I worked briefly at the National Archives as an apprentice bookbinder yonder, and I remember the genealogists that came trundling up the path from the metro every day, carrying heavy bags of notes. They would request church registres, dusty tomes, old newspapers and microfilm from the six floors below ground. A systematic, gargantuan, taxonomic task. I always thought I would never bother with it, because: back then you needed serious discipline and a keen sense of priority. You would only have a few sources of information available at one time, and flitting to and fro by fancy was not a good idea. Enter scene: the internet!

I started out with the names of my great grandmother, for the simple reason that they are unusual, and therefore easy to follow. The first name, Schjoldager, goes to Trondheim, and I find a small street there named after my great-great-great-grandfather or so. I thought that was rather swell, actually. He was a chimney- and chimney sweeper-inspector. Trondheim burned several times, so I guess this was a reasonably important job. At least not one they would give to the town drunk. Then Schjoldager morphs into Wolner/Wølner, and goes to about 1590, to Jacob Wølner who came to Norway from Freiberg, Germany to work as Overstiger at Kongsberg Silver Mines. Schjoldager stops there – or at least, I have not tried to find the rest of the Wølmers of Freiberg.

So, back to great grand-mamas second name, Figenschou. It goes to northern Norway, then to Bergen. There, a fellow by the name Elias Fiigenschow (b. ab. 1599, in Copenhagen), was apparently one of the best portrait painters in the country. His grandfather, Mathias Fugenshuh (1540) was a royal saddlemaker from Hindelang, Germany, and he had a coat of arms. I was chuffed. Hurrah, I thought. A proper, swirly family crest complete with animals, acantus and shields.

Elias married a Bloch, and to make a long story short, she hails from the old Norwegian noble families. Apart from having hilarious names such as Benkestokk, Smør (Butter), Smørhatt (Butterhat), Krukow, Bratt til Tomb, Ku til Tomb, Stangjarfylja, the crowning beauty is a governor on Iceland, Tore Bjørnsson Tinghatt (Tinghatt = thing (as in assembly) & hat). The source considers that the name Þinghottr may be because he “came to a thing (assembly) wearing a peculiar hat“. This strikes me as wild speculation, but hey – I love the thought, so I am sticking with the story:

Some time in the early 1200, one of my ancestors came to the assembly meeting wearing something amusing on his head. 

From another path of the Figenschou line, I find the unassuming name Hage. The line goes to Danefær, to not-so-unassuming Holstein, to von Reventlow, to Rantzau, Buchwald, Breide, and further to the positively pompous von Ahlefeldt, Limbek, Gyllenstierne, von Rugen. This may not say very much, but they are all nobility, knights, members of Council of the Realm. Wherever that may be. I was at this point swimming in more crests and coat of arms than I cared to, and it was clearly steering towards Scandinavian royalty. And if you get mixed into that, there is no way out. To cut a very very long story very short, I end up at various kings and queens of Sweden, Denmark; princesses from England, Poland, Italy and Russia. Some saints too. This is around year 1000, and if things are a little shady after the black death, it certainly gets foggy around 1000.

Of course, genealogy is not an exact science, and I am no professional. I am good at digging around on the internet though. Of course I may have gotten something wrong, but I would be in good company, among those hobby genealogists that came to the National Archives. I have tried to find at least two sources and confirmation of the lines, particularly the high royalty. They often had multiple wives, husbands, children out of wedlock left right and centre. The men might die early in war, the women in childbirth. I am learning much about “NN”, and the politics of marrying off your daughters for political reasons. And after all, we are all related, more or less. At least in Scandinavia it was not uncommon to send a child to a neighbouring lord or a relative to be brought up there. This was to ensure connections and peace, but it might also leave the origin of the child uncertain. At some point in history, the idea of “parent” may be biological, or may be whoever raised the child. See the confusion?

From Figenschou, I find three distinct lines that I have not followed through. One point to the old kings of Norway, and the two others both point to Charlemagne. I mean, what do you do then? Behind him is the Byzantine empire.

Once you have hitched your family tree to a royal line, there is little point in following it through: others have done that. The royal connections are amusing, but I do not feel any relation to them. My initial interest was to find amusing anecdotes such as the guy with the peculiar headgear, and the guy that “in a fit of anger did away with himself with a rope” (Johan Reinertsen Wormhuus, 1686, Bergen).

I have three more family lines to look at. They will not be so easy, but they might have good stories. And yes, I made a family tree. A work in progress.

more pictures here

melbourne, australia

I have fiddled with small motorboats with outboards and sailboats now and then, but with a few slightly dramatic exceptions it has been “sunday sailing”. The big thing has been in the back of my head for years, but a little apprehensive about my own seaworthiness, a little doubt about my own competence, finding a boat, finding a boat with good people… It sounds scary. You don’t want to be mid-atlantic, and then discover that the skipper is a suicidal maniac, and you incapacitated by seasickness with no will to live.

So when a friend of mine asked if I wanted to come along for a few days, from Germany to Denmark, there is of course only one answer; when?

When I arrived on the scene, the boat was moored on one of the million canals in Holland. “Think winter”, the capt’n said, I brought woolly beanie, gloves, raingear and a fleece. But that was the end of my pessimism. Wellies was not an option, I go barefoot longer than most. Long johns, no way. Sleepingbag for summer, a few CD’s, camera, iPad and phone fully charged.

To make a long, rather slow story short: stinking hot, glorious sunshine, deliciously sunburned, my geeky pasty skin-colour altered dramatic with outdoor days, water, wine, laughs and stories. Quaint dutch countryside (where ARE the dutch!? they say they live on top of each other, that the country is too small for six million people. I saw only quaint canal life).

The crew had a discussion about the all-important anchor dram. My argument is that it is a shot of something interesting when you leave the harbour; like a stirrup dram, before setting out. A toast for safe travels, good weather and see-you-around & godbless. Other opinions was that it is for safe arrivals. We compromised, and tried both solutions. It is important to listen to others on a small vessel, and find solutions everyone can be happy with :-)

It seems, that with time, limited access to internet, discussions take on a different hue. Small things, little wonders are discussed and ideas spun around without any real need for an answer, and the slow thought process uses different parts of the brain than when you can instantly check it out. Imagination. Flight.

Where we went is, in a way not important or ultimately interesting as such. There was very little wind, so a good deal of motoring, a good deal of canals, including the Kiel canal, that is one bizarre but ultimately boring stretch. When the locks opened in Kiel, we landed in the middle of the Kieler Woche. It was mad. Wind, sea, boats, ships everywhere: possibly the largest collection of strange vessels. Things with sails I have no name for, sails in colours, levels, floors, tiers. Vikings, phoenicians, medieval, warships, tall ships, small ships, one, two, three, four masts. Cannon ports, rowing ports, hanseatic. The smell of salt and sea wonderful, after the canal, and to see a horizon. Blue above and below.

Then there was wind, then there was sailing at last. I was a five year old in a toy shop. Happily ignorant, with a stupid grin on my face. We made our way north to Marstal. It was, admittedly, good to get out of Germany. I have had good times in Germany before, but that overhanging harbourmaster-system-ridden-small-kings-of-small-kingdoms.. well. I will not bore you with details. Besides, my German is rotten. We swapped the courtesy flag for the danish one, and toasted with aquavit when we crossed into danish waters.

It was bliss. It was fun. I got that bachelor thing out of my system and reset. Balm. It was peace, a good book, good people, laughs, stories, good food and a with a sound intake of alcohol. A little anecdote: in the lock of the Kieler canal, a dutch boat was moored to ours. We had a beer each. The dutch guy looks at us, and with slight disgust says “first beer today, yes?” or somesuch. An affirmative but untrue reply. Oh, those Norwegians! The sheer irresponsibility!

On the last leg, from Samsø to Ebeltoft, we had a little more wind. A 5-6 on Beaufords scale or thereabouts. I was happy as the proverbial pig in shit, perched in the cockpit.

Next time, I will bring a couple of good books, trival pursuit, a harmonica and sunscreen. Trust me on the sunscreen.

So now I am in Denmark, in my brothers house, reading books and blogs, dreaming. An old longing reawakened. Och. I guess I will have to try. Should you know of good people crossing to the Caribbean, please call…

To the capt’n and first fender: I am grateful to you for bringing me along.

About my seaworthiness, I still have no real idea.

(pictures here)

Riga is a short hop, skip & jump away, cheap tickets abound. Little weekend adventure.

graffiti

– best wall in town. I imagine some of those CCTVs filming the others ..

The ministry of Truth

we followed the cats through town

T on the coolest stairs ever.

graffiti & rubbish

shapes

hinges

hobbit country

In europe, the oldest fabrics are all dyed in shades of red. In fact, they say, in Roman times, the latin word for ‘coloured’ and ‘red’ were synonyms. Greeks and romans rarely dyed in blue, but the celts and germanic tribes did – using woad (that yellow plant you see all around temperate europe). Hence, blue was seen as primitive and barbaric.

Blue dye were used by the ancient people of the Middle East. They imported indigo from Asia and Africa. Indigo was used in biblical times, but it was expensive, and used only for the finest cloth, and for the wealthy. In europe, it was not used much, partly because it was expensive, but also because the colour was not … appreciated. It was also assosiated with the rabid celts and germanic people (Don’t say Braveheart – I detest that film. But I suppose the blue is correct).

In the bible, colour is rarely mentioned, but translations have made words that relate to luminosity, density, light and quality into colours. This of course, have ended in a lot of – to an atheist – delightful, snickering misunderstandings in the «life of Brian»-genre («it’s a sign, it’s a sign! he wants us all to remove our left shoe and follow!»)

The best bit is that in the english version (and others), words that describe force, richness, love, beauty, prestige, death, blood, fire etc are simply translated as «red». Excellent ground for misunderstandings… and I shall not even start on the jewish tsitsit shawl, Cleopatra’s sails or the temple of Solomon. Brilliant stories they are – go forth and research!

The high middle ages is a period we can begin to recognise the outlines of our own society and you should think that at least the painters would use blue. The sky is blue. We see the sea as blue (which it is not), but the painters in the high middle ages painted the sky white, red or gold. Emperors and nobles in the 9-10th century fancied Roman customs, and wore red, white and purple (purple is another story – an enormously fascinating one!). So ignored by nobles, blue was worn by pesants. And it would stay like that until the 12th century.. Blue was described by the rich and wealthy as sickening, unnatural, barbaric and ugly.
(is’t this exciting?!)

There are remarkably few references to blue in liturgy, placenames and people. Mr. Brown, Mr. Black, Mr White, Mr. Red. But no Mr. Blue. In latin, there are apparently no name with the root in ‘blue’ (this of course being contagious, the same goes for a lot of european languages).

Christianity: you would think that with all that emphasis on the heavens and all, christianity would expand blue. But no, the church stuck to the social and religious symbolisms already in place for regulating society.

Liturgical colours are discussed in sheaves and reams, and all sorts of colours are mentioned- except blue. Even though it is around in stained glass, enamel, paintings and in clothing. Blue is simply not part of the liturgical colour scheme or symbolism. Blue is not really entering the stage properly until the late 12th century… when blue turns up in stained glass windows, and then only as a backdrop to sacred figures.

Up until the 12th century, the virgin Mary was depicted in dark colours, to represent suffering and grief, and never in blue. Then something happens, and today, blue is associated with the virgins robes. A good example is the Wilton dipthych from 1395.
This combination of the cult of Mary and the idea of divine light, blue becomes wildly popular. (It is of course a long story, what happended – it involves an squillon church meetings, a split on the view on colours – «if colours are light, it is divine, the work of God. If colour is substance, it is the work of the deceiving devil»…. chromophobes versus chromophiles, with axes to grind, a God to justify them, and unproveable points to prove… Besides. Ultramarine pops up in Italy as the most expensive colouring. Money talks).

Colours change importance and associative power. Blue changed from being a non-colour to represent loyalty, truth, courage, and the fact that the king of France chose the well-known coat of arms: azure with golden fleur-de-lis dotted around (and yes, king Arthur pictured with a blue shield with three golden crowns) surely drove the popularity of blue.
And here’s a good piece of ancient gossip: in the thirteenth century, wealthy red dyers asked stained-glass artists to represent the devil as blue, hoping this would discredit the newly fashionable colour that was threatening their precious profits. From hardly any coats of arms having any blue in 1200, at the beginning of the 15th century one in three coats of arms had ‘azure’.

In fact, there was a fight whether the colours of the rainbow should include blue – and the fact that indigo is squeezed in between blue and violet, well, that seems to be more thanks to stubborn Newton than anything else.
…since then, blues popularity have, erm, sky-rocketed. Today, it’s topping the favourite colour scale.

And by the way- blue is not just blue…: Azure, baby blue, cerulean, cobalt, cornflower, dark blue, denim, Egyptian blue, electric blue, indigo, light blue, lapis lazuli, Maya blue, midnight blue, navy blue, periwinkle, Persian blue, powder blue, prussian blue, royal blue, sapphire, sky blue, steel blue, ultramarine…

And no, it’s not my favourite colour.

(Purple is facinating, though. Royal tyrian, slaves, snails and religious blunders.. and yellow – to us, a warning, the colour of hospital bin bags signifying harmful contagious waste; to the chinese, the colour of the emperor. Ah. it never ends.)

(all images either own or from wikipedia)

Michael Stone – exceptionally bad haircut and not-a-winning personality – stuck his nose out again, and this is a good wan!

Michael Stone is one of those who got an early release under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement following his life sentence for a triple murder. In 1988, he launched a gun and grenade attack on the republican funeral of three IRA members shot dead by the SAS in Gibraltar. This is his claim to fame. That, plus that some of the loyalist paramillitaries didn’t want him, as they saw him as unstable

….. hello…? This is from the mentally healthy and balanced boys in UVF, UFF. Gosh, maybe there is something wrong with the guy, do you think?!

Anyway. Said fruitcake heads for Stormont, pockets filled with home made goodies, and after he is stopped, claims his actions were ‘performance art’……uuhhhh, yes. Delightful! Brilliant move of the lawyer there. The bad-haircut-guy, who killed a couple of funeral-goers, and popped up regularly with insane – no, I mean reeeally insane – points of view… well. It doesn’t bear thinking of.

The other version is what he told the police: “My intention was to walk into the debating chamber and look for where Adams, McGuinness and Sinn Fein were sitting. I would have lobbed several nail bombs to cause confusion. I planned to stab Adams and McGuinness and cut their throats.”

During interview Stone said the prominent republicans were “war criminals” and that he just “can’t handle” republicans being in government.

Brilliant – maybe lock the guy up in the Maze again, and give him some of his favourite dope. But here’s the goodies:

The lawyer said Stone – who suffers severe arthritis and walks with a stick – spent two hours working his way through the Stormont grounds to the entrance of Parliament Buildings. After being trapped by a security guard in the doors of Stormont he lit a fuse on a bag he had and threw it into the hall, shouting that it was a bomb. The device never went off and is believed to have malfunctioned after having got damp during the torrential rain that fell that day.

If that isn’t hilarious! Bless the irish weather! And see a middle age freelance loyalist nutcase hobbling through the garden and the rain, pockets bursting with hardware. Too good.

Stone said he had been acting alone telling police: “I am a dissident loyalist freelance.”

Right!

As well as the attempted murder charges, Stone is charged with possessing home-made explosives and an imitation gun with intent.

WHAT? ‘An imitation gun with intent’!? Intent to what? wave threateningly? Use the imitation gun as an imitation gun? I do not miss northern ireland-speak. “acceptable level of violence”.

He is also charged with carrying a garrotte, three knives and an axe and assaulting staff members who trapped him in the revolving doors at Stormont.

Well, well. You cannot say he came empty handed.. well equipped, but lacking one crucial thing: a plan. You know. Sneaking past the guards-kind of plan. Handeling hardware, lighting fuses, guards, ax, garrotte, knives while finding somewhere to put the cane- kind of plan.

And maybe one major blunder: maybe the guards these days are not so lenient and blind towards loyalist paras.

The security forces are not what they used to be.

___________________________________________________________________________________

the RUC are called PSNI these days.

It was all in the Patten Commission … a feeling of change, perhaps. They have a nice little website with a picture of Belfast city hall with a speeding police car going towards it, with the charming caption:

«Making Northern Ireland Safer
FOR EVERYONE
Through Professional, Progressive Policing»

yes. … well. Where do people get the idea from, that putting Capital Initials In Every Word Is A Good Idea? It Makes Everything Look Like It Should Be Abbrevated, And Especially In Northern Ireland, Where Everything Has Some Sort Of Short Form, Three-Letter Combination or Acronym. Or that putting FOR EVERYONE in capital letters does anything else but attracting unwanted attention to that phrasing?

And what exactly is “progressive” policing, if it’s not supposed to mean “fair”…?
……and Ronnie Flanagan nowhere to be seen. Strange days.