Round the Herne

Still riding on a wave of joyful memories from Eastern Angles 'Ragnarok' play, I decided to record a Norse myth. This one is the tale of Frey and his wooing of the giantess Gerd. It's unusually romantic for me, so I might have to record something else suitably bloodthirsty or sinister.

Tonight I joined some friends for a trip out to the Hush House (once used for testing aircraft engines) on the old RAF Bentwaters base, where the Eastern Angles theatre company staged another of their amazingly inventive productions. This time it was ' Ragnarok ', which incorporated quite a number of the Norse myths that lead up to the war to end all wars, including the building of the walls of Asgard by the entertainingly lustful Mason, Loki telling the saga of Thor's crossdressing wedding, the gory loss of Odin's eye, and snippets of several others. If you get the chance to go and see this, I urge you to do so. The staging is extremely resourceful and imaginative (a trademark of this theatre company), with wooden structures that wheel about and slot together to create a variety of features which the cast clambered about and used in all manner of entertaining ways. The lightning and music are evocative and brilliantly judged. The scenes in which Odin consults the se...

This is my first venture into children's poetry, which first appeared in 'Bard Song'. I have since written a follow up for the nameless children's next adventure with their eccentric uncle (yet to appear in print) and have a third planned. Carbuncle is based on one of my childhood cinematic heroes, Peter Lorre. The story was originally written for my godson Oscar as part of a hand-made book of stories, some of which I may one day send off to my publisher. The dog that appears in the poem is one of Oscar's real life pets, and the journey up White Horse Hill did actually happen many years ago (though not quite in the way it appears here). I've no idea if children actually like this poem (never having read it directly to any), but it has received some positive response from adults so far. Maybe someone could read it to their sprogs and let me know the response?

With all the talk of Scottish independence I thought I'd record a tale from the Highlands. Viewers will be relieved that I did not attempt one of my unforgivable Scottish accents. The original version of this story appears in MacKenzie's "Scottish Wonder Tales" which dates back about a century, though the stories are meant to be traditional ones going back much earlier.

Saturday just past was our annual gathering at Pooka's Pageant, a celebration of polytheist religion through the performing arts. The weather mostly held out for us, with only a couple of cloudbursts. Numbers of people attending were not as good as in previous years, though the quality of performances was excellent. I especially liked Rachel O'Leary's use of a framing device to string a number of stories together, and think I may try doing something similar myself in future. As the amount of money raised for the charities (Hare Preservation Trust and the Husky Rescue) was minimal, I will be running a storytelling evening on World Animal Day in October to drum up a little extra cash for them (watch this blog for details).

I have posted this poem on the blog before, in written format, but thought I'd do a spoken version as well. It's from the 17th century Chinese myth of Hu Tianbao, a lowly soldier who fell in love with a pompous Imperial official who scorned his advances and had him battered to death. The Gods decided to transform Hu Tianbao's soul into a minor deity, Tu Er Shen the Rabbit God, and he became the patron of male love. The temples were popular around Fujian province, before eventually being suppressed. Recently his worship has been revived and includes at least one temple in Taiwan.

The weekend just gone I ought to have been at the Grey Mare pagan camp in the New Forest, but was unable to get there due to a lack of dog sitters (and insufficient time to get the beasts vaccinated, as is the prerequisite now, in order to put them in to kennels). I was very much looking forward to going, catching up with old friends and generally relaxing, storytelling etc. In a novel or film or New Age book, being blocked in one area of life invariably turns out to be because the Powers That Be are redirecting one to something else. Did I need to be kept in Ipswich this weekend so that I could find that million-pound winning Lottery ticket, bump into my future husband, or save the house from burning down? Apparently not. I did some rather humdrum things round town, went to the pub, and attended a nice druid gathering one afternoon, but nothing crucial or life-changing happened to me in Ipswich last weekend. Storytellers and spiritual gurus invariably want life to make sense, want t...