Selborne is best known as the home of Gilbert White - yet the quaint Hampshire village harbours a more raucous historical episode tied to another local legend: the tale of John Newland, the ‘Trumpeter of Selborne’.

A curious blend of fact, folklore, and embellishment, Newland’s story provides a fascinating glimpse into the Swing Riots of 1830 and the myths that sprouted in their wake.

Much of what we know - or think we know - about the Trumpeter stems from WH Hudson, a naturalist and writer famed for his evocative depictions of rural England.

Born in Argentina to American parents, Hudson moved to Britain in his 30s and became an ardent chronicler of the countryside. His 1903 book Hampshire Days captures the spirit of Selborne, interweaving his own observations with local lore.

But his writings often blurred the line between fact and anecdote. A key source for the Trumpeter’s tale was Eliza Garnett, Newland’s daughter, who regaled Hudson with stories of her father’s exploits.

Garnett painted a vivid picture of John Newland as a rebellious hero who led an attack on the Selborne workhouse, evaded capture by hiding on the Selborne Hanger, and ultimately gained legendary status.

In Hudson’s own words, Newland “had acted as horn-blower to the ‘Selborne mob’, when the poor villagers were starving; and how, blowing on his horn, he had assembled his fellow-revolutionists, and led them to an attack on the poorhouse, where they broke down the doors and made a bonfire of furniture; then on to the neighbouring village of Headley to get recruits for their little army.

“Then the soldiery arrived on the scene, and took them prisoners and sent them to Winchester, where they were tried by some little-remembered Judge Jeffreys, who sentenced many or most of them to transportation; but not the horn-blower, who had escaped, and was hiding in among the beeches of the famous Selborne Hanger”.

Yet the truth, as historical records reveal, is rather less dramatic.

The Swing Riots of 1830 were a series of protests by agricultural laborers across southern England, sparked by poverty, hunger, and mechanisation.

In Selborne, these grievances culminated in a mob tearing the roof off the local workhouse and moving on to the nearby village of Headley.

Newland’s role was less central than Hudson’s account suggests. Records from his trial indicate the 39-year-old labourer was not the ringleader but a reluctant participant.

Pressed into joining the mob by Aaron Harding, one of the true leaders, Newland blew his horn (not a trumpet, as legend would have it) only once and was later attacked by the mob for his lack of enthusiasm.

Captured and tried, Newland received a relatively light sentence of six months in Winchester Gaol for his part in the unrest, while Harding and others were transported to Australia. Far from leading a daring escape, Newland faced justice and served his time.

So how did a man who played a minor role in the riots become enshrined in local legend? The answer lies in the power of storytelling and a family’s determination to shape their ancestor’s legacy.

By the time of his death in 1868, aged 77, Newland’s family had successfully convinced the village of his significance. He was buried in a place of honour near the famous Selborne yew tree, his grave marked as ‘The Trumpeter’.

Decades later, his daughter Eliza Garnett’s embellished retelling to Hudson cemented his status as a folk hero.

Adding further intrigue to the Newland saga is the fate of his descendants. John Newland’s daughter Ellen was transported to Tasmania in 1850 after being convicted of attempting to poison her husband.

She remarried and started a new life in the Antipodes, ensuring the Newland legacy would live on in unexpected ways.

For further reading, seek out John Owen Smith’s account One Monday in November…and Beyond: The Selborne and Headley Workhouse Riots of 1830, available from Amazon.