The mysterious story of Robert Stafford 

A story passed down

Robert Trevor Stafford writes:

This was told to me by my grandfather JAMES STAFFORD (born 1870, died 1968). I will call him Old Jim. I only knew him as a widower since his wife had died the year before I was born.

He finished work in 1935 and, in my experience, was always a retired man. He lived half a mile from us at Stakeford in his small cottage at 9 River Bank. He called at our house twice or thrice every week, stayed for twenty minutes or so, and then set off on his evening stroll. This was five, six, or perhaps ten miles when he was younger. He must have walked thousands of miles and undoubtedly it was this which extended his life.

The last photograph of James Stafford, taken in 1967 when he was aged 97

On these brief visits I can remember two statements which he made on several occasions:

1/ His grandfather, ROBERT STAFFORD, had never known who his parents were.

2/ He had left England and gone to America in 1839 when he was still only in his twenties.

I must admit that as a child I felt no urge to probe these ramblings of an old man. We now come to 1967 when he suffered a mild heart attack -- the first serious illness of his life. I went to see him the following day.

In 1961 I had moved to Gosforth, a suburb of Newcastle upon Tyne, and since then I had regularly gone to see him at Stakeford on every other Sunday, travelling on the bus. On these visits our conversation invariably concerned the old times. I found he was pretty much out of touch with the present. But on this occasion it was different. 'Sit down,' he said'. 'There's something I want you to hear.'

This is what he had to say about his grandfather, Robert Stafford, who was always known as Rob.

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