but over. Yet, for Horace Wright, the romanticised tales of Dick Turpin and others like him proved too alluring to resist. A young man of just 21, Wright was obsessed with the stories of daring criminals who lived outside the law. He dreamed of emulating his heroes, of becoming a legend in his own right.
But Wright was no Turpin. His attempts at highway robbery were more farce than felony. Dressed in a homemade costume that looked more like something from a pantomime than the attire of a fearsome outlaw, Wright took to the roads on a hired horse. His first victim, far from being terrified, simply laughed at the young man’s demands for money. Even when Wright brandished a pistol, the man remained unimpressed, and Wright was forced to leave empty-handed.
His second attempt was equally pitiful. The traveller he accosted near Shiplake calmly explained that he had no money, and once again, Wright was left with nothing for his troubles. He was arrested the next day at a nearby pub, his brief career as a highwayman already at an end.
Over the next few years, Wright would be arrested and imprisoned three more times for attempting highway robbery. Each time, he showed great remorse, admitting that he was not in his right mind when he committed the crimes. He told the courts that he was driven by an uncontrollable urge, an obsession with the life of a highwayman that defied logic. In his final trial, Wright made a tragic admission: “When I see a horse with a saddle on, I must be there if I have money. I am mad.”
Wright’s story is a sad footnote in the history of highwaymen—a tale of a young man who, caught up in the romance of a bygone era, lost his way. There are no reports of his ghost haunting the roads he once patrolled, and perhaps that is for the best. For Horace Wright, the true horror was not in death, but in the realisation that his dreams were nothing but illusions, a fantasy that led only to ruin.
The tales of highwaymen in Oxfordshire are more than just stories of crime; they are echoes of a past that refuses to be forgotten. The ghosts of these men, whether real or imagined, continue to haunt the places where they once rode, their spirits a reminder of the dark allure of the road and the fleeting nature of life itself. As you travel the ancient byways of this storied county, keep an eye on the shadows and listen for the whisper of hooves in the night. You may just catch a glimpse of a highwayman, long dead, but still riding, forever bound to the dark and winding roads of Oxfordshire.
To listen to more ghostly tales of highwaymen and their exploits make sure to listen to the following episode:
https://www.podpage.com/haunted-history-chronicles/spectral-highwaymen-ghosts-of-the-open-road/
