Wick (John More): Week 5 – 12 November

Come gather round, O best beloveds, for to hear the story of how the Norse gods of old stole the mead of poetry from the jötunn (or giant) Suttungr, and why there are so many bad poets in the world. Like so many Norse myths it’s a dark tale of deception, betrayal and murder; but unlike most of the other myths this one also involves bird poo. So let’s begin (and no, I’m not making this up, though you might wish I was by the time we reach the end).

Falmouth, MA Congregational Church

At the end of the war between the gods of Asgard (the Aesir) and the Vanir, the two sides made peace. This they sealed by each spitting into a vat (as you do). Out of all this spittle they created a man, whose name was Kvasir, who was full of wisdom. Kvasir roamed the world, dispensing wisdom and knowledge to all who asked. But one day Kvasir came to the hall of couple of very wicked dwarfs called Fjalar and Galar, who killed him and drained his blood into three great vessels. They mixed the blood with honey and brewed a magical mead, which turned anyone who drank it into a skald, or poet, and a scholar, but they kept it for themselves.

Cape Cod autumn colour

Fjalar and Galar (for whom now I think about it the word wicked seems insufficient, and perhaps serial killers would be more appropriate) next killed a jötunn called Gilling, and his wife. But Gilling’s son Suttungr came after them, and as compensation for the death of his parents took from the dwarfs the Óðrœrir, the mead of poetry. He also refused to share it with anyone, and hid it under a mountain where it was guarded by his daughter Gunnlod. Now, Odin, Allfather and ruler of the gods of Asgard, came to learn of all this. By various disguises he tricked his way into the mountain where he assumed a handsome shape and seduced Gunnlod, persuading her to let him sip of the mead so he could be inspired to sing her praises. But instead he drank it all and, transforming himself into an eagle, flew away. Suttungr heard Gunnlod’s lament and at once changed into another eagle and set off in hot pursuit. Odin barely reached the walls of Asgard ahead of Suttungr, and regurgitated the mead into vessels the other gods had prepared. Meanwhile the gods had built a great fire which they now caused to blaze up, and Suttungr, unable to stop in his flight, flew into the flames and was destroyed.

And that’s the tale of how the gods stole the mead of poetry—or almost. For Odin, as he was nearing the walls of Asgard and terrified at finding Suttungr so close on his tail, let squirt some drops of mead from his bottom, and these fell into Middle Earth, where we humans dwell. And that’s why, when you hear an exceptionally fine poet, you know that Odin has let him or her drink of the true mead of poetry; but if what you hear is doggerel, then the poet has only drunk of skáldfífla hlutr, or the “rhymester’s share”, which came from Odin’s behind…

Fireworks, Wick riverside

=============================

TECHNICAL STUFF

I was away last week on a training course, so I wasn’t sure how much knitting I’d get done. But I’m delighted to say that I have indeed reached the pattern. I’ll say more about this next week, and hopefully post a chart; for now I’ve just established the foundations, and it’s not really enough to make out the pattern clearly yet. As is my usual custom these days, I started the gussets four rows early by increasing a second purl stitch onto the existing purl “fake seam” stitch that divides back and front. It’s not necessary, but I’ve found it looks neater and makes the first knit stitch increase to start the gusset slightly easier.