Dream Village of the Viking Lore

Dream Village of the Viking Lore

I never imagined the darkness of this wooden house when I first dreamed myself here; in this night now of being here I never expected such a dread as there is – frozen to the edge of a bench bed. No sleep. No waking. No listening. I know the sounds are there and I know which beings reside in my mind.

It is morning. I am spinning from the bed and bouncing towards the new light. Hrimfaxi’s dew wetting my feet as I drop clothes down to the waist and drench myself in the mountain’s waters. They well back up naturally from this man-drilled hole. Dark depths echo in the torrent I bathe with. I am awake in this ancient life force like I never have been in wakefulness. Beings sent me these feelings and I am braver in a day.

I shall leave the embrace of being a Viking in the Viking hut in this Viking market in this Viking village in this Viking history. Leave the sense of becoming for a while and go dress up as a person. Adrian is going fishing, a strange mix I have planned of this dream in this moment. Not being a fisher before I have planned yes, for in the store back in the real Scarborough was a telescopic rod and reel which would fit in a suitcase easily; the collection of additions life-collected by my brother-in-law who has neither never fished either are with me in this adventure too. With thanks to him I pick up my knapsack.

I have walked this riverside path of the steep-walled fjord before in a realer reality and in this there was more light then than in imagined semi-anxious realities of now. Then I had walked high from the surface along cliff edges and looked down. There was a ripple in a circle as if a fish had jumped, this was a powerful ring however, it had a white water wave as a wall, ever growing across the waters, until the whole circular wave was as wide as the wide river itself. There was something large down there. There was somewhere very deep where something lived and breathed. There was a very real creature in here.

I headed there now, if one looks back at this point they see along the line of the slender river with its clearer shallower waters that feeds these deeps that there in this world and not so is the serpent being. It drifts in and out and weaves in and among and looks at me from its slow journey down wall-side way and knows I recall its visitation to my mind. When a winged serpent speaks inside your brain you recall well its words that I would be safe, safe within my very real fear; well-deserved fear would serve me well but I should not yield to it for I would return from my adventures with success in my heart. “Go young soul,” the wyrm bellows, “Go hunting deep.”

So it was that modern man me journeyed some way from sight of dwellings, away for sounds of morning, away from this dreamed up reality of Viking worlds and before anything of man could sail its large journey up these fjord waters I had them all to myself – and it was fearful.

Others have clambered down this narrow rocky cutting to be closer to the waters and others had seen the depths. I was in timelessness and sat upon a rock.

I decided to dredge-fish, this was a term I probably had dreamt up, but I wanted something big. I telescoped out my compact fishing rod for the first time and the line spun up along its length as it stretched and hung there ready. I drew out quite a length and fixed a sizable lead weight to the line. Then at the very end I tied a lure; a large plum creature of rubber with its curled barbed teeth of hooks – sizeable indeed. I was after something large. Something fat. For I had myself to feed and I had people to greet and welcome. For serpent whispers had foretold that I would return.

I held on to this prediction for the fears of my imagination were welling up from before time and threatening to become real for me.

I cast. There was a dull thrum as if Nidhogg’s entourage were driving the air with their wings. Ploop. The line was far from me and it drilled down. When I felt that it was at mid-depth I started to steadily wind. The strong weight held the line at this depth and the lure was moving.

There was movement, there was impeding darkness, it was a gloom of age and ancientness not of anything of difference between day or night. This was a thickening of the air a density of existence and I was engulfed.

Substantial silhouettes were forming in the drowning flow and things were coming up towards me. I felt a presence behind me. Huge stretched high-eared shapes were mixing around each other and lankily looking down towards me in awareness. Live stone was thumping the path and filling all senses. They were right behind me. The water broke.

Mantatee creatures were milling in the water, filling all space. In my mind they were climbing and changing as they rose out. Bellowing painfully to the ears and opening toothed maws these Draugen-beings were filling my awareness. The stone things pressed from behind. There was one short moment of life left to me in which both sides considered their actions and their reactions to each other when snap the rod twitched suddenly and dove downwards. Another reality of dream was with us; the catching of the fat thing from the depths.

I was alone in my battle, and battle it was, I feared I may lose the rod, or the fish at least.

I had to let it swim, let the reel spin. I slowed it, held it, reeled it, let it spin. I slowed it, held it, reeled it, let it spin. As I tired I felt the beast did.

Oh how the air burst as it was filled with fish. The thoughts of the presence of other beings was dispelled and I was along in a battle of death.

It was round and tall and fat and golden green in a pale sheen. Even its exhausted flips in the air were almost enough to pull me from the rock. I flipped back and it shot over the rocks to land in a hollow a mere rock away from the waters. Thrashing it was. With line still attached I dripped my rod to the bank and hurriedly put on my strong thick gloves.

I grasp its gill. My Njardar knife is in my hand and I stab downwards, the neck is pieced, I twist down and sever the head.

As I got the thing I consider using these remains for deeper fishing bait to catch an eel to later jelly. I decide this is for another journey.

Partway back along the ledge I think to stop and hide the thing. I return in Viking garb and travel back to the village with it hanging over my shoulder.

There is a crowd round as I fillet. Half is hung over the fire to smoke and the other two fillets are in a pan to cook.

Will there be more I am asked from the crowd. I tell them, as I also tell you, that yes. The bees crowd around my head and whisper darkly that I must share with you all again and tell you of bees and beings and life in the dream of being a Viking in a Viking hut in a Viking village.

For it will come to pass.

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The Horned God and the Wild Hunt – Penultimate version – Join in while you can

 

The Horned God and the Wild Hunt – Penultimate version – Join in while you can – And a huge thank you to everyone who has taken part so far.

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Adrian Spendlow Magazine Edition

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Adrian Spendlow Magazine Edition

Snappy chat, looking back at the recent past, punchy parts, highlights and future happenings.

I will try to be light, I would like to be light for this is a time of tears; far too many tears. If we can try to spread love, be fair but resolute in justice, if we can embrace the lost and the forever injured. Cry those tears yes, as we look up for rainbows through the glistening. I wish to bathe the world in glorious light.

That being said, I am a right grump and a grumbler. You know what I say, ‘Things were different before the changes.’ Think about it and know it’s true.

So it must be time for a visit to OldMan Comics…northern bit.jpgthingsblessing the worldbelly.jpgfayre tradeWell I guess it is time I grabbed some elephant tusks.ivory 01Not that I really need any ivory or anythingivory 01 flipped

But soon there won’t be any elephants leftivory 02Now Britain has legalised the import of Ivory you got to grab it while you can

 

local news

I am getting used to the idea of local small town news. I had experience of it before I came here to live. Yonks back I said to a musician friend how the guy from the Scarborough paper loved my stuff, how he was really encouraging and used everything I sent him. Nah, said Dave, he is just desperate for stuff to fill the paper with.

When mum and dad first moved here we were taken with the headlines….

cat lost

Then the letters pages was filled with concern, wishing Esmie Smethick lots of love and luck with finding her cat.

Then the astounding headline.cat found.jpg

How pleased everyone in the letters page was.

 

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One highlight of recent weeks has been my feature on Quay Street here in Scarborough here in the vacinity of this laptop in fact. Local history from the rich word of mouth of locals.

This was the quay. Step across from our step and there is the Three Mariners Inn, and there is the harbour wall, the old harbour wall. The first of a few built as the land builds up here, (I think this is where everywhere else’s errosion turns up). As buildings on that side of the street are reworked there is the harbour. All around it are dug up limpet shells discarded from the top of the wall by long long ago fishermen.

No. 1 Salmon Steps, (the only house on Salmon Steps), was built circa 1780 so perhaps salmon were caught using limpets???

Quay Street the blog has proved immensely popular, not just as local history but around the world as interest is peeked in fishing, shipping and sea rescues.

There is a link at the foot of the page – go enjoy.

 

Which leads on nicely to Seafest.

I will be storytelling on West Pier Saturday and Sunday (22nd and 23rd July) 12 and 2 then moving on to things all a bit more grown up…

Seafest 2017 presents

of Soldiers and Sailors and things a bit fishy’ – A fascinating show

By storyteller Adrian Spendlow

For members and visitors of the (newly reopened) Royal British Legion Ex-Service People’s Social Club, Bar Street, Scarborough.

Sunday 23rd July 5 till 7 Admission free with charitable activities.

Tales of daring, endurance, superstition, adventure, personal experience and amazing history.

Long tails, Britain invaded, North Sea rescues, Victory by Butterfly, Strangeness in Scarborough and much much more.

Bob is Gramey

At last we can reveal the true identity of Bob, the companion of OldMan, yes he really in real life is; Gramey. Except Gramey isn’t called Gramey anymore because he says he doesn’t like it. so we still have no idea who he is.colour 04

Anyway, Gra and I have been working on a York Stars project empowering people through the arts.

As part of that we wrote I know someone who poems. This is the one I did.

I know someone who had spikey blue hair

I know someone who has a secret identity

I know someone who drinks sharks fin tea

I know someone who changed his name to be in a band

I know someone who has biscuit days, vegetable days and pie days

I know someone who watches blue bars

I know someone who cooks mushrooms all soggy

I know someone who records birds sounds to upset people

I know someone who likes Boney M

And that person is Gramey Smith

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At last the shopkeepers secret is revealed, enter the world of tiny things in the link at the foot to discover mighty (but miniature) revalations in this newly updated blog post.both

Stephen Fry was right.

And it might even be quite interesting too. A banana is a berry! A strawberry isnt a berry because the seeds are on the outside. A plum isnt a berry because it only has a stone or just one seed which doesn’t count and it hasnt got a shell. A berry has an outer shell (the skin) and contains seeds. So here at last, by random chance is the proof. All I did was bite. The banana did the splitting into three seeds all on its own. It sometimes happens; if you left a narna to dry there would be the three seeds. Here they are in full clarity…..

banana

Ales and Tales

I have produced two book length blogs over the last month or so. There is the collection of Skaldic writings I have written for my chieftain Georg, which are linked to below. There are also the results of the best job I ever had. It is often quite good to be paid to tell stories in pubs, it is even better to be paid to drink beer and listen to other people’s stories. What amazing stories they were. You don’t tell people in York pubs what to talk about, you sit and you listen, and you listen good.

(See below)

And the First Stage of a Publication0046 scooped

A mass of research has gone into this forthcoming online Graphic Novel: Doom of Zeus. The gripping tale of Earth Mother’s creatron of