A Son of Ragnar or Singing with the Fat Lady

'A Son of Ragnar' or 'Singing with the Fat Lady'

Me unveiling my inner Ragnar

Like many around the world, my wife and I have recently begun watching the History Channel's ‘Vikings’. Based on the medieval viking sagas, the series deals with the life and times of the semi- legendary viking king, Ragnar Lothbrok. Drawn into this retelling are a variety of characters based on other viking notaries, such as Rollo, the ancestor of William the Conqueror and Floki, the first person to intentionally sail to Iceland. As a hardcore Tarzan fan, I initially became aware of the show due to its star, Australian actor, Travis Fimmel, who had played Tarzan in the 2003 TV series of the same name. But it was not until recently that I became a regular viewer of the series and thus familiar with the name, Ragnar Lothbrok. As is my usual tendency, I began to research the historicity of the characters as well as the accompanying mythology. I am a firm believer that if you truly want to understand what a group of people are about, you need to look at their myths and legends. It may play free and easy with the historical facts but it speaks volumes about the people themselves, their dreams and aspirations.

One day I was joking with my wife about the possibility of being related to Ragnar Lothbrok. I knew from my hint of Scottish heritage that I may have had a smidgen of viking blood flowing in my veins, as do  many  people of British descent. Being the geek I am, I decided to investigate. Now ancestry research is not something unfamiliar to my family. My father has been involved in family research for over twenty years, and with surgical accuracy, he has managed to discover much of our family history. With the help of my Mother, he continues to make new connections and discoveries. In contrast to this, if I was to uncover a link to our latest, favourite, TV character, I would need to take the sledge hammer approach to family research, the kind that avoids the finer details and goes for the ‘vibe of the thing’. The question was how could I roll back the years to the mid 9^th century, look a quasi-mythical Viking king in the eye and ask ‘are you my great (x roughly 58) grandfather?’ Barring a time machine, and a crash course in Old Norse, the chances were buckleys and none, until I hit on a brain wave. If I could pin point a notable ancestor far enough back, I may be able to track back closer to the blond bearded one himself. Upon reflection, I knew I already had a likely candidate, a gentleman called Olaf the Black, a thirteenth century  king of the Isle of Man and viking to boot. You see, legend states that Olaf the Black was the father of a certain Leod, who was the founder of the McLeod Clan. As it happens, my great grand mother’s maiden name was McLeod. Bingo, finally I had a lead. All I had to do now was wade into the McLeod family records and see what awaited me.

The internet is an amazing thing. With in minutes I had come across an official McLeod Clan genealogy, well one of several any way, which demonstrated Olaf the Black’s descent from one ‘Ivar the Boneless’. Ivar was one of the leaders of the ‘Great Heathen Army’ that invaded Britain in 865 AD, and most importantly, a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. ‘Eureka!’ my quest was now complete. Barring adoption, infidelity, fake names and the usual fudging of genealogies to fill in blanks, curry favour or legitimise status of notable personages and clans, I was a (very, very) distant son of the famous Ragnar, of whom songs were sung, sagas were written and Hollywood films starring Ernest Borgnine were made. I could now look my wife in the eye and say ‘ I am your husband Quentin, descendant of King Ragnar Lothbrok, scourge of Paris, the British Isles, slayer of dragons (evidently), descendant of Odin (or so he reckoned) and your latest favourite TV character. Long may his series be renewed!’

As sensational as this discovery was, there was still more for me to uncover that would make me more excited than the Pointer Sisters. Further research revealed that the mother of Ivar the Boneless was a woman by the name of Princess Aslaug, also on our favourite show, who was the daughter of the uber-legendary Siegfried the dragon slayer and Brünnhilda, the valkyrie and legendary shield maiden. These people did not just have statues, sagas and movies produced about them, they had a whole series of operas written about them, Wagner’s Classic Ring Cycle. When people say ‘it ain’t over till the fat lady sings’ it’s Brünnhilda, traditionally a buxom soprano in a winged helmet singing the final aria in the opera, they are referring too. If the ancient records are to be believed, my great (x roughly 59) grandmother was the original fat lady. This must be where I get my singing ability from and why I own my own plastic helmet with wings, amazing. Even more miraculous is that as a valkyrie, she carried warriors who had died in battle to Valhalla and I, as a Christian minister, perform funeral services, giving those who have passed on a good send off into the hands of a loving saviour. ‘Snap!’, practically the same job. She’s even a Marvel Superhero and by golly, I love my Marvel Superheroes. And then there is her husband Siegfried, a dragon slayer. Sadly there’s not much call for that around here but I have killed a few mice and spiders in my time and I can be lethal. One does not need to look too far to see the family resemblance. 

There is much to be said for this sledge hammer approach to family tree research. Besides being a lot of fun, it is a great way of learning about the life and times of those who have gone before us in the distant ages and the stories they wanted to tell about there families when facts were not something that needed to get in the way. Because of this, we learn more about how they saw themselves in the cosmos and what they wanted to pass on. We get to know ‘the vibe of the thing’ and not just names, dates and facts. For those of us with a taste for the mythic and fantastic, it rips open the curtain of reality and reveals the places where mythology and history collide. Who knows, maybe one day they will tell similar stories about us, and if they do, I hope I will be the dragon slayer and not the fat lady. I might sing but I don’t look good in a dress. 

Fast Food Apocalypse

As we drove through Adelaide in the early morning dark, we decided that we would stop at a popular fast food chain for breakfast. 'Open 24 hours' the sign said, a promising statement that proved to be misleading. Pulling into the drive through, instead of being spoken to by the usually robotic pre-recorded North American voice, we were met by a disturbing silence that didn't bode well for our 4 am breakfast. Eventually a voice came over the speaker that sounded shocked at the prospect of customers. We were quickly told that we were too early for the breakfast menu and that they were unable to do burgers as well. I quickly checked that the sign did indeed say 'open 24 hours', which turned out to mean 'open but not necessarily serving any of the restaurants signature dishes'. When asked if we could get some coffees, we were told that they would have to be done with the machine, due to the fact that the cafe wasn't open. I got the sense that this too was an out of the ordinary request. I wondered how the cafe normally did the coffee if not with a machine, possibly with beans ground by hand and a cow freshly milked in the back of the kitchen. This process of making coffee also required us to go to the waiting bay as obviously it would take some time now that the machine had to be used. Compounding the issue was the fact that the EFTPOS machine wasn't working and our ten dollar note evidently was too large. Call us cynical, but we now had a suspicion that customers were not expected. Eventually we were asked to pull into the waiting bay, just in case any more customers decided to spring themselves on the now paranoid 'fast-foodateer'.

Soon we had our 'machine made' coffees and were on our way to Melbourne.   As we drove on, we began to reflect on our strange experience and the speculations ran wild, most of it landing firmly in the ridiculous category. Maybe the 24 hour store ran on a 25 hour timetable and we'd arrived in the 25th hour. Maybe the real employee had gone off to visit a lady friend and we were talking to his wing man. Maybe he'd been sleeping in the job and we'd woken him up!  Maybe the Fast food Apocalypse had come. Maybe it really was the final hour for all things greasy and cholesterol laden to come to an end. Maybe, maybe…

As we motored on into the wee hours of the morning, the decision was made to stop at Tailem Bend for breakfast. The Coolabah Tree Cafe at the local Shell Roadhouse was always a great place to stop for breakfast and it was to there that we set our sights. However when we finally arrived in the town, to our tummy rumbling horror, we found that the roadhouse was shut and that no breakfast was to be had there today, at least not until the sun came up. We were obviously outside of the 'open 24 hour zone', if we had ever truly been in one. It was at this point that we decided, if food was to be had, it would most likely be at the border between South Australia and Victoria. Maybe the Fast food Apocalypse had failed to reach Bordertown yet and we would be free to eat eggs, toast, beans and what ever else a breakfast menu provided, as long as it didn't require accepting the 'Mark of the Beast' to do so. Thankfully, Bordertown was Apocalypse free and breakfast and more coffee was had to feed our bodies and lift our spirits. This apocalyptic out break must have been a pre-border event, where those who remain faithfully on the road to the end would eventually receive their just fast food app rewards, or at least a free refill of their favourite soft drink from the holy soft drink dispenser. 

Wiping the coffee from our now satisfied mouths, we pushed on, hour after hour, through the seemingly never ending road works of the Princes Highway. We drove at 25kph to accommodate ghost road workers that were nowhere to be seen, sat behind sluggish trucks packed to the brim with wares of all kinds. We espied the great Castle Kryal flying her flags high on the hill and saw the signs pointing to the great Marsh of Bacchus. Soon we felt our stomachs rumble again and set out to test whether the Fast food Apocalypse had crossed the border.

Before long we came across another fast food outlet with a drive-through and we began to joke about the possibilities of obtaining food from this particular establishment. Ideas such as a chicken plague or burger shortage were thrown around, as well as references to Monty Python's cheese shop sketch, which feature a cheese shop that doesn't stock any cheese. What were the chances that this drive-through would prove to be as barren as the last one. It was after we had sat in front of the speaker for several minutes that our worst fears were realised. Staring at the menu board it soon became apparent that no one was taking our order. Slowly driving around the corner, we eventually arrived at the drive-through window to see a rather embarrassed looking girl emerging from the darkness of the kitchen area. Leaning out the window she said, 'I'm sorry, we can't do food currently, the powers gone off''. The Fast food Apocalypse had caught us. It wasn't 'pre' or 'post' border, it was 'pan' border in nature, It had engulfed South Australia and Victoria and we only hoped it wouldn't take the rest of the world, after all it was sometimes food and I enjoyed having it some times. As we drove off towards Melbourne, we couldn't stop laughing. How unlucky could we be, let down twice by the food chains that are usually the travelers friend; burger joints that didn't sell burgers. From that point on we decided to avoid the Fast food Apocalypse, the rest of our trip would be dine in.

And all our arteries said, 'Amen!'.