Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 17

June 22, 2023, 5:20 p.m. (10:20 p.m. body time)

We’re at JFK in New York after an uneventful flight from London. Blessedly, Ann was discharged yesterday from the hospital in Exeter in time for us to drive to London and have a late dinner at the airport hotel. Also, thankfully, there was no drama in returning the car, other than some shaming about the scratches I’d put on the new car’s wheel covers (we’ll see how that plays out with the “zero deductible” insurance I’d purchased).

From the martyrdom in Salisbury in 1556 (a site we missed).

Our last two days in Britain didn’t go the way we’d have hoped to conclude this wonderful trip. I know international hospital tourism certainly wasn’t on Ann’s bucket list. I’m also sorry not to have visited the site of John Spicer’s burning at the stake in 1556, one of three Salisbury martyrs. And I would have enjoyed going to Romsey, south of Salisbury, to see a couple of churches related to the Holts, ancestors on my father’s side who left for Massachusetts in 1635, during the Puritan emigration. But over the past two weeks, we’ve seen so much, and experienced so much together, that the details of sites we missed don’t really matter. What matters is that Ann is well enough to come home.

So, what stands out from these past two weeks of family pilgrimage? Certain moments were especially meaningful: finding a McLagan tombstone at Old Scone Cemetery outside Perth; finding a Gibson tombstone at Govan Old Church in Glasgow; dining in the jail where Ann’s Owen ancestor was imprisoned for being a Quaker; visiting churches where other ancestors were baptized, married, and buried. As an exercise in family connectedness, standing in these places mattered. Thirty or 40 years ago, when my mother was spending so much of her time researching and recording our family’s history, I wasn’t mature enough to transcend my own story and appreciate my connections with the people from whom I’d come. There were names I knew, and some of those names came with stories my mother told – a great-great-grandmother, Nellie Josephine Crane Reading, who threw a washtub of water on a cougar in the Utah mountains; another great-great-grandmother, Mary Beaufort Lively Brundage, who threw her first suitor’s engagement ring down the privy when he went on a trip without telling her. But being in the places from which family members emigrated helped me ask better questions about my history and theirs: What made them uproot their lives, and leave behind the known and familiar, and take the huge risk to start new lives in places they could barely imagine? And along with that: What would I have done then, and what risks would I be willing to take now to provide a better life for those who follow me?

Then, of course, there’s the spiritual pilgrimage that’s been running alongside the path of family history. Where and how has God shown up over these past two weeks (and in the months of preparation beforehand)? Among the things I’d missed in my mother’s stories was the extent to which my ancestors’ journeys were journeys of faith. The converging and diverging streams of British religious history were raging rivers for the individuals who struggled to navigate them day to day. John Spicer and Thomas Spicer being burned at the stake during Bloody Mary’s Protestant purge – a mason and a laborer, respectively, willing to die rather than recant their faith – may be the most dramatic examples. But I think about Ann’s Quaker ancestor Robert Owen being imprisoned in Wales before he and his family helped settle Pennsylvania … or my Brundage and Hubbard ancestors leaving as part of the Puritan exodus during the Stuarts’ strident imposition of Anglicanism … or my Reading and Brown ancestors finding spiritual renewal with the Latter-Day Saints and heading to the Promised Land in the Utah desert. For each, the presence of God in their lives charted their course.

At the cathedral in Glasgow, we heard a sermon from the diocesan staff member for mission, whose job boils down to working with even very small congregations to identify the thing about which they’re most passionate, and then helping them discern how to live out that mission in their own contexts. It’s a great example of the truth in my family’s emigration stories, too – that trusting in the call and power of God is what it takes to accomplish astonishing things. We – or at least I – tend to intellectualize that truth too readily, reticent to let the Spirit act through us to change our lives and the lives of those around us. Remember, even while the Mormons were a small and mistrusted band, driven out of one American community after another, they were sending missionaries to England and filling thousands there with the reality of God’s Spirit empowering their lives. Too often, I think, we let ourselves play small as Jesus’ followers called to bring the Spirit to life in the world. But the stories of those who’ve gone before – and the stories of those who hear and heed the call in unlikely settings today – remind us that God has so much more in mind for us than simply heavenly rest.

 

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 16

Wednesday, June 21, 2023, 9:45 a.m.

Well, so much for leaving Exeter and heading to Salisbury. Instead, we’re still in Exeter, in the hospital. Yesterday morning, Ann experienced a urinary blockage resulting from bleeding and blood clots. The ER visit (inevitably) led to admission, bladder flushing, etc. At this point (9:45 a.m. the next day) we’re awaiting a transfusion to deal with anemia and praying for normal-enough urinary function to be able to drive to London this afternoon and get on a plane tomorrow morning.

In the category of silver linings, I’m grateful this happened in Exeter, a city with a real hospital, rather than on the long rural drive from Scotland to Wales. And if our greatest worry now is having to reschedule the flight and a hotel stay … that’s a First-World problem if ever there was one.

Nothing like hospital tourism....

The experience at Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital has been good, overall – very attentive care from the nursing staff, as well as understanding from the physicians about our desired treatment outcome being “good enough to travel.” The major difference from what we’d expect in the States relates to privacy. Patients are in wards in the old-school sense, six people in a large room with the beds separated by drapes. Of course, you can hear the other patients’ conversations with their doctors and nurses (“Did we collect some poo yesterday?”), as well as the other patients’ TV shows, phone conversations, and late-night moaning. Another difference relates to the facility itself: English buildings typically don’t have air conditioning, and hospitals are no exception. So, the windows are open to let in fresh air, allowing you to hear the pigeons and seagulls on the ledge outside. (Given that they don’t use screened windows here, the pigeons could hop right in if they wanted to.) But the quality that matters most has been excellent: The caregivers are present, attentive, and compassionate to a fault (“Do you mind if I remove the catheter now, Luv?”). Again, more than anything else, I’m grateful.

Wednesday, June 21, 2023, 4 p.m.

We’re free! Now, on to London and tomorrow’s flight.

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 15

Tuesday, June 20, 2023, 6:30 a.m.

Yesterday’s visits included a few family-related stops (one accidentally), a visit to a stunning cathedral, and some gift-shop browsing along the Exeter quayside.

Above: The Turks Head Pub, where we stayed, adjacent to the
historic Guildhall. Below: The Guildhall's ceremonial doors. 

Our lodging in Exeter – a room over the Turks Head Pub, apparently one of Dickens' favorite watering holes – abuts the historic Guildhall, claimed to be England’s municipal building with the longest continuous use. A guildhall has been located on this site since 1160, and the present structure dates from about 1470, with exterior stonework from about 1590. Along with the age, the stone exterior and the beautiful oak roof and paneling inside would be impressive enough. But in the great chamber, where the Exeter City Council still meets, there are shields circling the room, honoring trade guilds and noteworthy individuals across the city’s history. One of those shields remembers a John Spicer, who served five years as mayor of Exeter in the 1350s. He was one of four Spicer mayors but apparently the only one to earn a spot on the wall. I haven’t been able to trace direct descent from these mayors, but my family genealogy asserts that my ancestor Peter Spicer, who came to Connecticut around 1660, was part of this line.

The western doors of Exeter Cathedral.

Just around the corner from the Guildhall is Exeter’s inspiring cathedral. A great example of Gothic architecture, the building – inside and out – lifts your eyes and your heart to heaven. The conquering Normans began building a church on this site in 1144. In the late 1300s, the cathedral’s leadership took most of that church down and replaced it with this Gothic wonder — as a priest here said, it must have been a tremendous change from “the way it had always been” for those first 150 years. The building features the longest continuous medieval stone vaulted ceiling in the world. But unfortunately, another change — the addition of giant ranks of Darth Vader-esque organ pipes in the early 1700s — now disrupts the view, so you have to use your imagination to appreciate the length of the vaulted ceiling. But with the pipes facing the congregation, the sound must be incredible. 

Organ pipes dominating the space.

(Sorry about the construction noise in the video.)

A jaunty knight enjoying the 
sunshine on the cathedral square.

You also have to use your imagination when looking at the cathedral’s exterior and its scores of statues. Unlike many British churches, whose statues were demolished in the Reformation, Exeter Cathedral’s company of saints is largely intact today. Many have quite a bit of character, sitting there cross-legged and taking in the beauty of the morning along with the folks having a coffee on the square. Apparently, the statues were even more lifelike hundreds of years ago, when they were painted in living color.

Monument to Thomas Spicer
in St. Martin's Church in Exeter. 

In addition, we stopped into St. Martin’s Church across the square from Exeter Cathedral and found monuments honoring alderman Thomas Spicer and his widowed daughter, Judith Wakeman. St. Martin’s is tucked somewhat awkwardly into a tight corner leading onto the square, up against a Tudor-era pub. Given that the church dates to 1065, the pub was the late-arriving neighbor.

A beautiful afternoon at the quayside.

In the afternoon, we relaxed at the quayside along the Exe River, checking out the local gift shops. This area was Exeter’s commercial center back in the day, with about a quarter of all English woolen goods going through Exeter’s customs house, as well as coal, tobacco, tea, wine, and spirits. Today, the pace is much more laid back, with tourists and locals enjoying a coffee or a pint and watching the ducks on the river.

Finally, looking for an EV charging station, I found myself passing by Spicer Road, so I took the obligatory selfie at the sign. Back home, Ann and I have a shot of Kathryn, Dan, and me standing by the same sign from our trip in 2008. That earlier photo is better, with cute kids and less gray hair.

This morning, we’ll be leaving Exeter and heading east to Salisbury – our last stop on this pilgrim journey.

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 14

The cathedral in
Bury St. Edmunds.

Monday, June 19, 2023

We celebrated Father’s Day yesterday morning with a card that Ann had very kindly brought from the States. It turns out she could have picked up one here; the Brits do Father’s Day, too. It seemed fitting on that day to remember not just fathers but ancestors more generally. But, ironically, Ann and I didn’t make yesterday’s planned family-history stop for two reasons.

The beautiful organ and ceilings at Bury St. Edmunds. 

First, we chose to stay later in Bury St. Edmunds so we could attend the cathedral’s late-morning Choral Eucharist. As it happened, there was a baptism, too, a wonderful celebration of the ongoing life of this ancient worshiping community (with maybe 25 kids present for children’s chapel and to observe the baptism). An abbey and a parish church were founded there in the 1000s, and a “new” chancel and nave were added to the church in the 1400s and 1500s, respectively. Then, in the 20^th century, the church became the new diocesan cathedral, and the building was extended with a new chancel and sanctuary. Enjoy the view:

A present-day home in the ruins
of Bury St. Edmunds Abbey.

The cathedral is on the grounds of what was Bury St. Edmunds Abbey, a dominating presence physically, spiritually, and politically. It was one of the largest and grandest of England’s monastic sites, enclosing much of what’s now the city’s lively downtown. But the abbey’s power and wealth spurred conflict with local residents because the monks could call the economic shots. The locals rioted in 1327, damaging the gated entryway and stealing 10,000 sheep and other valuables. Then, when Henry VIII abolished the monasteries and ransacked this abbey in 1539, the glorious structure was quarried for other buildings and reduced to rough walls. Today, those ancient interior structures have been converted into homes and offices, and ruins add character to what’s now a park on the abbey grounds. Anyway, yesterday’s worship at the cathedral was joyful, and the music was grand. The only downside was a later departure than we’d planned. 

That, and a long stop to recharge the car during our drive across the breadth of England, kept us from visiting Marshfield, north of Bath. Marshfield was the home of Edward Spicer, born in 1596, who most likely was either the immigrant ancestor, or the father of the immigrant ancestor, for that part of my family. The Marshfield parish register includes several “Spycer” baptisms, marriages, and burials, including Edward Spycer’s baptism in 1596. A visit to Marshfield would have been interesting, but experience shows that headstones from the 1600s don’t reveal much after 400 years of rain; so, I doubt we’d have found any Spycer stones. Still, I would have enjoyed seeing the building, the second church on that site, dating from 1470.

Spicer Genealogy, published 1911.

The Spicers’ emigration story isn’t as clear as others that my mother or I have found. Here are some possibilities. Edward and his wife, Mary Parker Spicer, were married in England and emigrated to Virginia, most likely in 1643. They had a son, Peter, born in Jamestown in 1644 (Mary must have been significantly younger than Edward). One source says Mary died not long afterward, in 1650. Eventually, son Peter made his way to New London, Connecticut, sometime between 1656 and 1666 and married Mary Busecot in 1670 in Rhode Island. The official Spicer Genealogy (1911) and its supplement (1923) traces the Spicers in the U.S. from this couple. But other online genealogical sources offer other possibilities. Peter may have been born to an Edward Spicer and Jane Darby Spicer in Jamestown in 1640. Or, another source says Peter himself was an immigrant, arriving in Virginia in 1656.

Among the shields in the Exeter Guildhall. 

But we’ve now come to Exeter because Spicer Genealogy says Peter was descended from Spicers who lived and led in Exeter for centuries (though the book doesn’t detail Peter’s relationship to these forebears). Spicers served in Exeter’s local government, and four of them served as lord mayor, remembered today with shields on the wall in the Exeter Guild Hall. Exeter’s streets include Spicer Road, named for someone of some status, at least. Given all that, the Spicers must have been “king’s men” through the years. I don’t know what spurred Edward (or maybe Peter) to leave behind centuries of local leadership and risk the uncertainties of the New World. But if Edward and Mary left in 1643, that would have been during the English Civil War, as Puritan Parliamentarians fought for power with Anglican Royalists. If Peter himself came in 1656, that would have been during the Protectorate, when Cromwell and the Parliamentarians were ruling. Either way, one could imagine that a family of “king’s men” might see wisdom in skedaddling across the sea – especially since they came to join the Anglican planters in Virginia rather than the Puritans in Massachusetts. But, on the other hand, Peter went north as an adult to establish himself in Connecticut, a Puritan colony. So, maybe the Spicer’s religious and political story is a bit of a both/and.

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 13

Sunday, June 18, 2023, 7:30 a.m.

Ann in the cathedral rose garden in Bury St. Edmunds. 

We spent yesterday exploring Suffolk and East Anglia, using lovely Bury St. Edmunds as our base. Ann (bless her) stayed in the rental and did laundry in the morning while I drove to two nearby towns, Rattlesden and Mendlesham. Both had ancient churches with impressive bell towers and gravestones so worn by the elements that dates even from the 1800s are hard to read. My ancestors left these communities in the early 1600s, so I didn’t find any family markers. But both churches were interesting, and one especially might shine a light onto the exodus of my relatives in the Brundage family.

Angels ascending the rafters at
St. Nicholas', Rattlesden.

Rattlesden was the hometown of my ancestor John Brundish, born in 1593. His father, Thomas, served as warden of St. Nicholas’ Church in Rattlesden three times, as well as being the local constable at one point. Clearly, the Brundishes were on the Anglican/royal “team” in this period of increasing conflict with the Calvinist Puritans and other dissenters. In 1621, John Brundish married Rachel Hubbard from Mendlesham. She and her parents, James and Naomi, apparently leaned Puritan. In the early 1600s, that difference meant much more than we might imagine.

Because of her outstanding political skills, Queen Elizabeth I had navigated the troubled waters of the English Reformation, working with the Puritan-leaning reformers in the Church and the government. With her death in 1603, King James VI of Scotland became King James I of England, bringing with him both dubious political skills and a firm belief in the divine right of kings. The religious reformers in Parliament were intent on increasing their political power at the king’s expense. This religious and political turbulence only got worse when James’ son Charles I came to the throne, even more intransigent than his father. Charles I and William Laud (Bishop of London and then Archbishop of Canterbury) tried to wipe out the Puritans, with Church representatives traveling to each diocese to examine the clergy about their theology and obedience to mandated ritual in worship. Clergy who refused to follow Laud’s high liturgical practice were jailed and tortured; and citizens who gathered for unapproved religious meetings also faced harsh penalties.

The American Chapel at St. Nicholas',
Rattlesden. The American 447th Bomber
Group was based in Rattlesden in WWII.

So, as we all learned in elementary school, dissenters from the English Church began leaving for the New World, beginning with those on the Mayflower in 1620. By the end of the English Civil War, and the execution of Charles I, in 1649, about 30,000 Puritans had emigrated. Among them were John and Rachel Brundish, who made the journey to Massachusetts sometime between 1632 and 1635. They settled in Connecticut, where John worked as a tanner. He is thought to have committed suicide in 1639, but I don’t know the story behind that. Three of Rachel’s siblings also left England for Massachusetts in the 1630s.

Saints past and present preparing for mass
at St. Mary the Virgin, Mendlesham.

One of the parishes I visited yesterday offers some clues about the challenges of living as an English Puritan in the times of King Charles’ and Archbishop Laud’s persecution. Even before you step into the church of St. Mary the Virgin in Mendlesham, you know this is an Anglo-Catholic parish. The signboard tells of daily celebrations of “mass,” as well as regular times for the sacrament of reconciliation (confession). Also posted is a one-pager for newcomers explaining that St. Mary’s celebrates Holy Communion daily, in which members receive Jesus’ own Body and Blood. It then asserts that the Church of England did not participate in the Protestant movement as did churches on the continent and that the Book of Common Prayer never includes the word “Reformation.” And at the church door is a long sign listing the vicars of Mendlesham, beginning in 1085 and continuing to Fr. Philip Thomas Gray, who came in 1974 and has the same name as the current vicar (it could be the same priest, now in his 49^th year of service, or perhaps his son). 

The vicars of Mendlesham, 
going back to 1085.

Parishes with a thousand years of history tend to have deep-set spiritual and liturgical DNA, so my guess is that St. Mary’s in Mendlesham has been a strong Anglo-Catholic presence for a long, long time now. If you were a Puritan in Mendlesham in the early 1600s, and this was your one option for state-approved worship, and you faced legal sanction, even imprisonment and torture, for gathering and worshiping differently, being seen as a traitor to the Crown – well, perhaps the hard journey to Massachusetts would feel like the best option.

The helmet of King Raedwald,
buried with him in his
great ship in the field.

In the afternoon, Ann and I visited Sutton Hoo, the site of Anglo-Saxon burial mounds from about 625. King Raedwald, leader of the tribes in East Anglia, had died, and he was sent on his journey to meet the gods in a huge ship, buried in a mound and filled with weapons, tokens of office, prized possessions, and food (including lamb chops). Along with Raedwald’ s buried ship, Sutton Hoo includes 17 other burial mounds, which have been robbed from time to time across the centuries. But graverobbers missed the treasures in two of the mounds, including the Great Ship Burial, and archaeologists excavated the mounds starting in 1939. The video below shows the field of burial mounds in the English countryside. (Sutton Hoo is also the inspiration for the British comedy Detectorists, which is absolutely worth streaming.)

Monument to Thomas Spicer, one of three
Protestant martyrs in Beccles in 1556.

Unfortunately, because I spent time recharging the car, we didn’t get to drive to nearby Beccles. There, in May of 1556, three Protestants were burned at the stake during the purges of the Roman Catholic Queen Mary, and among them was Thomas Spicer, a laborer. The three were imprisoned for refusing to conform to Roman Catholic practice, tried for heresy, and burned in the Beccles marketplace, reportedly praising God as the flames grew. That’s all I know about Thomas (from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs), and I can’t connect him directly to the Edward Spicer who most likely was the immigrant ancestor on that branch of my family tree. Still, like the martyr John Spicer in Salisbury, also burned at the stake in 1556 for being a Protestant, Thomas offers a stunning model of commitment to his faith. And he makes me wonder how far I’d go walking in his footsteps today. 

This morning, we’ll worship at St. Edmundsbury Cathedral before driving off to southwest England to pick up the story of the Spicer immigrant ancestor(s).

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 12

The ruins of Kenilworth Castle
(the oldest section is on the right).

Saturday, June 17, 2023

We enjoyed some historical sightseeing yesterday at Kenilworth Castle in the West Midlands. King Henry I gave the land to his chamberlain and treasurer, who set aside part of it for a castle and grounds and part for an Augustinian priory. The oldest of the buildings dates from the 1120s, with later additions by King John (of Magna Carta infamy) in the early 1200s, John of Gaunt in the 1370s, and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, in the 1570s – a new wing for his queen and paramour, Elizabeth I. (Much to Dudley’s chagrin, not even this gift earned him a royal marriage.) 

The view Queen Elizabeth I enjoyed
from her apartments at Kenilworth Castle
(imagine glass in the windows and the tower complete). 

The once-stunning structures now stand in ruins, casualties of the English Civil War (1642 to 1649). Puritan/Parliamentarian forces took Kenilworth early in the conflict, though no significant action happened there. But at the war’s end, the victorious Parliamentary forces “slighted” (intentionally damaged) Kenilworth Castle to keep anyone from using it to overthrow them. Ironically, Oliver Cromwell’s authoritarianism did that trick instead, leading Parliament to restore the hated House of Stuart in 1660 as the least bad option. Over the centuries, the castle’s structures were mined for building materials for other projects, leaving the ruins that inspired Sir Walter Scott’s Victorian novel about Elizabeth I and Dudley, as well as many visitors, then and now. We had a beautiful day to enjoy the history and the formal gardens, as well as lunch in the Tudors’ repurposed horse barn.

St. Mary's in Cubbington.

Before leaving the West Midlands, we made one more stop trying to track down my Reading ancestors who were among the thousands of English people converting to Mormonism in the 1840s and 1850s. We visited Cubbington, where Annie Brown Reading was baptized (the first time) in 1835. Unfortunately, the church door was locked, so we couldn’t see the inside. Also unfortunately, we didn’t find any family headstones in the lovely churchyard. Still, it’s been wonderful to spend a little time in these towns of my ancestors (Bubbenhall, Kenilworth, Leamington, Cubbington) and imagine how the Latter-Day Saints spread their good news. Apparently, they were quite good at using the apostolic model – showing up, leveraging existing relationships, sharing their stories authentically, and embodying the kind of passion for God that draws others to want that relationship for themselves. That’s how the Mormon missionaries did their work – and with inspiring results. By 1877, half the Saints in Utah were of British origin; 45,000 converts had immigrated. 

The churchyard at St. Mary's, Cubbington.

Back to my ancestors’ small part of this story: Annie Brown’s family had converted in 1846. John Reading was rebaptized a Saint in 1853, and he married Annie in Leamington in 1856. They settled briefly in Bubbenhall before leaving for the U.S., probably in 1858. If that date is correct, Annie would have been pregnant during the voyage (they had a child in Utah in 1859), and they also brought a toddler with them on the long voyage to the new Promised Land. Eventually, more Browns and Readings converted and made the harrowing journey. Once in Utah, John Reading owned a nursery, and his sons worked for him. In those days of Mormon plural marriage, John also took a second wife, Annie Isom, in 1868. One wonders about the resulting complications, not the least of which being that the wives had the same first name….

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 11

The garden at our farm guest house.

Friday, June 16, 2023

We’ve come from Dolgellau, Wales, to the English villages of Leamington Spa, Bubbenhall, and Kenilworth in the West Midlands; and we’re staying at a farm just outside the village of Long Itchington, perhaps my favorite British place name ever. This is Warwickshire, home of Stratford-on-Avon and other Shakespeare sites, but we visited Stoneleigh Abbey in Kenilworth. 

Goose on patrol at Stoneleigh Abbey. 

Stoneleigh Abbey's history follows the pattern we’ve seen elsewhere. Cistercian monks founded a religious community here in the 1200s and managed to find success in worldly terms, too, producing wool for the area villages. Their success enabled them to build an impressive church, wool-production center, and living quarters; and things were good … until Henry VIII and the dissolution of the monasteries in the 1530s. Really, “ransacking” of the monasteries would be a better term. In Stoneleigh’s case, the king’s soldiers were given 10 days to demolish everything before they moved on to the next abbey, and the infrastructure at Stoneleigh was too great to let them get the job done. So, the soldiers broke what they could break, stole what they could carry, and left the rest behind. 

The 1346 gatehouse remaining from the abbey. 

The land and remaining buildings were given to a family supportive of the crown and later passed into the hands of the Leigh family. In the early 1700s, the present manor home was completed, looking much like the setting for Downton Abbey. In 1858, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited Stoneleigh, apparently choosing it because Stoneleigh had one of England’s first flush toilets, designed by plumber Thomas Crapper (really). I hope Victoria’s novel plumbing experience was worthwhile because it cost the family the modern equivalent of £9 million to prepare for her two-day visit, including having an entire set of China designed, produced, and then set on the shelf, never to be used again. The estate also helped form the writer Jane Austin, who was related to the Leighs and spent many months visiting the family, hearing about their social dramas, and making notes for later novels.

The 14th-century bell tower
at St. Giles' in Bubbenhall.

After lunch and a stroll through the gardens, we drove 15 minutes to St. Giles’ in Bubbenhall, begun in the late 1200s and still holding its own as a parish church. We came because of a family connection on my mother’s side. The immigrant ancestors here were John Reading and Mary Ann (Annie) Brown Reading. He was born in 1834 in Bubbenhall, and she was born in 1835, her family from Kenilworth. Annie was baptized as an infant and then re-baptized in 1846, when her family was converted to the religious movement sweeping the West Midlands at that time – the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. In the 1820s, Joseph Smith had found buried golden plates near Palmyra, New York, that he translated as the Book of Mormon. His band of followers moved west to Ohio in 1831, then to Missouri (including being driven out of Jackson County in 1833), and then to Nauvoo, Illinois, in 1839. It’s in this period – in 1837, years before Brigham Young led the Saints to what would become Utah – that the tiny movement showed astonishing foresight and faith by sending missionaries to England. And those missionaries had tremendous success. By 1842, there were 8,500 converts in England and 31,000 by 1850, more Mormons than in the United States at the same time. My ancestor John Reading was re-baptized a latter-day Saint in 1853, and he and Annie married in 1856. Two years later, they were on a ship to the States, with a toddler and another child on the way, joining a wagon train on the Mormon Trail to the City of Zion growing in the desert.

Bubbenhall churchwarden Craig Greenway,
an amazing steward of St. Giles'.

We searched the headstones in the well-tended Bubbenhall churchyard but didn’t find any Readings. Helping us with this task were the two St. Giles’ churchwardens, Craig Greenway and Sandra Hoffman. They were very kind to open the church for us on a Thursday afternoon and show us around. But their story of remarkable service only begins with this act of kindness for an emailing stranger. Craig and Sandra are leading their small parish, yoked with another local village church, after bidding farewell to their vicar of 23 years. Sandra, who is retired, was working in the churchyard when we arrived, cleaning and trimming around the graves. Craig – who works full-time, including two days a week in London – said he spends four hours a week cutting grass and maintaining the grounds and the building. He spends another 10 hours a week serving as church administrator and warden – arranging clergy coverage, producing worship leaflets, running parish committee meetings, representing St. Giles’ at diocesan meetings, and tending to the sundry other tasks of the church’s life. That has included maintaining a full slate of weekly worship – including Eucharist, Matins, and Evensong – in this congregation with typically 10 to 15 on a Sunday morning. For Craig, keeping worship going in Bubbenhall is a passion. We also talked about ways St. Giles’ is seeking to connect with the Bubbenhall community, and Craig noted the hiking trail that runs by the church and its ancient bell tower. He said he keeps the church doors open when he’s there and invites the walkers and hikers to enter, rest, and pray. Like our small churches in the Diocese of West Missouri, St. Giles’ can make it, and grow stronger, because of the fierce discipleship of quiet saints like Craig and Sandra.

Decorative boss at St. Giles'.

So, even though I didn’t find any family headstones, I found something better in Bubbenhall: The body of Christ in the persons of Craig and Sandra, welcoming the stranger, connecting with their neighbors, and worshiping God with deep faith.

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 10

Thursday, June 15, 2023, 6:15 a.m.

We’re up early this morning as we leave Wales and head to England’s west Midlands. Yesterday, we spent much of our time in awe of both human achievement and the majesty of God’s creation surrounding us.

The imposing entrance of Caernarfon Castle.

We drove an hour or so to Caernarfon, on the Welsh coast, to see Caernarfon Castle, a stunning 13^th-century fortress built to help England’s King Edward I secure his new lands in what had been the Welsh nation. The castle now is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, if for no other reason than it looks like every castle you saw in your mind’s eye as a child. Its walls and battlements still dominate Caernarfon, and visitors can climb and explore it to a greater extent than most ancient sites. Like great cathedrals, the castle gives you a new appreciation for the people who actually did the work of designing and building such monumental structures centuries ago. I can’t imagine doing that now, much less at a time when your tools were being forged by the blacksmith onsite. 

The massive defenses of Caernarfon.

Politically, Caernarfon offers a moment for reflection, too. Looking at the castle, I would have imagined the great walls and towers were there to secure the coastline, protecting it from invaders. I suppose that’s true, to some extent. But King Edward I built his castle here to secure his hold on the Welsh land he’d invaded, asserting royal authority to keep the people from taking their land back. Caernarfon Castle is like the forts of the American West (Fort Smith, Fort Scott, Fort Leavenworth, etc.), an outpost of territorial expansion rather than defense.

It's really windy going up Yr Wyddfa.

In the afternoon, we rode a narrow-gauge railroad up Mt. Snowdown, or Yr Wyddfa, to take in the ruggedly beautiful Welsh countryside of Snowdonia National Park. On British maps, areas like this are charmingly noted as “Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty,” and this one lives up to the billing. Ascending the mountain, you see hundreds of sheep grazing on the meager greenery that clings to the shallow soil, as well as wildflowers (mainly foxglove, Ann tells me) growing out of the rocks. And the vistas are breathtaking. Yr Wyddfa is only 3,560 feet, and one of our seatmates on the train asked whether we don’t have much more impressive mountains in the States. Yes, indeed, our mountains are much taller, but each area of outstanding natural beauty shows God’s hand in its own way.

The fireplace at Dolgellau prison,
once heating the whole ground floor.

To close out yesterday’s story of Ann’s immigrant ancestors, Robert and Jane Owen: We didn’t find the jail where he’d been held in Caernarfon (the “old” jail is from 1868, and Robert was imprisoned in Caernarfon in 1660). But here’s how their story played out. Robert was released from his five and a half years in the Dolgellau jail in 1680, and his family was part of the group of Welsh Quakers who bought tracts of the royal land grant made to William Penn in what would become Pennsylvania. In 1684, Robert and Jane, along with one son and several servants, sailed on the Vine of Liverpool to the new colony, where Robert had a commission awaiting him as a justice of the peace. Two years later, a larger migration of Welsh Quakers would take place, with Penn setting aside part of his grant for a Welsh Quaker settlement that came to be known as the Welsh Tract. Today, the map of that area, west of Philadelphia, shows many Welsh place names. Unfortunately for the Owens, Robert died within a year of arriving and didn’t witness the influx of his neighbors that began in 1686.

The flag of Wales flying over Caernarfon.

Imagine the faith it took to make that journey, starting your life over again in an unknown place with no guarantees other than adversity. It would have taken all the resolute conviction Quakers came to be known for. And along the same lines, you see signs of the Welsh independent spirit asserting itself today even as part of the United Kingdom. Like the Scots, the Welsh have a National Parliament. The road signs are in Welsh first, and then in English. BBC and ITV have Welsh channels on local cable. And it’s the flag of the Welsh red dragon that flies over Caernarfon Castle now.

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 9

Wednesday, June 14, 6:30 a.m.

Not a bad morning view from the cottage outside Dolgellau.

I’m sitting outside our cottage near Dolgellau, in mid-Wales, with the summer sun already well up. Had I realized just how peaceful and beautiful this place would be, I might have spent a week in Wales, not just a couple of nights.

Yesterday was almost all about driving. It’s quite a haul from Glasgow to Wales anyway, and the cumulative hour and a half to charge the car made a long day even longer. But I’m tremendously grateful we found charging stations in unfamiliar locations that would take my credit card, navigated the British highway system with no problems, and actually made our way out of one roadside stop that we had to circumnavigate twice before finding the exit.

I'm glad I wasn't wearing this wool coat. 

The drive itself (other than the traffic around Manchester – and thank God we weren’t driving there the day before, when the Man City footballers were having their championship parade) deserves a mention just because the Scottish, English, and Welsh countryside is so beautiful. The grazing sheep separated by stone fences certainly add to the charm. I felt badly for the sheep, languishing in wool coats in the 80-degree sun and lining up along the stone walls to find a bit of cool shade. But once we came to Wales, beautiful gave way to breathtaking. Today, we’ll take a train much of the way up Mt. Snowden, or Yr Wyddfa, as well as seeing the historic castle at Caernarfon, and the forecast is more beautiful sunshine (sorry, sheep).

A Spencer stone at Bury St. Mary, 
part of what paves the church courtyard.

Along the way yesterday, we stopped briefly at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Bury St. Mary, now a suburb northwest of Manchester. James Spencer – another immigrant ancestor on my mother’s father’s side – was baptized there in 1730. He married at some point, though the record on Ancestry.com isn’t clear. They came to the American colonies and had children in Turkeyfoot, Pennsylvania. Apparently, James served in the Talbot County, Maryland, militia before and during the Revolution; and he died in Somerset, Pennsylvania, in 1825. In St. Mary’s churchyard, I didn’t find his mother or father, but I did find other Spencers, likely relations. More noteworthy are the markers themselves, which at St. Mary’s are used as paving stones to create a plaza all around the church – hundreds of them laid side by side, like large bricks. Where the tombstone paving stops, the current churchyard begins, still used as the parish cemetery.

The former Dolgellau Prison, now a cute restaurant.

But our family-history surprise yesterday awaited us in Dolgellau. We’ve come here following some of Ann’s immigrant ancestors, Robert Owen and Jane Vaughan Owen. Their story is tied directly to English political and religious history. They were Puritans (or at least they sided with the Puritan Parliamentarians) in the English Civil War of 1642 to 1649. Once Parliament executed King Charles I and Oliver Cromwell was ruling as dictator, Robert served as a local justice of the peace and then governor near Dolgellau. But when the political tide turned, so did Robert and Jane’s fortunes. With the failure of military dictatorship in England, the royal house of Stuart was restored to power in 1660, as was the Church of England. The victorious Cavalier politicians and Anglican churchmen took the opportunity to squelch other religious expression, seeing worship by Presbyterians, Baptists, Puritans, Quakers, etc., as potential revolutionary meetings. Taking part in those gatherings could land you in jail … especially if you were either nonconforming clergy or part of the old revolutionary guard. And so it was that Robert Owen, and several other former commissioners, were jailed at Caernarfon (a royal stronghold on the coast) in 1660. He was released but joined the Quakers; and in 1661, he was among several imprisoned in Dolgellau for attending Quaker meetings and refusing to take the oaths of allegiance and supremacy. They were released 15 months later, after taking a loyalty oath. But in 1674, after more clandestine worship (often in the woods), Robert Owen was locked up in the Dolgellau jail for another five and a half years.

Dining where Ann's ancestor was imprisoned
for more than 5 years

Here was last night’s surprising connection to Robert Owen’s story: The Dolgellau jail is now a wonderful little restaurant, Y Sospan (Welsh for “the saucepan”), and we were blessed to enjoy a much better dinner there than the prison chow Robert ate for five and a half years. The setting has been preserved much as it was back in the 1600s, with Tudor timbers, the original fireplace and paving stones, and the prison door, now moved inside.

We’ll try to follow a few more of Robert Owens’ steps today at Caernarfon if we can find the jail, and I’ll share more of his story tomorrow.

The old prison door.

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 8

Tuesday, June 13, 2023, 5:35 p.m.

We’ve stopped at a McDonald’s in Wales (now, there’s a phrase I never thought I’d write) to charge up the car again as we make our way to Dolgellau (doll-GETH-leh), our stop for the next two nights. We left Glasgow about 9:15 this morning, and we’ve been heading south ever since. Other than hitting traffic on a motorway near Manchester, the drive has been smooth. Just long.

Some of the length has to do with stopping to charge the EV. I’m being more conservative than necessary, recharging twice today before now, whenever the “tank” reached about 60 percent. But in the vast countryside between Glasgow and Wales, I didn’t want to push my luck in finding charging stations that would take my card. Topping off that 40 percent takes about half an hour. It’s a good exercise in patience on a long journey.

Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Bury St. Mary's.

Along the way to Dolgellau, we took a slight detour to Bury St. Mary’s, once a village and now a suburb of Manchester. My ancestor who left there for the colonies was James Spencer, a relation on my mother’s side, who was born in Bury in 1730 and baptized at the local church, St. Mary’s. We stopped at the church for some photos and to look for family headstones (the church itself was closed today, unfortunately). We found some Spencers, though none from my Ancestry.com tree. They may well be part of the family, but I can’t prove it.

And now, the charge is complete, so we’re on the road again….

Family-History Pilgrimage: Day 7

 Monday, June 12, 2023, evening

The People's Palace, a museum of Glasgow's social history. 

Today, we were fully tourists but with a social-history mindset, at least for the morning. We visited the People’s Palace, a small museum of the lives and experience of typical Glaswegians. In the 1800s, Glasgow was rivaling Manchester and Edinburgh to be considered Britain’s second city, with a population of 1 million … and all the associated costs of rapid population growth in the industrial age. As in Edinburgh, people lived on top of each other; and Glasgow became known as the city of tenements. If you’ve read much about immigrants on New York’s lower east side, you know something about tenement conditions; and the harsh realities of tenement life in Glasgow were longer-lasting, with displays in the museum depicting harsh conditions here just 30 or 40 years ago. One display described nine to 12 people living in a 3- by 5-foot space in the late 1800s. Picture that. It takes overcrowding to a whole new level.

Life in the Glasgow tenements.

In the category of family history, that image helps me appreciate what motivated the emigrants who made their ways from Scotland’s cities to the United States, Canada, or Australia. Alexander Gibson – my forebear who came to the U.S. with his wife, Ann, in 1851 – was a grocer in Glasgow, so they likely weren’t living at the bottom rungs of poverty. Still, being a grocer in that day probably meant having a pushcart and standing out in the Scottish rain, hoping you could eke out a living between what you had to pay the farmers and what the tenement-dwellers could afford to pay you. Even though the Church of England wasn’t shoving Anglicanism down Scottish throats in the mid-1850s, the economic pressures led the “huddled masses” of Scotland, and so many other places, to endure what must have been unbelievably hard journeys in those crowded ships – as well as whatever it took for people like Alexander and Ann to get from the East Coast to places like Perry County, Illinois. Of course, this immigrant story wasn’t horrifying and unjust, like the stories of people stolen from their homes, brought here in chains, and enslaved. And we who descend from European immigrants have to acknowledge the reality that the land where our forebears settled was stolen from the people who were there first. Still, at the level of individuals risking everything they had to build a better life, I have tremendous respect for my ancestors’ courage and hope – as well as grief for others enslaved and dispossessed.

Another emigrant narrative we learned at the People’s Palace was about “transportation” – people convicted of crimes and sentenced to removal to British colonies, especially Georgia and Australia. I’d known about that, but there was a twist on the practice in Glasgow. Apparently, as the immigrant population in Australia increased, the proportion of men was very high. So, many of the women in Glasgow prisons, typically serving time for crimes such as theft, indebtedness, and prostitution, were resentenced and shipped off to Australia to even out the gender balance.

Glasgow's outstanding Burrell Collection.

In the afternoon, we went to see the Burrell Collection, a world-class museum of art and antiquities in a lovely park setting just south of Glasgow. As it happened, among those visiting with us that day were judges from a national British museum competition; the Burrell is a finalist for this annual honor. The collection belonged to Sir William Burrell, a Victorian/Georgian shipbuilder, shipping magnate, and investor who competed with the likes of William Randolph Hearst to acquire other nations’ stolen treasurers at auction. It’s worth pausing to name the immorality of the acquisition process. But – or, and – it leaves the people of Glasgow today with an astonishing collection of medieval European stained glass, sculpture, painting, and textiles, as well as treasures from Asia and the ancient Near East. When you think of cities that house the world’s great museums, Glasgow probably isn’t the first to come to mind. But this city of tenements has a true gem in its backyard.