August 17th and 18th, on to Lancashire

I never knew either of my grandfathers very well. My maternal grandfather, Grandpa Torrance, died when I was 2 and a half. My only vague memory of my grandfather was as a figure in a large bed with a satin counterpane. I remember being brought in to sit with him after the family had dinner and his pointing to the bottom of a very large wardrobe. Inside the drawer was a teddy bear. I would hold the teddy bear and sit beside his bed. It's an odd memory; I
don't remember anything he said to me, I just remember the teddy. Many years later, I told my cousin about the memory and she gave me an old teddy bear that had belonged to her mother, my aunt. I always hoped that was the teddy bear I used to hold; he is threadbare and very hard--stuffed with straw--but he sits on the shelf above my desk.

As the years went by, my grandfather remained a mystery. He was only mentioned now and again by my mother. I knew he had joined the Spiritualist Church, that he was a quiet and rather sad man. My mother said that he had lived in Scotland and that his mother had been Belgian. I don't know why my family was so uninterested in family history. My cousin said that my maternal grandmother, who came from Ireland, said that the past was the past and the present was what was important. My paternal grandparents felt the same way. And for many years I, too, remained uninterested in even my grandparents. Until I discovered the joy of genealogy/family history about 15 years ago. I started pestering my father (my mother was long dead) about his family and slowly pieced together information about his side. But my mother's side was more difficult. Not only was my mother dead, but so was her only sibling, her sister. My cousin knew a few things and gave me what she had--obituaries and family photos.

According to my grandfather's obituary, he had been born in Renfrew, Scotland, to a Robert Torrance, in 1882. But when I searched birth records in Scotland for a Harold G. Torrance I couldn't find anything. On an impulse, I looked in the England records and I found him! It was so exciting. I was able to order his birth certificate and found that his father indeed was called Robert and his mother was Jeanne Durussel who was actually from Switzerland. As the months went by I found out that they had married in Liverpool and moved to Lancashire, ending up in a small town called Hoddlesden. Unfortunately, Jeanne died young and the children in the family worked in the cotton mill. Grandfather joined the East Lancashire Regiment and went off to South Africa to fight in the Boer War. Why he put about, once he was in Canada, that he had been born and lived in Scotland, I don't know. I've found nothing to indicate that he ever lived in Scotland. It seemed that he wanted to hide or forget something but I didn't know what.

I had lots of facts and documents but I still didn't know anything about the family itself. Despite posting on genealogy lists, I found no descendants of grandfather's brothers or sisters. I decided that I would at least visit where grandfather had been born and lived. And I also wanted to visit Preston Temple. A friend of mine who lives in Manchester kindly said that she would pick me up at Preston train station and take me around the area. We would both stay overnight at the Temple, attend a session and then she would drive me to Hoddlesden the next day.

The train ride, was as always, fun. And Sue met me at the station with a sweet hello. Off we went in her small car into the countryside around Preston as she showed me where our early Mormon missionaries had traveled.

We went to the bottom of Pendle Hill, a historic place where the founder of the Quakers, George Fox had a vision on the top of the hill of many souls coming to Christ in 1652. Almost two hundred years later, Mormon missionaries came through a nearby village, Downham, baptizing almost the entire village in the river.

Pendle Hill viewed from Downham village.

Another view.

A lovely Church of England building.

I do so love the English countryside. I have said that so many times, I wish I could find other ways of saying what this feeling is like. Like coming home. Heart tugging. Words are inadequate and now, months later as I look at these photos, it all comes back. And I wish I were there again. Sigh.

Later in the evening, we went to Preston Temple. The rooms that are available for lodgers are like university dorm rooms--hard cots but with clean linens and comfortable, clean bathrooms. Sue and I chatted for a bit but then both of us went to sleep. It was going to be an early morning.

The next morning we went to the Temple and afterward I took some photos of the grounds.

Sue, standing by the front entrance.

Looking up at the angel Moroni.

After we went to the Temple, we wandered around Preston, visiting the sites that are important to our church history.

The River Ribble.

We also stopped into St. Wilfrid's Catholic Church in Preston. It is the oldest Catholic church in Preston, completed in 1793 with some modifications in the late 1800s. A lot of very beautiful carving, as you can see.

After visiting St. Wilfrid's, Sue drove me to Hoddlesden, to the Rosins Inn, which would be my "home" for the next two nights.

Friday into Saturday, August 28th and 29th

My goodness it's quarter to two and I've just got home from a night out at the pubs! I haven't been out this late since dh's Christmas party in Las Vegas two years ago. But I had such a good time. I sang along with the band at one pub--but not on stage--and danced too. And when the band finished in that pub we went over to another one, called The Somerset and Dorset--and watched folks do karaoke. Almost all of the songs were from the 70s and 80s. When everyone joined in on songs like Sometimes When We Touch, Maggie May and He Ain't Heavy, I did too. Brought back a lot of happy memories.

Speaking of memories, I had a very special package arrive in the mail this morning. Through posting my family tree on ancestry.com I'd received an e-mail from a cousin of a cousin on my Campbell side. He wrote me that he'd inherited this cousin's letters that her father--one of my great uncles--had sent from France during WWI. My great uncle died just three weeks short of the end of the war in 1918. In fact, I hadn't even known about him until 2001 when we went to Scotland on a holiday and found the family headstone in Dundee Cemetery that listed him as having died in France. Anyway, this cousin offered to mail me copies of the letters as well as copies of photographs of him, his wife and baby daughter. True to his word, he did so and I received them this morning.

The letters from my great uncle to his wife were so touching that I cried. Although he says several times he hopes the war ends soon--the letters were written at the end of 1917 so the end was almost in sight--most of the letters describe his love and concern for his wife and daughter and good wishes for the folks back home. He signed the letters with hugs and kisses and I am left with the impression of a very loving and kind husband and father. His wife never remarried although she survived him by almost 60 years. Included in the papers was a copy of a letter that his CO had sent his widow describing my great uncle as one of the best men he had ever known and how he would never forget him. My great uncle didn't die of wounds, ironically he died of bronchopneumonia. He was in the Labour Corps of the Seaforth Highlanders. He would have been involved in road/railway building and repair, moving ammunitions, possibly loading and unloading trains, and other non-combat duties. I've only picked that up this afternoon and I now have more to read about as a result of this amazing summer.

August 13th, Cleve Abbey

I spent most of the week after I returned from the Highlands walking Sheila's dogs and pottering around Burnham. But one day I did decide to visit an old abbey that was a short bus ride away. Cleve is an old Cistercian abbey with some of the buildings dating from the 13th century, others from the 15th. According to advertisements, it is supposedly has the most complete and unaltered monastic buildings from that era in all of England; a fairly impressive claim considering all of the buildings that exist in England.

I did enjoy the Abbey very much. It was a warm, sunny day. The kind of day that inspired Browning to write "Oh to be in England...." This was the England of my memories, the gentleness, the dreaminess. Where I live in the southwest US is beautiful too but it's a huge, yawning beauty rather than a cosy blanket kind. Perhaps it's because I am not as familiar with the legends of the Southwest as I am of all of the English stories--or perhaps there is something in my DNA that calls me back to England. I really don't know what it is but all I know is that wherever I go in England I feel at "home."

Anyway, back to the Abbey:

This is the entryway to the Abbey grounds. In the 13th century, this would have been where the poor would come for alms.

The interior courtyard where the monks would have walked and a view of the cloisters.

I look at these old walls and think about the masons centuries ago who created these walls. Did they think of the past and the future as we do? Did they wonder how long their work would last? Did they take as much pride in their work as we are in awe of what they did?

The monks' dormitory.

Even monks like a bit of decoration; these tiles and others like them were found near where the monks would have had their beds. Not beside every bed though so either only certain monks could have decorations or perhaps other monks chose decorations that were less permanent?

The day room where they would copy out manuscripts.

The refectory.

Staircase leading to the refectory.

The refectory ceiling, another amazing piece of craftsmanship.

Looking out on the peaceful countryside.

The back of the Abbey.

In a tent outside of the Abbey, there was a display of more of the 13th century tiles that had been uncovered last century. Archaeologists are trying to prevent them from degrading; they've discovered that uncovering them has actually harmed the tiles and they are trying to figure out the best temperature and environment to keep them at so as to stop them from crumbling away.

After leaving the Abbey, I walked along the road beside this river to a farm where I had cake and a drink before heading back to Sheila's house.

Weds. Aug 5th, Camusdarrach Beach Walk

This walk was supposed to be, according to my Make Tracks map, a "stroll," an easy walk along the beaches from Glenancross to Traigh or, if I was feeling adventurous (which unfortunately I was) all the way to Arisaig. My map was right about the first part. My taxi driver friend drove me from Mallaig to Glenancross at about 9 a.m. and we agreed that I would phone her when I was ready to be picked up. I told her I planned to be in Arisaig by mid afternoon. And off I went.

The laminated instructions were very detailed and I progressed well along the beaches, enjoying the sunny day and meeting up with lots of people (and dogs) enjoying the August weather.

I watched this three-legged golden lab keep up with his black companions, enjoying the surf.

As you can see from the way these folks are dressed though, beautiful as the day turned out to be, it's still wise to have long sleeved shirts and long trousers, at least in the Highland mornings.

Although Morar's beaches don't sing, they are still that beautiful silvery color like Eigg's.

It only took a little over an hour, even with all the stops I made to enjoy the scenery--and the views of the small isles again--to reach Traigh Beach. The map gave me the alternative at this point to return to Mallaig via the golf course across the road from the beach or to extend my walk another two hours to Arisaig.

I looked at the folks playing golf, amazed that dogs tagged along on the course, and decided that I would continue on along the beaches to Arisaig. So turning my back on the golf course, I ventured down on the beaches once again.

It was shortly after meeting these folks that I began to find the hike difficult. I scrambled over the rocky outcroppings, looking for the best way around the coves. It was often difficult to find my footing and I don't have the greatest sense of balance. I knew that I was heading in the right general direction by keeping to the coast.

After watching this family of gulls for several minutes, the rocks became too difficult for me to clamber over any further and I made the decision to move farther inland.

The views were still magnificent but the trail was difficult to follow. Eventually, though, I encountered a large caravan park. Caravaning is very popular in the UK. Farmers lease their fields to caravaners; it's a way for them to pay for their farms as farming has become a difficult way to make a living across the UK. Many of the caravans I passed had TV dishes and looked like they had set up "home away from home" much like our RV folk do back in the US.

I became quite lost just past a large caravan park near a village called Back of Keppoch. My laminated map said that there would be several paths that would lead me to Arisaig. "Several" was the correct term but I didn't realize that, having left the beach paths because I was having difficulty navigating the rocks, I would plunge into deep woods. I walked for what seemed like ages, unsure whether I was heading in the right direction. I had my compass with me and so knew that I was heading south but "south" can encompass a LOT of miles and it would still be easy to miss a town completely if I went too far south and not enough east or west. I should have brought the more detailed orienteering map that Make Tracks provided but I didn't. I recommend to anyone reading this and thinking of doing something like this, DO bring the orienteering map and USE it!

Eventually I came through the woods to a deserted beach with what I thought was a large docking area. The beach was covered with kelp. And as I moved closer to the "dock" I realized it wasn't one dock but a series of rusty iron "tables." I think they might have been used for drying kelp but couldn't find anyone who knew what I was talking about when I returned to Mallaig later.

I tried to find my way along the beach but once again the trails led me into woods. After two hours of tripping over roots and rocks I risked climbing over an old broken stile that I feared would lead me into an angry farmer's field to encounter who knew what. But after a quarter mile I was very happy to see in the distance the pretty town of Arisaig. Feet aching and sweaty, I plodded into the town, down to the cafe by the harbor and rewarded my efforts with a delicious slice of victoria sponge cake and a large pot of herbal tea. I then called Mary the cab driver and she picked me up and delivered me back to Mrs. Watts.

A hot shower, a night's rest and in the very early morning, with the moon still shining, I bid farewell to Mallaig and boarded the train back down to England. It was a wonderful week's holiday!!

Tuesday, August 4th, Leaving Eigg for Mallaig

As I reflected on my trip to Eigg, what struck me was how wonderfully unspoiled and untouristy Eigg is. In speaking to the islanders, I've learned that they are struggling with how to move forward. They can't advertise Eigg to much for tourism because (1) the island can't sustain it and (2) it would spoil Eigg not only for themselves but also for those tourists who come to the islands to rediscover the simplicity of life, the adventure of it. So many tourist activities elsewhere are
"directed"--you go somewhere with someone, at someone else's timetable, you follow someone else's directions. All safe, all secure. But with Make Tracks you can follow their instructions or not follow them; it's completely up to you. Apart from the one hike on North Morar where I had to be at the harbor in time for the return ferry, I could hike as quickly or as slowly as I wanted. I could get lost, sweat and worry and then, relying on my own resources of compass and map, find my way back. I never thought of myself as an adventurer and yet when I think of how I devoured Nancy Drew mysteries and read Girls Own annuals and envied the adventure these fictional characters had I realize it was always deep inside of me. This time in the West Highlands has meant almost total freedom. No ads screaming at me to do this or that, to buy this or that. In Mallaig I chose whether to have dinner or not, whether to buy a sandwich for lunch or just snack on trail mix. On Eigg, Mairi Carr provided full board and her cooking was a delicious reward for miles and hours of walking. I occasionally saw people on my hike but we would pass each other by with a brief "hi, how are you doing" each concentrating on where we were heading.

There are no signs once you leave the pier and you have to know how the tracks work--i.e., bits of paint splodged on fence posts, rocks or sometimes on the track itself. As I've said before, it's easy for a city or town dweller to get confused between a people track or a sheep/cattle track. (That's true of the area around Maillaig as well though.) Only one tea shop down at the pier; no tea shop at the beautiful Singing Sands; just the Sands. Thank goodness.

The exception to my "solo hiking" was this morning. At breakfast Helen, of Helen and Barry the couple from Edinburgh, said she wanted to find the Cathedral and Massacre Caves. Barry wasn't up to it because of his crutches so I told her I'd come along with her and make one final attempt to find them. So off we went. Mairi had told us to take a different route than I'd taken the day before but as we toiled up the steep road it seemed we were walking away from the cliffs, not toward them, and I feared that we were lost again. We met a fellow just leaving his house and, when we asked him about the caves, he said that he and his collie would be happy to lead us to the right pathway.

He was very chatty, telling us that he reckoned that Beowulf (?) was actually set on Eigg and not in Norway. We hardly got a word in edgewise as he marched us down the hill toward the cliff. He left us at the gate leading down to Cathedral Cave with detailed instructions on how to find each. And he was spot on.

Cathedral Cave is larger and easier to find. It's so named because it was once used for Roman Catholic services when such services were banned in the 18th century.

I doubt that the cross that was inside the cave dated that far back but it made a nice touch. We had to be careful scrambling over the large rocks. This photo is deceptive as the flash illuminated the cave; it was much darker inside but not as dark as the Massacre Cave.

Even with John's detailed instructions, we had difficulty locating the mouth of Massacre Cave. It was a very narrow opening and even at 5'3" I had to stoop quite low and enter the cave almost at a crawl. I took this photo looking back at the opening. John had warned us that we would need some kind of torch to actually see anything and he was right about that as well. Helen had a very small torch that only gave off a weak, pinpoint light so I found myself groping my way along the cave wall and after only about 10' the atmosphere got to me and I told her I was going to turn back. And the history of Massacre Cave? Well in the 16th century, there were about 400 inhabitants on Eigg, mostly MacDonalds, who would periodically go over to Skye on raids. On one such raid they killed and wounded a group of MacLeods who days later set sail for Eigg seeking vengeance. The islanders, learning of the approaching MacLeods, hid in the cave, which is apparently very deep.

When the MacLeods landed, they met only one islander, an old woman who refused to tell them where the others were even though they burned her house and slew her animals. Frustrated, the MacLeods prepared to sail away. And this is where the islanders made their fatal error. Wondering if the MacLeods had left, they sent a scout out of the cave to climb up the cliff and take a look. It was winter and there was snow and the MacLeods, looking back from their boat, saw the scout clambering up the cliff from the cave. So they returned and, trapping the islanders in the cave, they built a large bonfire at this, as you can see, very narrow entrance. The smoke filled the cave and all of the islanders died. Except, I suppose, the old woman.

It is a very dark and difficult place. We both felt, standing in the dark with only the camera flash and Helen's fading torch to throw some light, a kind of sadness that still seemed to hang there. I, as a Campbell, also wondered why so much is made of the Glencoe massacre while few people, outside of those who visit Eigg, ever hear about this, far worse, massacre. I suppose it was because this was simple clan warfare as opposed to Glencoe which has come to be associated--I believe erroneously--with a violation of Highland hospitality. It was far more complicated than that.

At any rate, you can see from my relieved smile, that I was glad to head back to the cave opening.

We arrived back at the pier with about 20 minutes to spare before the ferry arrived to take us back to Mallaig. Some last photos of Eigg and the journey back to Mallaig:

The ferry stopped at Muck; a lovely-looking island. Perhaps I'll get there next year.

We saw seals on the rocks in the distance.

Goodbye small isles! And back to Mrs. Watts' for a good night's sleep, ready for my final hike tomorrow.