My Way To Santiago de Compostela

(Translated from my book "Til kompost kan du bli" (Oslo, 2014) about a trip made in 1990.) 

Stories told about the pilgrimages to Santiago de Compostela reveal more from the happenings on the road to Santiago, than in the city itself. On the road were other pilgrims and locals, avarice and generosity, quiet people and the frank ones. Joy and dangers. Beasts, illnesses, thieves, murderers…

I met Tristan.

We were squeezed together eight people in a compartement on the train through the night from Zaragoza to La Coruña. Seven of us tried to doze as best as possible on the two feet of space to each one. Tristan, on the other hand, protested. We were to abuse a moment of genuinity if we prefered to sleep. The eight of us would never ever meet again. This was an exeptional moment to know individuals who otherwise would have been unfamiliar. He, Tristan, regarded himself as the responsible to be some kind of a catalyst to promote the community in our compartement. We all became familiar with Tristan...

Thanks to him the compartement was almost empty before arriving in Burgos. Tristan and I were the sole occupants. Maybe the others wanted to have a nap – or they prefered to keep intact their childhood faith.   

Tristan initiated his effort as catalyst by adressing himself to me, since I was sitting in front of him. Where was my destination?

To Santiago? As a priest?

My humble ”no” was the only breath of relief heard in the narrow compartement during the trip.

Why go to Santiago now? This year was no year of Jubilee?

Year of Jubilee?

The years when the 25th of July were Sundays.

25th of July?

"Please tell me, caballero… are you quite sure you are going to Santiago de Compostela?"

Even in the dim light of the compartement I noticed all the faces turned my way. What was wrong…?

The female part of an elderly couple leaning against each other next to Tristan interrupted our dialogue: "The 25th of July is the day of Sant Iago. The day of Saint James The Greater, the apostle, entendido? When his day falls on a Sunday, the holy doors in the cathedral open…"

"Then it's a giant fiesta in the city," Tristan continued. «Show for all the money! The pilgrims get rid of more sins than a human may commit during his lifetime! On the contrary, in a normal year - as this one…" He looked around: "Do you get rid of more than money?"

I tried to keep contact with the elderly couple: "The holy doors?"

Tristan cut the connection: "Don't mind about these doors, señor! They're part of the cheap tricks invented by the hucksters from the church."

Tricks?

The whole Santiago was based on a load of rubbish! Didn't I know that Compo-stela originated from ”com-po-si-ción”? Compositon! Produced and directed by the royal and ecclesiastical power!

Protests were heard: "Compostela means campus stellae – the place of the star," was produced from the darkest corner to the right of the window. "The notion dates from 813 when the light of the Lord guided the hermit Pelagius to the tomb of Saint James."

Tristan looked into his rucksack. At first I though he searched for an argument to silence the last speaker, but he pulled out a bottle of leather. A brown bottle with a red top covered by a red cap. When he removed the cap and put the top to his mouth, we smelled the content of anise. Drops to strengthen his opposition - to disprove the allegation from the dark corner?

"813? Or 318? Figures based upon greek symbols of magic created long before the area of christianity. In other words, pure pagan! Besides – a star? Nice fantasy, if the hucksters hadn't copied the story of the star that showed the way to the crib with the Christ Child! The fairy-tales of the Grimm brothers are more thrustworthy…"

He had another sip from his bottle before showing it around. Did we care for a "comunion"? The elderly couple declined the offer, and the spouse tried to gain the initiativ: Was señor ignorant about the fact that God let the corpse of Saint James be brought to and buried in Galicia?

"Nonsense!" Tristan raised his left hand to smack his thigh. In the last minute he discoverd the bottle lying there, and hold his hand. "An apostle buried in Galicia! Plain superstition. A fixed idea for the replacing of Charlemagne when he was about to die. The cowards in the north didn't dare to continue la reconquista against the infidels from Mecca without their powerful leader! Then the clergy was in a hurry to find a new commander. No living ruler at that time could replace Charlemagne. Superstition had to be invented to get the asturianos to fight. We from Extremadura were of another kind, nosotros los extremeños…"

The elderly couple did not give in. Santiago, the holy Saint, had participated personally in the fightings against the Muslims as well as against the heathens in the new world.

"The myth of the White Knight?" Tristan started to laugh and offered himself a new squirt from the bottle, while the husband pointed at him: "Precisely! There are eye witness reports…"

The squirt hit the respiratory parts of Tristan. He started to cough, and struggled to get control with his breath. Small drops of anise hit my face. "Eye witness reports!" He coughed again, hit the seat between his legs, laughed, coughed, shaked: "What did he confess... (cough), the commander... (more coughs) at Trujillo? (He draw his breath.) When the church council asked him to confirm… ah, por Dios (burp)… that the holy James – puh! – had fought along with the Spaniards? Heh? (Oh!) I may not be strong enough… (a new burp) in my faith, he said – the commander! (Laughter.) He did have too little faith, he said! Since he didn't notice any knight in white armour!»

He got himself a reward from the bottle. That one did go right. These moments when he consentrated on the anise, were the only ones when Trristan shut up. From 23.34 PM until 11.20 AM the next day. In spite of loosing all the audience except me. Well, I went to Santiago because I was curious. Tristan increased my curiosity more than some believer might have contributed to.

"… the church needed a knight! White or black didn't matter. They needed their own private knight to protect the innocents. Those who then had to pay what they owed for the knights protection - to the church." Tristan waived his arms. "Having their own knight increased the profit of the clergymen in Santiago far above the tower of the cathedral. A peasant was obliged to pay his depts to the knights defending his region. The holy James defended all of Spain! Everyone – every damned soul in the christian part of the peninsula - had to pay taxes to the clergymen who rattled with some fragments of bones in a shrine inside the cathedral. Fragments told to be the relics of their holy knight."

He managed to combine a cry of "Brilliant!" with more drops of anis.
"Their knight was also a pretender to every profitable conquest made by spanish armies. Their soldiers murderered and cried ”Santiago” all over Spain as well as in the South America. No wonder the cathedral in Santiago is enormous..."

Everything was exultation, ruse and trickery until the Great Armada got lost in the North Sea - and Francis Drake arrived… Did I come from England?

No? Well, then! The pirate Francis Drake took revenge for the attack on England by sacking the saint's city - the one he used to call a center of corrupt superstition. But before he arrived, the shrine containing the relics was hid away - and disappeared... 
So did the pilgrims. Disappeared. Santiago de Compostela fell into oblivion and poverty. 
Three hundred years later the local authorities realized that the only remedy to save Santiago de Compostela, was to invent some new bones. The very Pope Leo XIII assisted. The popes had recently claimed themselves infallible. Naturally they were able to recognize a saint on his cranium.

About Popes, I asked, what was his opinion of John Paul II?

My question accumulated series of short biographies. On bandidos – whether they were called Hitler, Attila, Stalin, Maggie Thatcher, Franco, Castro, John Paul II, Jaruzelski, Constantine the Great, Mussolini, Frank Zappa, Clemens VI…

Who?

Clemens VI! Didn't I know the pope Clemens VI? When the Popes were held in Avignon? The considerate, smart and greedy Clemens VI, who welcomed pilgrims on their way to Rome or even Jerusalem, offering them to leave their presents in Avignon. Their presents of sacrifice were after all supposed to be brought back to the Pope. Unnecessary to risk these precious offers being brought to and fro. A lot of unexpected trouble might occur during the voyage. Robbers and other kind of accidents. These precious offers risked never to arrive to the custody of the only person authorized to evaluate them, the Pope himself on behalf of his God.

Clemens VI also had the opinion that a celebration of Jesus Christ only when a new century arrived, was a depreciation of the Lord. Jesus Christ had to be evaluated better than this. The year 1350 was coming up. More than fifty years had to pass until the next Jubilee of Christ. Clemens VI would obiously not be there to celebrate. He suggested to venerate Christ every fiftieth year! More pilgrims in circulation. More offers. Less sins. Consequently he introduced this change, and the church made new fortunes. Later on the crooks in Santiago followed creating the day of their saint and the special celebration when that day fell on Sundays.

"Madremia! Popes! God's private bandits, they can do whatever they want to without being made responsible, because they claim to belong to a celestial jurisdiction more valuable than the one made of man. Their eventual judgment will come later on... And the first Pope, what did he do? Denied Christ, he did! Three times, even! Dios mio! The Popes have continued to do likewise through the whole of Christian history. To deny Jesus." Tristan presented series of names and incidents, but I was unable to join him in his cascade

until the train made a stop somewhere between Burgos and Palencia. Then he said sadly: "If only there had been more Christians in this vale of tears!"

I jumped: I thought he was an adversary of the church?

The church? The church was not Christian! When the Christians created the first church, they said farewell to Christianity. "No, caballero! Jesus was a Christian! He did not exploit the poor, he neither killed nor mutilate, threatened or stole… activities the church calls sacrifice and conversion."

Jesus was no bandido as the Popes! The church was opponent to everything Jesus preached: moderation, truth, mercy, women, wine, and – well, he had never heard about Jesus singing…

"The church has always rejected the preachings of Jesus. The clergymen are the new lawless ones, above the law. Common criminals have to serve their sentence in jail. If the clergymen violate human juristication, they have to await God's jugement, because they believe in Him. Believe? In what, señor?" He shook his head, and cleared his throat. Had his bottle got empty? "Imagine thousand years ago! When kings, emperors and their advisers reigned and ravaged. One day they were disturbed by some bandits dressed in black, claiming to decide what the rulers had to do and how to do it. If not, they would burn in some place called Hell. The intruders invaded the royal councils with no authority apart from terror! Madre mia que tonteria!"    

Again his throat got dry, but soon emerged a remedy. The air was once more filled with anise before he continued cursing clergymen and church. "Every person true to the words of Jesus, were prosecuted. Just imagine what happened to Priscilian of Avila! When you are in Santiago, remember the villanius bishops that put their colleague in front of the roman emperor to be slaughtered. Then they washed their hands in the washbasin previously used by Pontius Pilatus. Priscilian was the first bishop eliminated by the church with the help of secular power. Coordinated extermination of individuals troublesomes to the church, provided profitable income to the worldly rulers, along with the promise of a priority access to God's heaven. That's why the head of states loved to execute the victims of the church: heretics, pagans, barbarians, the blasphemus, those found guilty of idolatry, arianists, hedonists… every label the church managed to put on those who didn't want to contribute to the golden palaces of the bishops! The local secular rulers got properties as rewards along with the blessing of their murder weapons. It was safer to be a soldier. To die in battle became a higway to Heaven."

I kept my breath. Not because of all his words, I waited for an opportunity to ask about Priscilian of Avila. 

At last I got my moment. He answered by a new tirade. Telling me that this Priscilian had appealed to the landowner bishops, bishops more busy getting properties than new souls for Christ. The year 385! I should remember the year 385! The church had recently begged for freedom of religions in the Roman empire. When Constantine the Great proclaimed this freedom, the first action by the clergymen was to eradicate every person alien to the church. Freedom of religion? Mierda! There were more freedom during the reign of the Roman emperors then when the church acquired the power."

"Couldn't it be as a revenge for the persecution of Christians?" I asked.

Tristan shook the second bottle with irritation. There was a faint sound of splashing from its inside. "Persecution of Christians! Por Dios, the church itself got the persecutions going! Arrogant, ignorant and greedy bishops had an innumerable amount of souls convicted to death. Especially those more christians than the certified idiots at the head of the church managements."

Tristan looked sadly at his bottle. It was about to collapse in the middle: "Que locura…it's easy to list the martyrs claimed by the church - if you drop the murderers Franco claimed as martyrs. Then you may start writing a list containing the victims of Christianity. You'll never finish that one during your lifetime…»

He interrupted himself, looking with a wishful hope from the empty bottle to me. Did he imagine me as able to produce a new potion? He shook both his head and the bottle: "All the victims of Christianity… Priscilian, for instance. Eh, bien! Every good christian in Galicia is aware of the fact that Santiago de Compostela is built on the grave of Priscilian and not above this damned James!»

He hold in. Without drinking. I kept quiet, hoping for continued information of this Priscilian. Suddenly he sat back laughing. 

After a while I learned that Tristan did not laugh at an ignorant me, nor about the unfortunate Priscilian. His delight was connected to Pope Leo III. "Imagine! What a problem to Leo when his church and the royal authorities claimed to have unearthed an apostle in Galicia. The naive fools in Galicia provided him sleepless nights! Finding an apostle where the Pope very well knew the heredic was burried... Besides, he realized what this might result in lost income to Rome during the competition of attrackting the turists of God…"

Once again he tried to press more drops from the bottle. I noticed that the sound heard, was from air only.

I continued to pursue the theme of Priscillian.

If my interest was sincere, I could ask the swarm of hucksters hiding themselves in clerical dresses in the streets of Santiago. "Ask if they don't experience a godsend blessing or a jackpot to king and pope finding an apostle to forget the mourning for their beloved Priscilian. Priscillian was consecrated bishop, but unlike his colleagues, he lived like an hermit, preaching a life of sobriety and love. Told his congregation that the Kingdom of God did not belong to this world. Preachings of which his colleagues did reject, since their "kingdoms" very much were depending on this world. Since Priscillian did not care about gold and bribery, the other bishops had him removed, accused him of invented charges like orgies, support to the arians, manichaeism, that he was psevdo-something… The church has always been damned fabolous inventing how to catalogue the disobedient ones…"
He looked out the window for a moment. Then got up bringing down a bag from the luggage rack. And - believe it or not, he pulled out another of these brown bottles of leather.                 

"Ask!" he cried out suddenly – as if I was sitting in the next compartement: "Why did this site become a popular place for funerals hundreds of years before it had this name of Santiago? Years before pope and king invented the idea of a saint. Maybe the relics they dug up belonged to Priscilian himself! Wouldn't that be to culminate the irony!»

This time he let the anise flow - as a reward for fancy dreams? I made the most of his silence, asking if such an possibilty derived from the practise advocated by Pope Gregory the 1st, to change pagan or unwanted festivals sites into a christian cover? The method called "can’t you beat’em, join’em".

The anise hit him on his cheek, because he suddenly turned his head towards me. "Increible! An indication of mental activity! Entonces... I guess everyone has a more or less hidden reason for being alive! So - you are no supporter of Augustine?"

Why should I be a follower of some Augustine? Or why not? And who was this Augustine?

"You see…» he started, but without my understanding until he had finished a lesson on the Church Father Augustin from Hippo. Then I knew that this old saint at the beginning of the 5th Century had accused the pagans to copy and steal the Christian holydays and festivals - before the very existence of Christianity! Tristan laughed and gloated over this silly statement from one of the more venerated Church Fathers. He even extended the new bottle to me. As a favour for intelligent behaviour? I escaped by assuring I was unable to deprive him from his precious means of strengthening drops.

That was my only token of respect from Tristan until we said goodbye in Betanzos, where he left the train. Then he took my hand saying: "You impressed me, noruego!»

Without being more precise. Most likely he had never experienced to keep an "audience" continuously for thirteen hours.

Me too - I was surprised and impressed. When I walked around Santiago de Compostela. The city itself did not impress me, but Tristan. In spite of all his anise, his condemnation and indignation… His allegations were dangerously close to reality. Dangerous to the pilgrims coming here in good faith. For salvation. The remission of sins. Their belief in Santiago de Compostela. To me, the city turned out to be more or less a disappointment. To one having met Tristan. The magnificent appeared more and more like a tragedy the longer I stayed.

The Cathedral – I had never seen such a cult of war in a house of God. James, the saint, was portrayed as a belligerent savage. I must say I had another expectation of a saint. Inside the Cathedral I finally understood the notion of ”the financial and the spiritual”. People could buy the help of God en every little niche. The only item missing in the Cathedral, was a bingohall. My imagination told me that the chapel of Corticella could easily be transformed into this hall. The idea might be my contribution to the expected collection. The prizes in the bingohall could be a promise of returned love, to succeed at an exam, or to ensure an accomodation to Heaven... These were the wishes written on the small pieces of paper put between the legs of Christ in the Corticella chapel.

Being outside the church did not make me feel better. In front of the entrance to the Cathedral, the Pórtico de la Gloria, the clergymen use to burn a wooden mosque on the 25th of July, a booklet told me. Obviously it was more essensial to keep alive the hatred than love.

Om the huge Plaza de Obradoiro in front of the Cathedral there is a huge building used to be a hostel to shelter exhausted and poor pilgrims. Today this is one of the more exclusive hotels in Spain, maybe inaccesible for my bank account. Never-the-less I crossed the square and entered the hotel, asking politely if I might have a look around. Naturally - if I would be so kind as to remove my anorak? In case the guests should believe I stayed at the hotel…

Well – my anorak had been travelling for weeks... I put it nicely on my arm for not being a disgrace to the lobby.

In the streets of Santiago de Compostela I asked educated and uneducated as well as lay and consecrated. In the shops, on the squares, in churches, on the benches in the commons, under the arkades in Rúa del Viller… What was the meaning of Compostela?

”Compostela” – a Spanish pater, who preached about stars and lights, made me think of the Christmas parties as a child. An archaeologist from the U.S., who brushed tombs into light deep beyond the Cathedral - graves from both pre-Christian and early Christian era, answered: ”Composito” – being arranged. ”Compost” was another word descibing the same, he smiled. Some guide told me about bishop Mezonzo who was in charge of the reconstruction of the city after a destruction made by moorish troops in 997. The reconstruction was so perfect that people described their city as ”la bien Compuesta” – what is perfect ”com-po-ned”!

I also asked for Priscilian.

The religious looked at me for quite a time. Then he asked if I would pray along with him. For the lost souls…

The few ones that obviously had some knowledge of Priscilian from Avila, were suddently busy with other activities. The American archaeologue smiled and said: "Indeed, Prisciliano is an interesting phenomenon!»

”Is”, he did not say "was". Still of current interest, then.

The archaeologue disappered behind a sign telling "Trespassing forbidden"... Did he lay there, Priscilian? A heredic so popular the church had to dig up an apostle to have people forget the original?

I left Santiago de Compostela, satisfied for having been only a curious turist, not a pilgrim with acking feet on his or her's hope for salvation and the remission of sins. Struggle on to Santiago on their bare feet, was the serious aim of the rightous. Return empty handed was worse, but this was only to be understood by the few having met Tristan. The rest continued to live the illusion within their faith...

                           Yours Thor Thorstensen

The Supporter of Ledbury

Even in my brain public relation may settle without my knowledge. This I realized when I heard the ticket collector tells us that Ledbury was next. I jumped up, collecting my luggage obviously supprising the two men who had stayed in the compartement when I entered the train in Hereford, just minutes ago.
     Why did I react as the Pavlov's dog when I heard "Ledbury next"? Just because some magasin had procalimed Ledbury as "the most romantic city in England". I did not remember what magasin, but the name Ledbury also brought about other memories from somewhere. Like The Feather's Inn as a place to have a better meal than in most english restaurants. And I suddenly remembered pictures of Church Lane. A lot of pictures becasue it had seemed to me that Church Lane was the most important aim in Ledbury - from all the traveler books I had been consulting. The name Ledbury triggered me. I could not miss the opportunity to find out why...
      I left the train on a most primitive station, hammered together above the ground below - descended the wooden stairs and followed some other passengers drifting towards the centre of Ledbury.
     The food at The Feather's Inn was fully acceptable, and then I returned to have a look at the famous Church Lane. But it were neither the meal nor old houses, anitquities nor romance that made my visit to Ledbury special. It was someone as banal - or pleasant - as a dog.
     We met in the famous Church Lane, just as I left the old market dating from centuries ago. The sun was lightening up the church at the end of the lane, some houses away I saw a sign of a tea pot - exactly what my stomack asked for. It could all have been very romantic, if not for a dog and its owner.

      The dog pulled a small wagon, almost a miniature of the wagons we used back home in my early years for the haymaking. On both sides of the wagon were pinned some medals obviously gained at some events - although I was unable to understand how this shaggy dog could possibly have won whatever. This one might only gain the heart of the owner, a woman of some size. Since she was both a woman, elderly (than myself), and bigger, I stepped backwards out of the narrow lane to let them pass - and be able to enjoy the old houses along the lane. And having a creem tea.
     Did I mind to buy the newspaper from the dog?
     I was surprised by the question, but soon discovered a bundle of small magazins in the wagon. While hesitating the owner explained that Django was selling newspapers for the benefit of Red Cross - and some other organisation, which I missed out.
     Django! A dog working for the Red Cross? How nice!
     To-day it happened to be the Red Cross, yesterday it was some abbreviation not familiar to me, and next week another organisation of humanitarian, social or veterinarian purpose. Maybe I was a possible employer?
     Since she had told me the name of the dog, I introduced myself, where I lived and where I soon was to go.
     Foreigner! No potential employee, though - just a possible client.
     Of course I would buy the newspaper to support the local Red Cross! Such a purchase might give me access to Church Lane as well...
     I bend down to the dog. What kind of breed was Django?
     His owner reacted as I had hit her. A glimse of surprise passed into disbelief. Before it turned to be quite annoying: "Really? Can't you see?"
     Terms like "hound" and "riesenschnauzer" had touched some cerbral hemisphere when I first saw Django, but anxious about offending his companion, I declined the guessing. For all - or the slightest - of my canine knowledge, Django might be a alexandrian sheepdog - if there are any alexandrian sheepdogs.
     The dog sniffed at me, with a rapid lick in my beard, where there might have been some remains from my lunch in The Feather's Inn. This sign of acceptance obviously softened his owner, without letting me off the hook: "The car on the corner by the marked, is it yours?"
     She pointed at something behind me. I turned and saw a dark, green Rover illegal parked on a double yellow line. Satisfied I had not done the infraction, I even could tell her that I did not own a Rover."
     The reaction was unexpected. She gazed at me, shaking her head. I did recognize dead, material goods just with a small glance, but had no idea about a living creature as Django! Did my vocabulary contain any name for a specie of domesticated dogs?
     I tried to avoid the question by telling that several cars had been of my properties, but never a dog.
     She did not care, but turned to the dog: "Tell me, Django - do we talk to foreigners on Thursdays?"
     To repair the damage done, I bought a copy of "Django's Djournal". 20 pence was all I had to pay for the green newspaper with the fancy name. I also tried to praise their initiativ.
     Oh, all they did was to continue an old tradition.
     Really?
     Had I never heard about Rover?
     The car illegaly parked by the marked? I was about to turn my head when I understood my mistake... Only a Django waiving his tail did end complicated situation. His companion struggled, and I was worried about the red colour telling something about a bloodpressure about to erupt. The old houses in Church Lane started to lean into the street. Therefore I kept my mouth shut. Almost stopped breathing.
    Fortunately some people pushed past us, creating a natural pause before she had calmed down enough to ask if my ignorance of Rover was real? Did I have any formation - or manners? How did I have missed all the big German Shepherds made of plastic in an innumerable amount of English shops? If the notion of German Shepherd happened to be familiar?
     I got luck! Of course even I could not miss all these light blue dogs of plastic, often situated close by the door. With their red boxes - on their belly or around their neck. Boxes with a slit for putting money. Fineally I got some recognation. I believed I saw a sign of a smile...
     Rover, she said, had been living in Aldbourne while she was a little girl. Aldbourne was situated a bit to the south. Suddently she started to tell me a whole story. Maybe because she had realized she had to put it all into my head as detailed as possible for me to understand.
     Rover had strolled around in Aldbourne with this money box attached to his neck , gathering means to build a new hospital. "The result is Savernake Hospital. Outside the hospital is placed a statue of the self-sacrificing Rover. She wipped away a tear and looked down to her - and human's best friend. I, too, looked at the dog - thinking that the medals attached to the wagon might be due to his services, rather than his breed.
     "But, my good man, now we had to sell our magazins. Tomorrow we want to rest. Django has his birthday, you see."
     How old?
     She had to produce quite some effort to bend down to kiss Django on his muzzle - and had a lick in return. "Seven - seven years will my faboulous friend be passing tomorrow."
     I did some clumsy efforts to itch Django on his jaw as an encourageing for the next day. It answered with a new lick - to search for more crumbs from The Feather's Inn. This was to my advantage since the lady in charge told me the only reason for spending "all this time on an ignorant stranger" owed to the fact that Django obviously accepted me. She had always trusted on the dog's ability to evaluate people. She looked down at her friend while her mouth formed something like "until now"...
     I had spent 20 pence along with "all this time", but estimated this very cheap for the company of the four- legged supporter of Ledbury.

                                 Yours Thor Thorstensen

 

The Wicked Church

It may seem strange to connect some event on a P&O ferry crossing the English Channel with a church in a mountain area called Filefjell in the middle of Norway. But sometimes assosiations are as strange as the reality.
     This story began when I discovered a Norwegian dressed as a Swedish caricaturist is presenting us. Wearing a small rucksack where a norwegian flag is popping up. He was standing in front of the exchange office onboard. Since I was number four in that queue I was able to listen to the discussion in front of the window. 

     The fellow with his flag in the rucksack cried something like "complete madness". His english could not conceal an accent from the north of Norway. He was to present his complaints to the company, although the responsible for this ferry must be complete stupid. This was the only place in the whole world where you could not exchange notes of norwegian currency... 
     "You may never have heard of Norway? We used to conquer the British Isles every second weekend, you better know! We Norwegians descend from the wikings, while you lot obviously descend from the monkeys..."

     Neither sarcasm nor threats did help him exchange his norwegian money. The lady inside the window just pointed to a sign next to the opening. Norwegian "kroner" did not exist on the sign. Strangely enough all the other scandinavian currencies were accepted. I understood the feelings of my countryman. His national proud was obviously hurt, but never mind. The rest of the queue became rather aggresive, and he was pushed away.

Since I knew the habits - good and bad ones - of my countrymen, I searched for him after I finished my own exchange. The only highjacking of an aircraft in Norway until then, was due to serving lukewarm beer in the plane. The hijacker forced the plane to land, but the police prevented a drama and solved the crises by bringing four bottles of cold beer. Since I knew the hijacker had been a Norwegian - but could not say if he had been from the northern part of the country. To prevent any hijacking of the ferry - I invited this one to a pint of lager.  

     The beer calmed him down. In a way. It did not help that I was a fellow Norwegian, but I shall not repeat all his frustration during tre pints until we reached Dover. I left him when he asked me for the fourth and showed obvious signs of being boozed. 

     This quarrelsome and boozed Norwegian made me think of a church I had passed a month earlier. On a mountain crossing called Filefjell. I made a stop by the local church, of St.Thomas. This church represented a norwegian tradition I have never understood: to drink until pissed... Why is it that people staggering around pissed i streets, on dancing parties in the countryside or at holiday centers in southern Europe most likely are Norwegians? Regarding this behaviour, it is not strange that Norway even had a churdh that had to be closed in 1808 because of too much drinking. Even if Norway at that time belonged to Denmark, nobody can claim the Danes to be responsible for the madness happening around a small stave church between the valleys of Valdres and Sogn.

The first church concecreated St.Thomas was built as early as in the 12th Century. Old documents reveal that the location was an old pagan place of sacrifice - in the tradition created by pope Gregory the Great. It was the archbishop Øystein Erlendsson of Nidaros (later called Trondheim) who initiated the construction of the St. Thomas church. He did not name the church after the Apostle Thomas, the embodied sceptic, but in honour of someone who really believed, St. Thomas à Becket. The archbishop was in a hurry to call upon God's attention. His fate was about to copy the one of St.Thomas Becket: being cut down by the king's men. The archbishop Øystein had gambled on a wrong candidate for being king of Norway.

     When the kong Sigurd Jorsalfare died without a male heir in 1130, a civil war between possible kings started in Norway. When one of them, Inge Krokrygg, was killed in 1161, he too died without leaving a son. One contender was the illegitimated son of a long ago deceased king called Sigurd Munn - some sexual seducer. A local earl, Erling Skakke, was married to the daughter of the famous Sigurd Jorsalfare and claimed their little son, Magnus, as the legitimate king. But this arroused a lot of protests. A king had to be the son of a king! If the country gave way to sons from females, there could be a swarm of possible heirs to the crown... But Erling knew what to do. God's law was above civil law, so he made an agreement with the archbishop Øystein. If the church consecreated little Magnus as king and introduced an order of hereditary succession of families, Erling promised the church several benefits. A papal representative undertook the consecration of the boy as the king in the grace of God, which ment the grace of the local church. Because when Magnus Erlingsson became the first in Scandinavia to be crowned by the church this in return provided for the church to claim more taxes from its believers. 

     These benefits lasted until 1179. Then another illigitimate son of Sigurd Munn made his appearance. Sverre Sigurdsson had become leader of the "birkebeinere" who had rebelled against the hard taxations both from the church and the "party" of Erling Skakke called "baglere". Sverre Sigurdsson denied the legitimate behaviour of a church to install kings. 
    The archbishop let his ship join the battle along with the ones of Erling Skakke and his son, Magnus. He even promised - on his Gods behalf, that everyone who fought the battle along with them, was guaranteed a place in heaven. It did not help. In 1184 Sverre and his men won the battle. Then Erling Skakke and his son were both dead. Since the archbishop did not feel that a church on Filefjell was sufficient as a proposal to God for an extended life on the earth in stead of an eternal one in heaven, he ran away to England.

     Neither I nor the wikipedia can tell if the church of St. Thomas in the mountain area was built before the archbishop ran away or after his return. The archbishop did come back to Norway and ended his hostilities with king Sverre. Never-the-less the church of St.Thomas was there - on the traditional place where people from different valleys had met for centuries. Filefjell is still the easiest way to pass from the east to the west of the country and was the natural site for buying, selling, social encounters, paganry and devilry as well as christianity.

     The Black Death in 1349-50 decimated the population in Norway as well as in other countries. Especially around Filefjell since it was the most regular crossing in the mountain area. The church of St.Thomas disappeared behind trees and bushes that was left to grow peacefully some hundred years. The wooded area was not the only surroundings of the abandoned church. It became the target for a lot of myths. People could tell about hearing the sound of bells and hymns from behind the tangle of trees. Myths that kept alive stories of ghosts, trolls, wood nymphs and witches. 
     In spite of all the stories told, people from the communities around Filefjell returned slowly to their old marketplace by the church in Smedalen. Before christianity entered the country, people used to gather there on "syftesok", the 2nd of July to soften the gods, trying to have as much crops as possible. In the 17th Century the church joined in. A vicar called Bahr from the parish of Vang in Valdres told the congregates that on the 2nd of July they were to celebrate the holy bishop St. Svithun, killed in the 9th Century in England. This was called "Svitunsvake", which ment to keep watch for the deceased bishop during the night. To reward this effort, the saint would be so grateful that he helped to enlarge the crop even more than their pagan gods had made possible.

This innovative clergyman had the church sat in order and initiated a service in the church of St.Thomas every "syftesok", most likely to bless the day with some words of God. It was obviously needed according to a guidebook for travelling in Norway. This said that quite a few horses were exhausted, quite a few virgins offended, and quite a few fit and active men beaten. Unfortunately updated knowledge on catholic celebrations had escaped this protestant vicar. The day for celebrating St.Svithun had been changed to the 15th of July in England, but it was more complicated to move a pagan tradition than play tricks with saints. Therefore this "syftesok" or "Svitunsvake" continued to be celebrated on the 2nd of July around the church of St. Thomas. 

     I guess the clergymen had some trouble presenting holy words to young guys having waited a whole year to fight their antagonists from other valleys. But despite the fighting, the horse racing, promiscuity and heavy drinking - the church of St.Thomas was also recognized as a support to the sinners and the sick, if they payed their share. This made more and more people visiting Kyrkjestølen, as became the name of the site. Since the church itself only had room for some hundred, most of the activities happened outdoor. While someone inside recieved the sacrament, others strolled around focused on murder and fornication. In letters from the 18th Century people found Our Lord a strange fellow, allowing all such horror around his church.     

Naturally protests arrived, but not from Our Lord. The vicar Ruge in Slidre felt called upon to ban all the immorality around the mountain church at Filefjell. He admitted that the church of St.Thomas represented a "gold mine" to the vicar of Vang, but the profit should be better off financing a prison in Christiania (later Oslo). This would be more compatible with the activities which provided the income. This first official complaint arrived in 1747 at the ecclesiastical board in Copenhague, but the bureaucrats thought this vicar from Slidre envied his colleague in Vang. Besides - if St.Thomas was to be shut and derived because of "ungodly behaviour", there were more churches to suffer the same fate. To be on a safe ground, the ecclesiastical board ordered the vicar in Vang to instruct and discipline his congregation. The result of this disciplination reduced the profit from the activities from 473 to 10 Riksdaler during 40 years...          

     At the beginning of the 19th Century the tide turned. The income from the market at Kyrkjestølen regained its wealth. Then - in 1805 - a new letter arrived at the ecclesistical board in Denmark. This time from the vicar in a parish called Land, after his consultation with the District Sheriff and the bishop of the diocese. The content of this letter was rather harsh. The activities by the St.Thomas church "...support superstition... strengthen the infidel in his evil purposes... not a sanctuary, but a shelter for cattle and thieves..." This letter had consequences: The St.Thomas church was to be sold and leveled with the earth. The vicar in Vang managed to postpone the sale. Syftesok along with a service was held in 1808. Then the local Sheriff bought the church - and torn it down.

This was not the end of a church called St.Thomas. I was inside 180 years later. In a modern version on the identical site as the original. The locals missed the church on the festival area - maybe the social parties as well? 

     

          

      The new church was consecrated in 1971 to "ecumenical use - on the 2nd of July! Some years later the local newspaper "Valdres" wrote that there was established a commitee to breathe new life into Syftesok. The members hoped to get going on the 2nd of July 1990 because they guessed "a new generation has been raised in a more peaceful behaviour" and the moment had come to combine "more worldly activities to the celebra-tion of 2nd of July without the risk of life and limb". Maybe the idea originated from a responsible of cultural activities that at last found something to do?

     I left the new church of St.Thomas while the sky was rather cloudless. The church is no more a tared stave church among small, reddish cottages. Today the church is built in concrete and glass. The steeple obiously inspired from the old stave church. It has been compared with the wide-brimmed hat of a witch. A striking description on a church connected with both christian and pagan superstition.

     Maybe it was not by chance the first hymn presented at the small service I attended, was "The church is an old house, surviving even if the towers are falling..." 

    On my way downhill to the Sognefjord on the first day of July 1990, I discovered threatening clouds on their way towards the mountain area. I wondered how the next day would turn out at the Kyrkjestølene. 

                                        Love from Thor Thorstensen    

     

        

The Last Defender of Entrevaux.

Unfortunately Rally Korsika was abandoned because of unexpected masses of snow. I had joined in for a trip to the rally, but suddently I was without activity that week-end in Nice. What to do? If not try the small vintage railway into Provence? By Le train de pignes - which means the pinecones train (because they used the pinecones to steam the enignes) - from Gare de Provence to Digne, a trip of almost three hours along the valley of the river Var.
     I managed the slow trip and the shaking on the hard seat until arriving at Entrevaux, about 60 km from Nice - and I don't know how much time. It seemed to go on forever. So - noticing the walled town of Entrevaux with a huge citadel on the top of a hillside, I decided to leave the train. This old town seemed more interesting than the old train.

      To enter the walled town I had to cross an old stone bridge high above the waters of the Var. The part nearest to the to towers guarding the entrance was a drawbridge, still hanging in its chains from long ago. Indeed from the 16th century when the king François 1st declared the town a Royal Town. Since Entrevaux at that time was a border town against Savoy, the king had to reinforce the old wall - as it is to-day. This I learned when sitting down in a café on the small square inside the gatehouse. Although, the waiter added, the town had its roots from early 11th century. So it looked from where I was sitting, an medieval town with narrow streets. The citadel on the top of the hill was however a later construction, made by the famous citadelbuilder Vauban in the 17th century. It was the very Napoleon that pushed the frontiers further to the east - to where Italy is to-day.
     Entrevaux did not seem as a special interesting place, apart from its citadel that have earned two stars in the Michelin guide. As far as I knew, no famous painter - or writer - had lived there, although this place is in the heart of Provence. The town itself did not stand out compared to other walled and fortified towns around Europe. Though - I would never sat down writing about Entrevaux if not for madame Monnet.
   
I learned her name just inside the gatehouse. On a piece of paper. It said that those interesting in visiting the citadel, might borrow the key by "Mme Monnet" paying 5 francs. The waiter indicated the adress mentioned on the paper as a narrow lane not far from the gateway for the path to the citadel.
     Crossing the gate without a key appeared to be of no problem. The gate was indeed closed, but the rest of the fence was laying on the ground - obviously thanks to active pupils from a nearby school. No problem to visit the citadel without paying some madame.
     But - maybe there was some organisation benefiting from this humble price, cheaper than an icecream. The gras was growing high on the path, so I guessed this organisation did not get a lot of income. Therefore I looked for the adress of madame Monnet.
     Madame lived on the first floor. The stairs were build in - before the invention of electricity. Nobody had cared to install this invention later on. I hardly got a glimse of the steps in the dim light. Fortunately there was a window with broken glas on the landing. This made me discover the door of "Mme Monnet". On the door was fixed another note telling about he key and "4 francs". I did not care about one franc more or less and knocked on the door.
     Madame Monnet seemed as old as the citadel - or the town itself. Thin, bent and wrinkled, dressed as dark as the surroundings. She was the representation of a life's struggle in a small rural town. I tried to be as polite as possible, asking for the key to the citadel. Obviously I spoke to loud because I though, from her appearance, she might be suffering from both eyesight and hearing. Madame hold the left hand to her head and waved the other against my face. I lowered my voice, but she interrupted me with a voice as sharp and ringing as when touching a noble wineglas with a knife. Why did I shout? Disturbing her at this time of the day was more than inconveniant! Of cause - I had entered in the siesta... This made my voice more like the broken window outside. Trying to tell I just had got off the Train de pignes, had seen the beauty of her town and the exciting citadel...
     She waved away my efforts of being polite, turned to an antique chest of drawers, picked up a huge key from a basket while saying something about "hundred francs". To which I remarked, "Pardon, madame, cent... francs?"
     My reaction was humble compared to hers. She swirled around as the pitcher in a baseball game, asking if I could not read, although being a stranger? Even if I interrupted her siesta! She pointed at another piece of paper close to the basket where she had kept the key.
     "ENTRÉE 5 FF; DÉPOT 100 FF."
     I was to pay the entrance fee, and - especially I, since being a stranger, a deposit for the key. Too many had dropped returning a key during the years. While I picked up the money, she handed me the key along with a signed receipt - and begged me not to come back until after the siesta.
     Still I wanted to show off some courtesy, and asked if I only had to follow the path... Madame sighed deeply, closing the door in my face while saying that donkeys had made the way to the citadel in ancient times. "They made it!"
     The door was shot before I managed an answer.

The climb was worth the money - and the effort. Not only discovering the citadel, but also sitting on the top eith a marvellous view down the Var valley. And down to the red tiles on the houses of Entrevaux. Without being able to notice the streets below the tiles. This citadel had been quite a defense at the time when Nice was called Nizza, located in an enemy territory.
     The hours passed quickly up on the fortress. A lot for both my eyes and my fantasy. Until I suddenly was "awaken" by the sounds of plates being piled up down below, telling me the siesta was at its end. Obviously from the restaurant on the other side of the Var. Where there was a note telling of a discount of 10 % on a meal if showing a day-trip ticket by the train. The train I had to catch for coming back to Nice.

I jogged downhill to Madame. She had a visitor. A nasty visit i seemed by the noises from their voices. Her door was ajar, but before I reached the landing, the door was slung open. A middleaged fellow in brown, short trousers and a blue T-shirt came dashing out, close to run me down. "Attention, monsieur!" ropte han. "Hun der inne er gal! Fullstendig gal!"
     His running down the steps did not prevent me from hearing the sharp voice from madame inside. "The government of France has giving me a medal of honour! My husband as well as my sons all died for La patrie! That is why they made me the honourary guardien of our citadel." I heared she was having trubble with her breath. "This fortress was built to keep you niçois out!"  
     When the door downstairs slamed, I dared to show my face in the opening. It was as the efforts left her when she recognized the hopeless stranger. "Alors!" var alt hun sa, leaning against the drawers. Her gray hair framed two sparkling eyes. In some bewildered seconds I imagined looking at the witch in Disney's drawing.
     Although - in spite of her sparkling eyes, her sharp voice... Something happened when she saw me, the hopeless, irritating foreigner. Reminding me the moment she gave me the key, even if I interrupted her resting period. A mix of dispair and resignation, but also of latin love - unrestrained passion and patient care.
     "He didn't want to trust me, that fellow from Nice," she explained while we changed key and deposit. It was the other way around - people from Nice was not to be trusted! Madame did not give in against an old enemy behind a frontier invisible for other than the locals - even if the enmity dated from centuries ago. A hostility reminding the citizens of Entrevaux every time they looked up to their two star citadel.
     If there were more people like madame Monnet at the time of Vauban, he did not have to build the citadel at all.

                                                      Yours Thor Thorstensen  

         
         

 

Lunch With Dracula.

DEC

The English countryside is pure history. Every district present its lovely villages and towns. Every settlement has its old church, mostly in different Romanesque architecture like the Normanic ones with their flat tower. Most districts also have their castles or ruined fortresses from ancient times. Everywhere you may admire monuments of ambitions, hard work, and dreams from the past.

     Whenever I am going to England, I try to discover new areas of the country. This time I had chosen the road along the east coast from Harwich to Newcastle. Outside Newcastle I thought to go west along the Hadrian's wall. At Carlisle I would go south along the Cumrian coast down to Wales. In fact I was most eager to some detours into the mountain and lake districts of Cumbria.
     Nevertheless I enjoyed the open countryside here on the east coast. It was rather relaxing, and I had made more than one interesting break this morning. I had left early - even for my hosts at the "B&B" in Hornsea. Still I had lost a lot of hours compared to my planning for the day - mostly because I got carried away at the scenery of Robin Hood's Bay. This old village that used to be a paradise for smugglers, was even a paradise fo me with its attractive jumble of cobbled yards, footworn steps, and houses that seem to cling to the main cliff from above down to a coastal view almost unequalled to all others. The setting was special and peaceful. I almost had the feeling of being an intruder in this little place between Scarborough and Whitby.
     The time spend in Robin Hood's Bay meant I had to drive quite a way northwards to keep up with my plans for the day. Accompagned by some BBC station from my car radio I drove into the main road to Middlesborough. Only to discover that most lorries and tractors in this part of England headed the same way. Since my car was "continental" with the steering wheel at the left, overtake lorries was almost impossible when one is alone in the car. I had no idea of what was coming against us. Trying to put the car out to the right, would bring me in the opposite traffic lane - and put an abrupt end to me as to some innocent persons. In the few minutes when I had a view of what was ahead, naturally we met with a lot of cars driving south.
     Listening to the radio I realized that I rather should have listened to my stomach before leaving Robin Hood's Bay. That was why I left the road when I saw "Whitby" on a sign. At the entrance to the main centre I discovered a huge traffic jam. Another opportunity was a to the right. I chose this alternative road. It went uphill with some sharp bends, and brought me to a ruined church next to a parking space. "Abbey Plain" was an appropriate name on the site. So I understood the ruin had only been a part of a monastery area and no cathedral - although the ruin was rather impressing.

     I left the car and had a look downtown. The harbour was crowded with sailing boats, and in the bay a ship was moving under a bascule brigde that had opened. The reason for the traffic jam, I imagined. And Whitby seemed to be a town of some size. Every town of some size used to have a "Kentucky Fried Chicken"... That made me descend some stairs with innumerable steps towards the buildings below.
     My taste-bud was prepared for a fried chicken, although the tast-bud was not the most suitable organ to prepare for a Kentucky Fried Chicken. My empty stomach was more important than some expectation for a culinary meal. Then I did not mind discovering that Whitby was more English than international. This place did not prostitute itself to American pre-coocked food. Here I was offered a decent "Fish'n chips" wraped in the traditional way - in old newspaper.
     I returned with the meal to the plateau where I had parked my car. Unfortunately a biting wind had appeared when I was away down-town. I looked at the ruin area. There was an entrance fee to pay for entering the area, but I imagined I would find better sheltered there than out on the plain. And eating fish and chips soaked in vinegar within my car did not occur as a possibility.
     Behind the fencing I noticed several benches. Exactely something after climbing some thousands steps. So I went for the entrance, payed the fee and had my lunch sheltered for the wind. Completely alone among the ruins.
     "The Danes were responsible for a first demolition of the monastry in the 9th century," said the guy who had sold me the ticket, when I was about to leave. I nodded politely, and he presumed I was keen to listen to the rest of the story. Obviously he had been all alone up there the whole day, and was delighted to have a chat. "Fortunately the Benedictins raised this place after the Norman conquest..." But unfortunately for him, I did not care listening. I wanted to get further to the north. Even with some indigestion for having eaten my fish and chips too fast.
     During the afternoon I managed to get all the way to Hexham by the Hadrian's wall. And then the days passed along the Wall and the westcoast. Until I reached Chester, my favourite English town.
      Strangely enough the main discovery in my favourite town brought me back to Whitby!
     The return to the place where I hardly passed time enough for some food, started in "The Rows". In the charming shopping area of Chester. Where most of the shops are situated on galleries above the street. There - in the crypt at the bottom of "Bookland" - I found an AA-guide to "Country Towns and Villages". I started to look at the places I had passed or stayed at. Always it is possible to realize my ignorance when staying somewhere just by hazard. The desciption of Whitby made me sit down in the middle of the stairs. I was absolutely not the only visitor to "Abbey Plain"! The Irish author Bram Stoker had did the same i the 1890s. Strolling around among the ruins where I did not even care to lsiten to the gatekeeper, Bram Stoker got his inspiration that made him world famous. He wrote "Dracula" when he stayed in Whitby! In a place I only had escaped into for a rapid lunch, completely ignorant for the assosiations of the setting!
     And that was not all! The ruins of this monastry had a special and disputed story to tell. The Synod of Streaneshalc, as Whitby was called in the year 664. When the Celts had to dispose of their version of the Christian belief.
     On the steps in the bookshop I became painfully aware of where I had left some greasy newspapers with the leftovers from my tragicomic lunch in Whitby. In 664 the Pope in Rome wanted to christian The British Iles - although most of the inhabitants already were Christians - or rather, about to realize what it meant to be a Christian. The problem for the Pope was that he had no controll with the way it worked out. The Christianity of the Celts ruled in most of England, Wales and Scotland - not to mention on ireland. This was the gospe of charity and austerity. A gospel that did not apply to the Pope. This way of christtianity derived from Ireland with an origin from the first convents in the Palestinian dessert. Maybe the only influence the British ever have accepted from ireland...
     King Oswy of Northumberland happened to have trouble with his wife around the 660s. She was a product a Catholic tradition in Kent - far to the south and far from the Celtic influence from Ireland. The main problem turned out to be that Oswy used to celebrate Easter according to the Celtic customs, while Queen Eanfled celebrated the Holy week according to her Catholic upbringing. This brought about the Synod of 664. There - in what was later to be called Whitby - the King submitted to the claims from the papal representative who returned victorious to Rome telling his master the British had "agreed in being baptized as supporters of the Catholic faith" as I read on a sign when i returned to Whitby.
     Actually I returned to Whitby directely from "The Rows" in Chester. I simply could not accept that my only aim in Whitby had been putting bits of fish and chips dipped in salt and vinegar into my mouth sheltered from the wind. Without caring about sharing my humble meal with the vampire count Dracula, and the spirits from the Celts thar had to renounce in their belief.
     I also happened to find the balcony in "Cresent House" where Bram Stoker hundred years earlier elaborated his ideas of transylvanien brutality. The ruin on "Abbey Plain" across the harbour had been more extensive in the days of Stoker, but destroyed almost completely by the Germans during the last war, my host in "Crescent House" told me. Because his pension became my whereabouts for the next week. I had no intention of creating a new vampire, but spent a lot of time on the balcony with the view across the harbour to the ruin on "Abbey Plain", while reading about the rites and fate of the Celtic Christianity.
     Sometimes I strolled along the hillside close to the pension. There was another reason for visiting Whitby; the memories of James Cook. His statue is overlooking the bay below. And we had something in common, James Cook and I. He sailed away from Whitby to discover Australia. I went away, finding Whitby - in Chester.


                                                     Yours Thor Thorstensen                     

Lesson from Miletos. 

"Cola! Fanta! Cold drinks..." 

      The voice from the guy walking around Miletos selling cold drinks, was easily heard in the deserted area around the ruins. A lot of elaborated stones, all leftovers from earlier civilisations. Maybe this man is easier heard on the top of the old theatre - where I'm sitting - than for the few people strolling around the old warm stones carved out of marble and other materials thousands of years ago.
     "Soğuk içecekler! Cola! Fanta..."
     At the time when all this slabs of stone was carved, nobody spoke turkish. Not until this place became the desert it is to-day. When these masons were working their stones, a tiny voice of a waterseller would have been difficult to catch among all the other sounds of Miletos. Voices of different origins apart from the local ionian dialect - just talking or advertising their goods as well as our waterman, together with the creaking from different kinds of wagons, and sounds from a variety of animals, More than three thousand years ago Miletos was the largest city in the growing greek area. A stronghold fighting the Hittites and then a meeting point of exchanging goods between caravans from the Inner Asia and the ships from the Mediterrean region.
     In this comopolitan setting Thales (601-546BC) studied the nature and concluded that no gods, divine forces or mythology are dominating our nature. The nature was divine in it-self with the main substance of water. His thinking represents the beginning of greek philosofy, are the evaluations from modern as well as ancient philosofers, like Aristotle. The great Thales of Miletos was also a mathematician, calculating distances by use of geometry. And this impressing surroundings of Miletos gave inspiration to other scientists, as Anaximander (c610-c546BC) who was the first philosofer to write down his ideas. This distinguish him as a potenial first astronomer and the first one to publish a map. Among his students was Pytagoras... Impressing setting, Miletos in those days.
     Even when Athens slowly grew as the most important city in the Aegean area, Miletos continued to be an important ally defending the Ionian part of Lydia against the Persians, although the fighting around the beginning of the 5th century BC turned out to be devasteding for the original Miletos. In 334BC Alexander the Great conquered Miletos. He walled it and created Miletos at its greatest, almost 90 hectares within its walls. He also initiated the expansion of the theatre where I am sitting, up to some 15000 spectators. Not as impressing as the one in Efesos, perhaps, but here in to-days Miletos its the only impressing "survival" from the good old days.  
     The voice of our man selling cold drinks is the only sound heard from my seat on the top of the theatre to the entrance that is shivering in the heat far away behind the few ruins that are still to be notified. Most people coming here after visiting f.ex. Efesos, is disapointed. Is this all that's left from the great thinkings left us by Thales, Anaximander, Anaximenes etc.?

      I am afraid it is. Looking down the empty theatre to the columns that mark the royal places, I realize that we might destroy most thing around us. The sad thing is, however, that the Milecians destroyed themselves. After periods of succesful exchange of goods and creating an environment for philosofical improvement, the inhabitants of later Miletos got tired of all these foreigners coming and going - not to say tired of those who would like to settle down inside the walls of Miletos.
       To avoid all these strangers, the locals closed both its gates and its harbour. For the caravans as for the ships. They let the harbour at the river Meander, to silt up. Creating a vast area of marsland and mud, ideal for the mosquitos to nourish and raise their young ones. In their effort to isolate themselves, the people of Miletos had caused their own calamitous destiny. Huge swarms of mosquitos became unbearable. So - the inhabitants of Miletos had to abandon their city.
        That is why I can easily hear the lonely shouting from our man with the cold drinks. That is the only sound left of what used to be the Big Apple of yesterday. Until their inhabitants refused to accept people from other cultures within their community...  
                                                                       
                                                                     Yours Thor Thorstensen

Upplagt kl. 8th October 2013 av Thor Thorstensen