Day 43: NORTH TRIP--Preston, the Temple, and Liverpool's Docks

Church Sites

Leaving a beautiful place like Ambleside is made easier under stormy clouds and certain rain. We arrived in Preston coach station and met our tour guide, a young hip member who handed out headphones so he could talk to us clear down the block (a brilliant idea, given the traffic and terrific rain). I was in a dress and wellies again, girded only with a trenchcoat to ward off the certain rain--but I was optimistic.

Off we went into the square, where the first elders arrived to see people waving banners and brawling over the current political campaign. One of the banners read "Truth Will Prevail!" and the apostles liked it so much, they adopted it for the mission. Looking around, we saw museums, a medieval building turned jewelry shop which had been there since Shakespeare's day, Subway, some stands, a few planted trees in the flagstones, and the monstrous WWI memorial. Preston square was also President Hinckley's very first experience (first day) street-contacting, and he made an appearance several years ago to the same spot; our guide happened to be going around with a non-LDS group, and he promptly abandoned them after seeing the prophet on the steps of the museum. President Hinckley was able to relate some fantastic mission stories about serving in England, and how much he loved Preston.

We walked first to the home where the elders lived, and where (subsequently) Heber C. Kimball was attacked by a legion of devils for an hour and a half before the elders remembered they HAD the priesthood and cast them out. It's a back alley, blackened brick window built into the wall, and owned by someone who doesn't seem to be getting any offers (after the devils story got out, I wonder why). The Church is hoping to purchase the place and restore it to its original state.

Victorian England was the same in Preston as it was in London; poverty, STDs, poor sanitation, overseers taking advantage of their workers, children with no clothes, factories, etc; but I've never seen a place where the poor workers lived so close to the rich. On the next road, after the piddly mission home, was the "circus", the swank uppity class, whose doorsteps had a coal chute for the bath boilers below, a letter-box, potted plants, jewel-colored doors and silver or gold knockers. I wanted to stick my hand in a coal shute and leave a black handprint on the pristine white walls. Our guide told us that because the gap between rich and poor in the 1800s had grown so vast, many of the wealthy left Preston altogether, in favor of places like Bath, Brighton, or the countryside. Nobody liked living in the modern industrialization, not even those profiting.

We went down to the gardens where the Church has a few plaques commemorating the meetinghouses (no longer existant) where the elders taught thousands who later were baptized. A gentle mist began to fall as we descended to the riverbank, trying not to slip in the mud (that was me), and trying to hear what the guide was saying (his battery failed every sentence or so). At last we stood on the bridge. The River Ribble was pocked with heavy raindrops (someone passed me her umbrella, it turned out to be Andrea) and cruised calmly into the bay like a landslide of magnesium. This was where George Watts won his little footrace and was the first baptized in the British Isles, the first of thousands who later came to Salt Lake.


Walking through the streets of Downham like a slow-moving centipede of multicolored umbrella shells, it was amazing to me how many people had been prepared, through the poverty of the Victorian Period, through the Temperance movement, through a complete lack of church or some other cause, to listen to the elders and be baptized. There were 33,000 members in the UK, and only 11,000 in Utah before they all emigrated. They're the lifeblood and ancestry of the Church. It's been so cool to do family history and find out that eight of my ancestors all came from different places and are now buried in the Salt Lake Cemetery together.

From Preston to the States


The Preston temple was absolutely gorgeous--we all were full of Subway or McDonald's (we've arrived at the part where we've lost our adventurous appetites and could really go for an American cheeseburger like every single day...something with ketchup, right?) so we stood out front and took pictures, chatting with the temple patrons coming out. Some of the girls really went overboard--come on, guys, it's the temple. Sheesh.

It took a bit of time to get from Preston to Liverpool--I was so excited to stop and look, even if it would be just for a few minutes. We walked (marched) toward Mursey on cobbled roads, passing a monstrous anchor in front of the emigration museum, enthused that it wasn't raining. This is the place where Titanic was built and shoved off--my own ancestors had left on LDS-run ships to Boston, had stood on these same docks, waiting their turn for checks and ward assignments. The water was pale, steely grey; it sloshed up the docks under frigid wind. There was Ireland, right across the river. And there was the Atlantic, where every ship set sail--even those that fought the Spanish Armada. It makes you feel real small standing on such historic docks, having come full-circle from brave family members who landed in America to make better lives for themselves. I didn't waste time in a museum in Liverpool--I just stood there on the docks, soaking it all in.

Half the students were left on those docks, actually--their luggage was tossed out, and they gathered to discuss hostel plans, train tickets, and most importantly, the Magical Mystery Tour. We said goodbye and loaded again--I sat in the back with Katy, having left Julie and Emily in the Beatles' hometown. We drove back onto the highway on Penny Lane and past those strawberry fields. I didn't think those were real. If I had more money, staying in Liverpool would have been such a fun outing. Instead, Katy and I chilled on the coach and watched Northanger Abbey and My Boy Jack, drinking a grande hot chocolate (had to pee like Seabiscuit). I hope spending so much time on a bus won't wreck my back too permamently.