During the early 19th Century, a class of ships called packets sailed all over the world, carrying goods and passengers at ever faster speeds. Eventually, ship designers made discoveries in hull configuration and rigging that made it possible to carry larger cargoes faster than anyone had thought possible. Thus were the clippers born, first with the special purpose of facilitating the tea trade to China, later servicing the gold fields of California and Australia. British and American ship builders competed in improving this technology, but the Americans always dominated. Their black hulled ships with snowy white clouds of sails were familiar sights all over the globe, until the steam ship inevitably replaced them.
Jane D. Lyon has produced an excellent introduction to the age of the clippers in The Great Clippers. It’s almost perfect of its type – not too long and very well-written. I learned things from this book and enjoyed reading it.
The Great Clippers requires no long review. I’m glad I bought it. Highly recommended.
June 13: Another stellar day. No matter how I worry, things seem to turn out well. This worries me.
Got up, joined Einar’s friend Tore Ravn for a drive north. First through winding, narrow roads to a lonely farm on the border between Rogaland and Hordaland. There was a stone on the bank of the inlet (we couldn’t get close and it was raining too hard to walk through tall grass anyway) where Raven-Floki, one of the discoverers of Iceland, made a sacrifice before setting out to sea. There were originally three stones there, but two have been removed over the centuries.
Raven-Floki’s stone.
At Førde, we viewed an ancient Thing site which has been made into a park by its owner.
The Law Rock at the Thing site at Forde.
Then we drove north (passing through a tunnel under a fjord) to Stord Island and Fitjar. I’d wanted to see Fitjar because I write about it in my work in progress, and hoped to describe it better. This was the royal farm where King Haakon the Good was born and died. During the reign of King Olaf Haraldsson, its steward was Aslak Fitjaskalle, Erling Skjalgsson’s cousin and murderer.
Einar and I with Haakon the Good at Fitjar.
Then to Moster, on Bomlø island. This is considered the place where the first Christian mass was held in Norway (not true – masses were held under Haakon the Good) under Olaf Trygvesson. Later, in 1024, Olaf Haraldsson would declare the first Christian law in Norway, which included a provision for the freeing of one thrall at every annual Thing. We got to walk through the Moster Amfi, an open-air theater where they do a play about Moster every year. Einar and Tore Ravn are both members of the acting company. A local historian gave us a short lecture. Some of it I didn’t know or had forgotten. They told us he once played Fridtjof Nansen in a film.
Moster Church.Tore Ravn, Einar, and our guide at the Moster Law Rock.
Then back to Einar’s apartment for a late lunch. Not long after, Cousin Anne Britt came to pick me up for my visit with family. First we went to her place and saw her mother. Anne Britt gave me a Constitution Day medallion, which I’ll be able to wear to future Constitution Day celebrations. Delighted to have it. Like Ibsen, I love wearing medals. Her mother gave me some family photos to keep.
Then to Cousin Anne Grethe’s house, for a cookout. Lots of relatives, lots of good food. A very nice time. Cousin Tor Bjørn gave me a very special gift – a nail from the Viking ship Draken Harald Fairhair, on whose construction crew he’d worked. He’d mounted it on a plaque for hanging on a wall. I’ll treasure that.
The Viking ship nail.
When I complained about trouble I’d had with the European sim card (French) I’d bought, Cousin Tor Bjørn – unknown to me – went out and bought me a Norwegian one, then walked me through setting it up. Much thanks to him.
June 12: An unexpectedly splendid day. I was rather glum as I got ready and Einar drove me to Avaldsnes. I was still feeling the walk (climb) in my legs, and the weather forecast predicted rain all day. However, it was only spitting a few drops when I arrived at the Viking Farm, and I sat on a rock to put on my Viking shoes and headed up to our camp. I was told I had fire duty again, but somewhat later in the day. I begged off with some guilt, as I’d been hoping to quit a little early and visit the Nordsjøveien History Center before it closed at 5:00. They said no problem, there were always plenty of volunteers.
The visitor turnout was low at that point. No doubt the weather was a major reason, but I’m also told Sunday is always lighter than Saturday, in terms of attendance.
I decided to get some good pictures with my old digital camera, and made a circuit of the place, snapping whatever seemed interesting. When the rain started coming down harder I ducked into the longhouse, where Kjell the musician was preparing to give his talk about the history of music again. This time I stayed to hear the whole thing. I was intrigued when, at one point, he delivered a farmer’s cattle call, “Kom baas.” I told him later that my father in Minnesota always called the cattle with “Come, boss.” Very likely transmitted directly through the generations from Karmøy.
By the time I got out of the longhouse again, the sun had come out and the day had brightened. More people had shown up to visit. The day had turned out all right after all.
I bought a hot dog for lunch, took some more pictures, and then went up to the camp to tell the leader goodbye. I explained I probably wouldn’t be participating as a Viking at Stavanger [editorial note: I changed my mind later]. Not that I hadn’t had a good time – it was great, and everyone was very cordial. But I’m old and tired, and my host had planned some other things.
An artistic installation on the sound, to give you an idea of what the place looked like when Viking ships sailed through.Another view of the path up to the Avaldsnes Church. I had plenty of time to contemplate it.
Then I trudged up to the History Center (taking my time. Happy to report I again didn’t have a heart attack). The History Center has been built since my last visit, and I’ve wanted to see it for a long time. It’s devoted to explaining how the North Way trade route formed the germ of Norway as a country, and the importance of Avaldsnes on that route. As I passed the Viking ships’ docks, I noted that some of them were gone now. When I reached the History Center, I bought a ticket and went in. It offers an interesting film about the history of Avaldsnes and its place in Norwegian history, and then you can walk the exhibition using a recorded guide via headphones (English available).
The center has an impressive exhibition, though I think if they want the English speaking tourist trade, they might think about making it a little more accessible. English signage is limited, and I had some trouble figuring out how the sequence of exhibits worked. Also, how to operate the earphone device. In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m old.
King Harald Fairhair and his Queen Gyda, as portrayed in the History Center.
Still, the center was on my bucket list, and I’ve seen it now.
As Einar was driving me home, crossing the Karmsund Bridge he noticed one of the Viking ships moving south through the sound by sail, headed for Stavanger. He did a quick U-turn in a roundabout and rushed to a spot he knew along the bank, where we were able to take photos of the ship as it passed by. I have never before seen a Viking ship actually under sail. That’s a bucket list item I hadn’t even realized I had.
I figured I’d need to download at least one extra book so I’d have reading material during my Norway trip. As it was, I didn’t have a lot of time for reading, and the book I was on, The Wake (reviewed yesterday) was pretty slow going. But I got to The Echo from the Past on my trip home. It was nice to read a book that featured places I’d visited just days before. But beyond that, this was a disappointing read.
Craig McMillan is an unemployed English journalist and hobby sailor. He’s running out of cash, so he’s interested when an acquaintance tells him he can earn a good amount of money transporting a passenger to Norway. The passenger plans to enter the country unofficially, but Craig is assured that he’s not carrying drugs or wanted by the police. Still, anyone who’s ever watched a Noir film knows that no good can come from a deal like this.
As it turns out, the weather in the North Sea turns tempestuous, and Craig wants to turn back. At that point his passenger, who’s been affable up till now, pulls a gun on him and tells him to sail on. They barely make it to Norway, and the passenger sails away in a rubber inflatable boat. Craig plans on staying in the country for a while and sightseeing, in order to establish his cover story for the police.
But then he learns that his passenger has turned up dead, his throat cut. Then a man with a gunshot wound shows up on his deck. Craig wants to take him to the hospital, but the man says no. He needs to get out of the country as soon as possible. He tells Craig an incredible story about Nazi gold and modern corruption and betrayal.
Craig’s investigative instincts are aroused, but he will find himself up against powerful and ruthless enemies.
The problem with The Echo from the Past was amateurish writing. The author talks too much. He tries to lay everything out for the reader, not trusting their intelligence. Take a sentence like: “It meant that there wouldn’t be any prying eyes sticking their noses in things that were of no concern to them.” Aside from the mixed metaphor, that sentence could be reduced by half and be much more effective. This is a book by someone who has never learned to prune his prose.
Also I found the ending implausible. I don’t recommend The Echo from the Past.
I might mention, however, that the language was pretty subdued. Not much profanity. I’ll say that in its defense.
From half way up the slope, looking up at St. Olav’s Church, Avaldsnes
June 11: The weather, which was supposed to be rainy, was not. In fact it was almost a perfect day for a Viking event. Cloudy skies, windy, cool, but warm where the sun shone. Much better for wearing Viking clothes than our usual summer weather in the Midwest.
Einar drove me to Avaldnes Church, the 13th Century stone church where my great-grandfather was baptized, and we walked together down the slope, along the shore and over the footbridge to Bukkøy. About half a mile in all, I’d guess, and much of it on hills. I have described the walk and climb to the church several times in my Erling books, but I’d forgotten how steep and high it is. (I wore my modern shoes to climb, with my Viking shoes in a backpack). I met the leader of Vikingklubben Karmøy, and she told me I’d been assigned to be the fire guard in the longhouse from 1:00 to 3:00. Another woman gave me more detailed instructions. Basically, keep kids out of the fire, close the door if you get more than 40 people inside, put fresh wood on the hearth when it burns low. I felt I could handle this.
The naust (boathouse) at Avaldsnes.
I wandered around to familiarize myself with the layout. Naust (boathouse, used as the great hall when they filmed the first season of Norsemen here). Longhouse. Some other smaller buildings, and lots of tents where reenactors camped. Many booths for merchandise sales. Chatted with Vikings. Met a couple Vikings from Poland. Saw the Viking ships at the docks. Finally 1:00 came around (13:00 in Europe) and I went in to do my job.
Inside the naust.The longhouse.
A musician was on duty there, telling stories, playing instruments (flute, jaw harp, lyre) for passers-through. We talked about various reenactment matters. Good guy. Then met Kjell, who set up his collection of ancient instruments so he could lecture at 2:00. He told me he was a former member of Wardruna, a famous Viking-period musical group, and has worked on the Vikings: Valhalla TV series and The Northman movie. I was impressed. Very tall fellow. He lectured on the history of music – I gave up trying on to keep excess people out in the end. My efforts were becoming disruptive.
Me and my cousin Edna in the longhouse.Two of the Viking ships docked at Bukkoy.
After that, I basically wandered about, or found stones to sit on and rest. I was tired and jet-lagged. People kept asking me for photos – I expect to show up in a beer ad one of these days. Finally called it quits at 5:00 p.m. and walked back up to the parking lot. That climb up to the church was as bad as I feared, but on the positive side I didn’t have a heart attack. Most strenuous thing I’ve done in years, though. Nodded off a couple times while Einar was driving me home. It was a good day – really a fine one, and better than my expectations. But I am tired, and rain is predicted tomorrow with considerable confidence.
“There’s nothing like getting married. It’s the only life, as Brigham Young and King Solomon would tell you, if they were still with us.”
When Lord Frederick Ickenham is inspired to humble his friend, barrister Sir Raymond Bastable, by knocking off his hat with a Brazil nut, he cannot know Bastable will go on to write the best-selling novel Cocktail Time in response. But then he does suggest the idea to him the next day in the vein of, “This would be the thing to do, but you could never do it, could you? Of course not.”
Bastable takes that suggestion as a gauntlet thrown and channels all of his anger about modern young men of mid-1950s English society into a novel bitterly entitled “Cocktail Time,” because that’s all today’s youth are good for. And, boy, does he put passion into it. He compares it to Forever Amber by Kathleen Winsor, a romance banned as pornography in fourteen U.S. states. If the voting public knew he had written a novel like this, his hopes for a political would be over, so it has to go out under a pseudonym.
As soon as you start hiding things in a Wodehouse novel, you’re in for trouble. Cocktail Time is the third of four books starring the fifth Earl of Ickenham, Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, or Pongo Twistleton’s Uncle Fred. It’s jolly fun. Will the world learn who really wrote Cocktail Time? Will Bastable’s sister Pheobe be able to do anything with her social blight of a son? Will Johnny Pearce, owner of Hammer Lodge, work out his money troubles, particularly being able to show his housekeeper the door? You’ll have to find out yourself.
It helps to have read more about Uncle Fred prior to this, because while this gently aged fellow takes up a slingshot (or “catapult” as the English say it) and knocks off the hat of a proud, old stuffed shirt he has long known in chapter one, without having read previous stories, you wouldn’t know how Uncle Fred is capable of impersonating just about any type of person alive and perhaps also parrots.
At the start of chapter eight, after introducing Carlisle, a con artist who would cause trouble for the weaker minded of the cast, Uncle Fred shares a cab with him on their way to the same residence, and I immediately felt the marvelous potential of the two professional impersonators together. The sparks flew.
now in this small holt by bacstune locan at the treows i was thincan that these frenc they wolde gif all these things other names. i was locan at an ac treow and i put my hand on its great stocc and i was thincan the ingengas will haf another name for this treow, it had seemed to me that this treow was anglisc as the ground it is grown from anglisc as we who is grown also from that ground. but if the frenc cums and tacs this land and gifs these treows sum frenc name they will not be the same treows no mor. it colde be that to erce this treow will be the same that it will haf the same leafs the same rind but to me it will be sum other thing that is not mine sum thing ingenga of what i can no longer spec
If the snippet above, from Paul Kingsnorth’s eccentric novel, The Wake, seems difficult to read, rest assured it’s supposed to be difficult. The author has made the decision to write in something like the language and orthography of an actual 11th Century document. This provides a sense of authenticity at the expense of comprehension. If you’ve studied a Germanic language, as I have, reading it will be a little easier. But I suppose any English reader can comprehend most of it with a little work.
Buccmaster of Holland (a place in England, not the Netherlands) is a stubborn and self-willed English peasant farmer at the time of the Norman conquest. He’s jealous of his status (a socman with three oxgangs), brooks no contradiction from his wife or sons, and holds tenaciously to the old, pre-Christian English heathenism.
When the wapontake is raised to recruit men to fight, first King Harald Hardrada in York, and later William the Conqueror in the south, he refuses to go himself, because he sees nothing in it for him. This leads, ultimately to the loss of everything he has. So he flees into the wilderness to be a “green man,” a rebel and an outlaw, to fight the invaders. He gathers a small group of fellow outcasts, and lords it over them as if he were the great man he believes himself to be. And all the while he is listening to the voices of the old gods, whose messages are infuriatingly vague.
Ultimately, we will learn Buccmaster’s secrets, which are ugly and tragic and make the story a rather different one from what he – and the reader – have believed it to be.
The Wake is a book that requires some wrestling, in various ways. I’m not sure if I’d go on to read the second book, but I already paid for the third one, so I guess I’d better see it through. The author has recently converted to Christianity, and it will be interesting to see what effect that pilgrimage may have had on this unusual trilogy.
The memorable blotkake served for me by Einar and Tore. I forgive the horns on the Viking, because trust me — if you tasted one of these cream cakes, you’d forgive pretty much anything.
June 10: Today and yesterday are but one long, long day in the Einsteinian continuum of eastward travel on a continental scale. I woke up yesterday, spent about nine hours in flight over three legs of the journey, and am now ensconced in the home of a new friend in Haugesund Norway, ready to face my first day playing Viking in actual Viking country, tomorrow morning.
A kindly friend drove me to the airport in Minneapolis. We had lunch before we left, and he patiently listened as I obsessed over every awful travel experience that would “probably” happen to me on this trip. I’m an obsessor, and travel is one of my triggers. The idea of being stranded in a foreign country is high on my list of consummations devoutly to be avoided.
But I made it to the airport despite my fears, put on my warrior face, and went to face the indignities of the baggage check-in and the security check. To my amazement, they didn’t reject my checked bag (just at the limit of allowable size), and nobody arrested me for having a big Viking knife inside it, either. I fumbled a bit over the security scan, but again I wasn’t detained by the authorities. I think they appreciated the laugh.
Then the long, long flight to Reykjavik. I had a book to read on my Amazon Fire, but even so, time seemed to have achieved a semi-viscous consistency. I calmed myself by worrying about swelling ankles and blood clots, as is the custom among old men.
My stopover in Reykjavik was short, but I did manage to lose my Amazon Fire. Didn’t notice it was gone till I was on the outbound plane, and you can’t exactly go back to search at that point. I’ve got my business card inside the hard cover, so maybe the finder will contact me. Or I could check the lost and found on my return trip. But let’s face it, Icelanders survived for centuries as ship wreckers. My Fire is probably just spare parts now. (Note the use of my favorite word, “probably.”) Fortunately, I could read on the Kindle app on my phone.
The flight to Norway was only a couple hours, and palpably shorter in subjective experience. The feeder flight I took to Haugesund from Oslo was almost too short to mention – except that they offered free snacks, which is pretty classy these days. (It was SAS. A free candy bar deserves a plug. Especially when it’s Freya, the Norwegian brand.) The Haugesund airport is not actually located in Haugesund, but across the sound on Karmøy island, which happens to be the home of my forefathers. The farm where my great-grandfather was born almost neighbors the airport. Einar Berdinessen and Tore Ravn Ottesen, my two new friends, met me with great fuss, then drove me to Einar’s apartment in Haugesund, where I’ll be staying for this festival. Supper was exquisite Norwegian smørbrød (open faced sandwiches), and for dessert a bløtkake (cream cake) of great delectability, with a cartoon of a Viking drawn on top.
The Five Foolish VirginsAnd now, six foolish virgins.
Later Einar gave me a car ride around Haugesund and Karmøy, where he grew up. (At Hinderaker farm, the likely spot where Asbjorn Selsbane paused to view the royal farm on his way to murder Thore Sel. If you’re a saga fan, you’ll know what I’m talking about. And I’m writing about the event in my Work in Progress.) We looked at some Bronze Age grave mounds on Karmøy, and the Five Foolish Virgins, an ancient array of standing stones. Legend says they are all that remains of five heathen girls who taunted St. Olaf, but they’re actually prehistoric.
All of this was balm to a worrier’s soul. The fears of the day had failed to come true (I’d never actually worried about losing the Amazon Fire), and the fuss these people made over me raised my spirits infinitely.
To crown all, Pres. Biden and the CDC announced that the rule requiring that Americans get a Covid test within 24 hours of flying home would be suspended on Sunday. That test was one of my major causes of worry all through the day.
“Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah” was written by the Isaac Watts of Wales, William Williams (1717-1791). He studied medicine, took up theology instead, became an Anglican Deacon and eventually a Calvinistic Methodist. He wrote in Welsh, so the Welsh translator Peter Williams (no relation) brought it into English. (Today, Williams is the third most common surname in Wales.)
The recording above is a modern arrangement, written by Jeremy Casella (guitar/vocals) and performed with Sandra McCracken (vocals), Paul Nelson (cello), Tim Nicholson (piano). This arrangement has held me over the years, driving home my need to release my fears to the Almighty.
1. Guide me, O thou great Jehovah, pilgrim through this barren land; I am weak, but thou art mighty; hold me with thy pow’rful hand; Bread of heaven, Bread of heaven, feed me ’til I want no more, feed me ’til I want no more.
2. Open now the crystal fountain, whence the healing stream doth flow; let the fire and cloudy pillar lead me all my journey through; strong Deliv’rer, strong Deliv’rer, be thou still my strength and shield, be thou still my strength and shield.
3. When I tread the verge of Jordan, bid my anxious fears subside; Death of death, and hell’s Destruction, land me safe on Canaan’s side; songs of praises, songs of praises I will ever give to thee, I will ever give to thee.
Oh, to finally say goodbye Bid my anxious fears, bid my anxious fears Land me safe on Canaan’s side Bid my anxious fears, bid my anxious fears, goodbye
Those hours that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell Will play the tyrants to the very same And that unfair which fairly doth excel; For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness everywhere. Then, were not summer’s distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
— Shakespeare’s Sonnet 5, on the fading beauty of summer and distilling it into perfume to preserve it. Applies to making jams and canning vegetables too.
Sovereignty: Faith from Staton Island writes maybe her personality or being a first-born or Chinese heritage or being a mom has trained her expect to serve others all the time. “At church events, standing in line at Panera, on elevator rides with strangers, reading an email, as long as another person is in my physical or mental space, I’m “on.” Unless I’m completely alone, and sometimes even when I am, I can’t help being vigilant for needs I may be called on to meet, sensitive to what demands my presence may similarly impose on others.”
So, it’s a great relief to her that God needs nothing from us. “That he who made all things, owns all things, and doesn’t use his creation to supply his needs. Rather, he is ever the gracious Giver, ever the joyful Benefactor in our relationship, the Source of life itself.”
“If he needs nothing from me, I can pray— really pray, not worrying about my anxiety or anger or foolishness swaying his judgment or burdening his mind. I don’t need to hedge my request in polite, calculated consideration of his limited supply of patience and help.” (via Keith Plummer)
Lincoln: “Where did Lincoln stand in the vanguard of antislavery and abolitionist advocates, and did he change his views over time?” What can we learn from the many African-American visitors Lincoln received in the White House? Bishop Daniel Alexander Payne of the African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church said, “President Lincoln received and conversed with me as though I had been one of his intimate acquaintances or one of his friendly neighbors.” (via Prufrock News)
Quaint Photos: “There’s a small hotel/ With a wishing well/ I wish that we were there together.” Here’s a photo essay of the Stockton, New Jersey hotel that inspired that Broadway song.
LOTR: You were asking yourself the other day what characters from The Lord of the Rings would order from a coffee shop, weren’t you? Kaitlyn has your answer. “Merry Brandybuck orders an Irish Cream Cold Brew with cold foam and cocoa powder sprinkled on top.”
Photo: Library (Allegretti Architects), Saint Joseph, Missouri. 1991. John Margolies Roadside America photograph archive (1972-2008), Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division.
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