X-Files from the Bog: The Meeting of the Waters, Rokeby

The "Meeting of the Waters"

Rokeby Park has been the residence of the Morritt family for several generations, and is located on the west side of the River Greta close to where it flows into the Tees. Known appropriately enough as The Meeting of the Waters, the Greta becomes quite turbulent at the confluence.

Just before it meets the Tees it flows underneath a picturesque beauty spot known as the Dairy Bridge. On my first visit I happened to notice that the waters become quite placid just downstream from the bridge. On the strength of the old saw that "still waters run deep", I decided that it might be worthwhile bringing my gear and investigating.

But before I go any further, there is a ghost story associated with this spot. The path across Dairy Bridge leads from the Rokeby estate to the mysterious Mortham Tower on the eastern side, and the apparition of a headless lady has reportedly been seen here. Who is she and what is her tale?

The Rokeby Ghost

Well, she certainly has a venerable history. Her spectre features in the Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott by J.G. Lockhart. In consideration of Scott's poem Rokeby - a narrative work in six cantos - Lockhart reproduces a letter sent to Scott by Mr. John Morritt on the subject of the ghost, and which Scott had inquired after. Morritt supplied Scott with the following information:

The lady for whose ghost you inquire at Rokeby, has been so buried in uncertainty, you may make what you like of her. The most interesting fiction makes her the heiress of the Rokebys, murdered in the woods of the Greta by a greedy collateral who inherited the estate. She reached the house before she expired, and her blood was extant in my younger days at Mortham tower. Others say it was a Lady Rokeby, the wife of the owner, who was shot in the walks by robbers ; but she certainly became a ghost, and under the very poetic nom de guerre of Mortham Dobby, she appeared dressed as a fine lady, with a piece of white silk trailing behind her— without a head, indeed, (though no tradition states how she lost so material a member,) but with many of its advantages, for she had long hair on her shoulders— and eyes, nose, and mouth, in her breast. The parson, once, by talking Latin to her, confined her under the bridge that crosses the Greta at my dairy, but the arch, being destroyed by floods in 1771, became incapable of containing a ghost any longer, and she was seen after that time by some of the older parishioners.

So what's in there anyhow? Any bottles?

I parked on a grass verge slightly off the road and just around the corner from Dairy Bridge House. This is a quaint old building built on the rocky banks of the river; the windows and balcony look out over a sheer drop with excellent prospects of the Greta below and the southern flank of the bridge. The prospects for my dive seemed to be just as good.

I carried my equipment down to the water's edge in three stages. After gearing up I walked out to the pools with my fins in one hand. It was quite rocky and difficult to get a good foothold without stumbling. I put on my fins as soon as I had a couple of feet of water to float in, since this made progress much easier.

The bottom sank away quickly and reached a depth of about ten feet with very little current. There I was...a local beauty spot, nearby habitation, and a nice deep pool. Yes, the prospects for a lucrative bottle dive appeared to be excellent.