I am not really a “vacation” kind of guy. Maybe because, as someone who works in the tourism industry, I don’t have holidays to start with, or maybe because I am just a sedentary-minded person, but I rarely think about leaving town to go on long trips at all. However, now that I have become a traditional family man with a wife and a kid, I cannot simply spend all my days tumbling around town with tourists, especially in July when the day care closes. Our summer holidays would have to be spent somehow, and my wife devised a crafty and ambitious route, guaranteed to maximize entertainment and encounters with relatives while limiting costs: we would be taking a car, train, and boat journey to southern Scandinavia.
Taking our (electric) car from our isolated hometown of Tromsø at 69 degrees north, we crossed most of Finnish Lapland and fought through the worst mosquito infestation in a generation. We then took the night train to the Finnish capital region to meet up with friends and family. While we surely had a whole lot of fun down in southern Finland, eating my father in law’s fresh organic greens and goat milk, playing with cute farm animals, and visiting a bunch of impressive castles, I was especially looking forward to our visit of southern Sweden.
As both a scholar and a proponent of Old Norse religion, the southernmost region of Sweden, Skåne, always had an allure that my isolated Arctic abode simply could not match. While Tromsø and its surroundings has a fascinating history and is rich in ancient heritage, because this territory marks the northernmost border of medieval Scandinavian settlement, there simply is not much in terms of Viking-Age sites. Southern Scandinavia, on the other hand, is, according to most modern theories, the birthplace of north-Germanic/Scandinavian culture and civilization, and sites in the area abound.
When I asked some Heathen contacts online whether they knew of any interesting sites in the region, one of them bluntly answered that “you can’t step foot in southern Sweden without falling over Bronze Age burials, rock carvings, ship settings,” and so on. Braving the risks of stumbling upon some ancient grave site and grazing my knees, I started doing some research to find some local places of interest. Unbeknownst to me, I would end up getting much more than just a few brief gazes on Iron Age graves.
Upon arriving in Sweden, via the local booze/holiday ferry connecting Stockholm to Finland, we embarked on yet another night train journey, which despite the advanced age of our cabin and the torrid heat (27° Celsius/ 80° Fahrenheit), went relatively well. On the following morning, we were met on the steps of a small countryside train station by Hanne, my wife’s first cousin once removed, who proceeded to drive us to her summer cottage.
The golden fields of Skåne. Photo by the author.
While the ride was short, I was nevertheless served by some most impressive vistas, starting with a prehistoric megalithic tomb spotted right as we exited the village. We then proceeded to drive up a series of small hills wrapped in golden crops until we reached what looked like a centuries-old farmhouse in the middle of the fields. We quickly got out of the car and entered the venerable building, and then, just a few steps in, I was hit with a sudden feeling of peaceful nostalgia.
The house had this kind of “ancient” smell that is difficult to describe. Not the smell of dusty and moldy unkept houses, but that of a well-used living space that is filled to the brim with old stuff. Incidentally, as I began exploring the compound, I was met with just that: old wooden furniture affixed to the walls, homespun rugs covering the floor, garish bedsheets taken straight from the 80s, and a whole bunch of ancient comics, children’s books, boardgames, and toys.
The whole place exulted a kind of nonchalant safeness, a sort of profane sanctuary where weary travelers like ourselves can rest and regain strength surrounded by nothing but peace and pleasant memories. Talking to my wife, I realize that it is not the first time she has come here, and that she had actually spent many summers within these very walls when she was a kid. I immediately understood then why she insisted we take our daughter all the way down here.
Once I had unpacked our heavy bags I took another round prowling the house, and was soon taken back to old summertime memories of mine. While no one in our family had anything close to a summer cottage, I often spent time at the house of close family friends, in a small, tranquil town not too far from Paris.
While most of this family had migrated to the big city, the old matriarch still lived there. She was a Swedish-born author, artist, and translator, who had moved to France many decades ago. Her house, like that of my wife’s cousin, was filled to the brim with old, fascinating things, including, most notably, tons of books of Scandinavian children’s literature, most of which she had translated herself alongside her French-born husband. Amusingly enough, it was partially thanks to her translating, and then gifting me a bunch of Moomin books, that I was able to break the ice and get to know my wife many years later.
While I spent time daydreaming around the cottage, Hanne was hard at work. She brought us strong Nordic coffee, homemade baked goods, and an old folded-up paper map. With a pencil she stretched a few lines across a minuscule corner of the document. We are here, she tells me, and just a few kilometers away lies an old church, next to which stands a runestone. As my wife takes our daughter to bed for a well-deserved nap, Hanne takes her bicycle out of the shed, hands me the map, a helmet, and a bottle of water. In less time than it takes to recite the runes of the elder futhark, I am out adventuring.
The 12th century church in the morning sun. Photo by the author.
Once I have come up the slope under which the cottage stands, I start pedaling, the little folded-up map securely attached to the front basket. It is warm and the sun is shining, but I am close enough to the sea to be cooled off by a welcoming breeze.
Once I leave the dirt path that criss-crosses the fields, I come upon an asphalted road leading to a sleepy little hamlet. I take a quick look on my map to check where I am before biking onwards. The way is mostly flat, fenced by golden fields of wheat, oats, and canola. Before long, I spot a small church tower on the horizon and head that way. As I come close, I see a grayish-looking lump by the church’s fence. Here it is, the runestone.
Sundered into four pieces which were later used as building blocks for a small stone bridge, the runestone was reconstituted and re-erected in the 90s next to the church, a venerable building from the 12th century. While I am far from an expert in runes, I have learned enough Old Icelandic over the years to identify certain words. On the Swedish-language information plaque standing next to the stone, I read about a battle in Uppsala, the old seat of Heathen Swedish kings, the name of the carver, Saxe, and the man he wished to honor by erecting the stone: Åsbjörn.
Feverishly, I turn my head back and forth, trying to find a word or two to see which ways the writing should be read. It is not easy though, as Viking-Age runestones carry a phonetical rendition of Old Norse, itself somewhat removed from the more literary Medieval Icelandic I learned in college. After a minute or two, though, I spot the “r” rune, ᚱ (Raido), the easiest to identify, and then the “n” rune, ᚾ (Naudiz). Nearby, I see ᛒ (Berkanan). This is it – it must be Åsbjörn written here, or rather ᚨ ᛒᛁᚢᚱᚾ, with the ᛋ rune chipped off.
Good job, Saxe: more than a thousand years after he died, the memory of your pal is still alive and well.
Åsbjörn’s name carved and painted on the runestone. Photo by the author.
After successfully identifying the name of this warrior of old, I come back to the information plaque. It states that the mention of a battle in Uppsala, found in other runestones as well, might be a reference to the battle of Fyrisvellir, a semi-legendary encounter mentioned, among other places, in the Prose Edda. This battle is also famous among scholars of Old Norse religion for later accounts that introduce Thor and Odin to the event. According to the short narrative Styrbjarnar þáttr Svíakappa, found in the 14th century saga compilation Flayteyarbók, sometime in the late 10th century, Styrbjörn, claimant to the throne of Sweden, led an army to overthrow the king Eiríkr.
Styrbjörn, a Thorsman, made offerings to his deity, who reacted negatively, prophesying doom. At the same time, Eiríkr, an Odinsman, entered the sanctuary of the Allfather, offering himself to him if he were to win the battle. Soon after, a mysterious be-hatted man came to him, offering him a staff, which he were to cast over the enemy ranks, all of whom would thus be offered to Odin. When the battle broke out, Eiríkr did just that, and everyone in Styrbjörn’s host became blinded, before succumbing to a landslide.
While it is impossible to be sure that such a battle truly took place, or even that the Åsbjörn mentioned on the runestone took part in it, it nevertheless makes for a harrowing story of interconnectedness blending history and myth, the physical realm and the spiritual one. Here I am, in 2022, after having crossed all of Scandinavia, looking at a weatherbeaten, half-broken rock, upon which, a thousand years ago, someone toiled for days on end so that the memory of his dear friend, and the world he lived in, would survive.
The runestone in situ. Photo by the author.
Standing by the stone, I felt like there and then, in this little corner of rural Sweden, I was witnessing and experiencing the bonds that link everyone and everything. There was the broken link between Styrbjörn and Eiríkr, the links they had forged with their deities, the link that bound their retainers to them, and the links these warriors had with their families and loved ones. Even beyond the ancient reaches of the Viking Age, I realized the role I had in forging and maintaining those bonds.
By coming down here to Skåne, my wife did not just want to take a vacation to the seaside, but mostly came to cultivate the bonds that linked her and her family to the land, and her relatives who have come to inhabit it. It is a process that takes time, energy, and willingness to invest oneself emotionally, and temporally, and yet it is a process that must be engaged with, if one wishes to live not as a hermit, but a member of a community, religious or otherwise.
By being invited here, I was being invited to forge my own bonds with them, and with the land, and traveling around the golden fields of the Swedish countryside, searching for runestones and other heritage sites was just part of the process. Idly leafing through old Bamse comics, helping Hanne making dinner, or just conversing late into the evening was just as important in developing these bonds than my more antiquarian antics. It all played a part in reinforcing us, both as individuals, as members of a family, a community, and custodians of the land.
Somehow, it all brought a sense of peace of mind that I had not felt in a very, very long time. Once I spent most of that day biking in the fields and the hills of Skåne, spotting old churches, heritage sites, and castles, I eventually turned back to the old farmhouse in the wheat-fields. It did not feel strange to be here. It did not feel foreign. It felt like home, a home away from home, a place I would return to one day, to forge and uphold bonds, old and new, feel united with the people, with the land, and maybe find a couple more runestones while I was at it.
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