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South Yorkshire, a Serene Setting for a Homecoming
By Darby Patterson
Granddaughter of Frank Darby (Born 1896)

I grew up with my grandfather, a man whom I remember as handsome, sharply funny and almost
completely overwhelmed by the two other women in the house – his wife and their daughter, my mother.

Thus, it was natural that I would identify with him, standing strong against the dominating powers of the
other females in our tiny house in the Midwest. So, I listened intently to his tales of his childhood in
England, how he’d sailed across the ocean at the tender age of 15 and been sick the entire trip from being
conscribed to the deck below the waterline that was reserved for the cheapest tickets. And each time he
traveled back to England for a vacation, in my imagination I sailed with him and I mourned for the loss of my
only friend in the house. At the same time I eagerly awaited his return and the tiny costumed dolls he
brought me. I drank in the stories of the places he’d been. Birmingham, Silsden, Wolverhampton, Dudley –
all music to my ears.

I was 40-something when I finally made my way to England for the first time, though in my dreams I’d been
there repeatedly. Since I didn’t know any addresses or full names of relatives on the dozens of old black
and white photos I’d lovingly saved, I never met any of his family. It was enough just to be there. In fact, at
the end of my first nine hour flight I looked down upon the green island with its dense small forests and
meandering roads and waterways and thought, “It’s okay if I die now. I see England.” I was at peace with a
plane crash.

After other trips I finally found family through a genealogy website – genesreunited.com. I posted a plea and
a cousin, then two, emailed me. I was, of course, on my way back to England at the first opportunity.
Package of photos in hand, heart in my throat, my husband and I went to the southern reaches of Yorkshire
County. There I visited streets in towns that hadn’t changed for 100 years and I had the old photos to
prove it.



















I sat upon the wall of what is now a car park thinking of what was once home to my grandfather. Perhaps it
was there that his mother died in childbirth? We snapped photos of pavement.

Up the hill we continued, to find the row of houses on Bolton Road where he’d sat with his grandfather after
the death of his mother, Sarah. I had the photo of him in a little sailor suit, a sweet two-year-old, and the old
mustachioed man cupping a bent pipe who sat on the doorstop at his side. With the help of an elderly man
and constituent of Malcolm’s, we found it. We knocked on the door and inside the house was a young
couple who insisted we take all the photos we liked.




















Meandering roads led us out from Silsden to a nearby village where my cousin walked with purely English
fervor through a churchyard skirting the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. The grass was thick and tall, damp.
Gravestones old, eroded with time. A wind with a sharp edge picked up and Malcolm called me to a spot
near the back of the dark, centuries-old church. There in the late afternoon shadows, he extended his arm
and presented me with the gravesite of his grandfather, our common ancestor. We posed for a photo, both
holding back tears of gratitude for the gifts of time.
Although this niche of England doesn’t call legions
of tourists, it is nonetheless visually beautiful and
filled with charm.  This, and the fact that we traveled
in off-season November, made the visit to Shipley,
Bingley Silsden, and Skipton, - small towns that
dance around the Aire Valley and up to the
Yorkshire Dales – intensely personal.
We were fortunate indeed that our guide – and my
long lost cousin, Malcolm, – was a councillor in the
Yorkshire regional council, as was his wife, Val.
They guided me to destinations-of-the- heart with
warm enthusiasm.

In Silsden, where my grandfather was born 1898,
we roamed the winding streets of the town centre
and plotted out where the missing Number 12
Bridge Street might be.
The Aire Valley is a topography of color and terrain  that
distinguishes this less frequented part of England.
Photo by Darby Patterson
Back in the town centre we held up my postcard
from Grandpa’s legacy and and delighting
ducks and children. Only the signs on shops
were different and, of course, the cars and
people.

So often, when one holds a vision for many
years of how a place might be, reality is
disappointing. But Silsden was grander than I
imagined. Not black and white as in my photos,
but crisp autumn colors. Not silent but dancing
with music from the stream that runs through
the town and with chatter from a new generation
of people who call it home.
The River Aire tumbles through the town centre of
Silsden -  Photo by Darby Patterson
It was, of course, these intensely personal
moments that are etched into my memory. But
of Yorkshire County with its undulating
landscape and many hues of green and gold;
Tiny cottages ablaze with flowers even though
winter was approaching; grand estates and
humble pubs with their painted signs; the
smells of heartwarming hot pub food wafting
out the open, leaded windows; people who,
despite your funny accent, welcome you as an
old friend.

These are the timeless charms of England
and proof to me that, yes, we can go home
again.
At left, Frank, at about age two, and his grandfather
who took him in after the death of his mother. The sit
at the door of grandfather Joseph's house in Silsden.
Reprint permission: You are free to reprint this article with attribution to the of
your intent. Please do not use the photos with permission and attribution to Darby
Patterson. Contact us to let us know of your intent.
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