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.