Category: Uncategorized

I’m preparing for a holiday to northern Uppland, the “Walloon” iron-making area.

Some of the questions going through my mind:

How many French-speaking Walloons came to Sweden in the seventeenth century?

What parts of present-day Belgium and France did they come from) (Liege and Sedan or elsewhere). Were they all protestants?  How many brought their families with them and how many stayed in Sweden? What exactly were their skills?

What made them come? What role did religion play? What role did economic factors play? State of evidence on these topics. Structure of academic work on the Walloon immigrants and issues in dispute.

The organisation of Walloon labour. Were there conflicts with the employers and how were these resolved? Or were they like Sheffield’s little meisters or “labour aristocrats”. The relationship between the Walloon immigrants and the existing rural population. Their subsequent integration.

Why did the Swedish kings want them to come: What were the technical improvements in iron making in the area around Liege, which were desirable?

Sweden’s need for metal in this period when Sweden was developing into a major power.

The background and motives of the investors/entrepreneurs who came, in particular the originally Dutch/Flemish (?). The relationship between De Geer and the Swedish establishment.

De Geer’s rapid naturalisation and becoming a Swedish aristocrat. Subsequent history of the De Geer family.

Early development of capitalism in the Netherlands. Reasons for investing in Sweden.

Relationship between this early industrialisation and its finance and the subsequent development of capitalism in Sweden and its late industrialisation.

Technical terms on mining and the iron industry in Swedish and English.

Exploring the environments around Dannemora and Lövsta and elsewhere.

My reading about the Walloons has been interspersed with a very interesting book about how the German city of Breslau became Polish Wroclaw, “Uprooted. How Breslau became Wroclaw during the century of expulsions” by Gregor Thum.

I have been fascinated by a long time by cities that have changed nationality, for example, Breslau, Stettin and Königsberg. Unlike Danzig where there was very much both a German and a Polish presence in the pre-war period, the Polish presence in Breslau was thin (it had been a Polish city but many centuries ago). According to Thum, it was not a city that Poland would have expected to receive in the post-war adjustments to the German-Polish border until it was transferred as compensation for Poland’s losses to the Soviet Union in the east (Lwow/Lvov etc). The expulsion of the German population and their replacement by people coming not just from Poland’s lost territory in the east but from many parts of Poland in the immediate post-war years meant that the city was repopulated by people with no relationship to the city nor in many cases to other incoming Poles. Some people of mixed parentage who were Polish and German speaking were allowed to remain but that was a rather thin layer of “heritage folk”.

What made matters worse was uncertainty about the durability of the arrangements agreed at Potsdam, whether the border would remain at the Oder-Neisse line in a world where there was great hostility between the Soviet Union and the western powers.

Thom describes the impressive reconstruction of the badly battered city at the same time as the “communist” Polish government made great efforts to stress that the transfer of Breslau to Poland was a justified restoration of a city that was fundamentally Polish and attempt to remove all vestiges of the German city; this led to there being an uneasy relationship with the history of the city, a tiptoeing around an absence not talked about, only alleviated once the German government stated its acceptance of the post-war borders and the collapse of the PCP and its need to stress the importance of the Soviet Union as the guarantor of the post-war arrangement.

The description of the process whereby it was decided to restore many historical buildings rather the prevailing idea at the time (as per Coventry Cathedral) which was not to do so as the result would be false. And, of course, in some ways it is false as the restored old facades are often just facades with a modern structure behind with internal arrangements quite unlike the historic. But it is not just aesthetics and architectural purity which is at stake but the responses of a population that had been subjected to an attempt to obliterate its culture and historical references. When wandering through the restored central streets of Gdansk, I found it pleasant and acceptable and wasn’t overpowered by a Disneyland feeling of artificiality (which I have felt in the Nikolaiviertel in Berlin and at Prince Charles’ extravaganza at Poundbury).

There are some fascinating quotes translated from Polish sources about what it felt like to move into a flat filled with the possessions of the previous German owners who had fled, like guests in someone else’s life.

It’s hard to conceive of the disappearance of a geographical area, not just its people but the knowledge handed down the generations of its culture, history, linguistic features etc. etc. And in the immediate post-war period and for a long time after, there wasn’t much sympathy for the German refugees from the East outside Germany after the horrors inflicted on Eastern Europe by the German army and state.

It felt good to go into a research library again though there were very few people around at Carolina Rediviva. I returned a book of Romain Rolland’s letters to Elsa Wolff, which I have had since those distant days before Covid-19 (a flashier person than me would have used the word “prelapsarian” here). I didn’t manage to establish whether it’s her signature on a signed book I have but I now know that she had sufficient knowledge of English to be able to read this book. And that it was probably not a present to her from Romain Rolland as the dates aren’t quite right. I’ll have to try to check her signature and see what other Elsa Wolffs I can find in the early twentieth century.

The weather is touch and go just now, unreliable; I decided to risk a soaking as a customer was late with a manuscript and I unexpectedly had time on my hands and badly needed exercise. So off I went on my bike through Luthagen, which is fast becoming part of “my” Uppsala, and past the cemetery, keeping my taphophilia in check (I still have a few calls to make). On my way back, I give into the temptation to buy an ice cream and sit by the river for a while (in principle, I don’t eat when I’m out). It’s a pleasant stretch by the kiosk where there used to be an old toll gate and where the “svart bäck”, the blackspring) tributary flows into the Fyris. Then to my post box where I was pleased to receive Gregor Thun’s “Uprooted. How Breslau became Wroclaw”. I’m fascinated by cities like Königsberg (Kaliningrad), Stettin (Szczecin) and Breslau (Wroclaw) which changed nationality and have wanted to read about the process of changeover. It’s hard for me to imagine what it would be like if Salisbury or Dorchester, for instance, became French.

I’ve spent some weeks reading the Cambridge Companion to the Bible. Not for religious reasons but because I’ve wanted to be able to find my way around the Bible better so that I know what I’m looking at when examining church art (for example, stained glass windows) and can better understand the way of thinking of those choosing the motives. I’ve been dissatisfied for a long time with the rag bag of odd bits and pieces of knowledge that my formal education equipped me with, the spectacular stories Adam and Eve, the Ark, Moses etc., without telling me much about the overall structure and intention of the work. I didn’t read much of the Bible itself – more about the interpretations by, above all German scholars about the age of the various parts, the relationship between history and myth, and the possible intentions and identities of the various editors. It’s an interesting book and the more I know about Christianity, the curiouser I find it. The two testaments seem an odd combination and the Trinity an uneasy device that creates endless problems. I felt I made some progress but by the time I got half way through the prophets I was losing momentum and felt an urge to return to the world of now so I went over to Piketty’s first book (which I thought I’d better read before buying his new book).

I was rather disappointed by Piketty. It’s undoubtedly a serious work with a lot of useful and interesting statistics, especially on the distribution of income, and, unlike much of modern economics, does tackle some important issues and offer a basis for discussion. But I found his analysis of capital fuzzy and he was closer to conventional economics in his values and way of thinking than I’d expected. He’s certainly not the 21^st century’s answer (or equivalent) to Marx. It says much about the barrenness of conventional economics that even a modest attempt at a serious discussion in a broader framework than conventional macro confers star status.

I stopped before I got to Piketty’s suggested solutions and contented myself with reading a couple of reviews, which confirmed my thoughts (and, of course, attracted my approval for their stringency…..).

Otherwise, I am reading about northern Uppland, the Walloons and the iron industry in preparation for a trip in that direction later in the summer. Discussions about pig iron and blast furnaces have left me rather cold in the past but I want to get a better idea of what went on and how the mining and refining of iron ore and other activities were connected (and master some of the terms used in the field). It seems an interesting part of Sweden which I’ve hardly looked at (other than what I have seen from the E4 or the railway). I realised the other day that the old spelling of Lövsta, Leufsta, could well be inherited from the Walloons as this would be the Walloon pronunciation.

It feels good to relax my isolation now even though I am continuing to be very careful. I noticed being by myself and focusing on my own planned projects that I tend to float away into my own time zone. I read for too many hours at a stretch, then get tired and sleep too much in the day. The other day I woke up refreshed and ready for my breakfast and the start of the day. After a while, I thought it was a bit dark and realised that it was 00.30 in the morning. And now it starts to feel not so much of a problem that I have to address but as an irritating intrusion, an unwanted intrusion of conventional attitudes into my time plan.

I should probably not be too creative with the circadian rhythm for reasons of mental hygiene; this “problem” will probably right itself once I have greater interaction with other people. I rate the chances of a sympathetic response to my operating on KSNLST (Kendall Standard Non-Linear Subjective Time) as poor….

Wednesday, 24 June

I’m going to “soften” my social isolation now and Day 100 seems like a good point to do it.

It’s not entirely rational as the threat from covid-19 is by no means over but maintaining isolation until (if?) a vaccine is available seems a tough prospect. It will, however, be softening with a small s as I am still going to be very careful, avoiding crowds, generally keeping my distance and wearing my last stand of the Zombies mask but I will at least meet my grandchildren outdoors.

The translation market has shown faint signs of life so I’ve had a bit to do. Otherwise as a major spare time activity, I’ve been reading the Cambridge Companion to the Bible. This not because my rugged materialist philosophy of life is crumbling from fear of the approaching reaper but because an ability to find one’s way around the Bible would be useful when looking at church art, to know better what I was looking at. Growing up in the 50s and 60s, you couldn’t help picking up some information about the book, but it was often of poor quality, disjointed presentations of more spectacular episodes (Samson, Jonas and the whale, Moses in the bullrushes, Noah’s ark and Adam and Eve), which didn’t give much of an idea of the structure of the Bible or any ideas about how the texts had been selected and edited.

The Cambridge Companion is more intended to be dipped into although I read it as a continuous text until I got half way through the various prophets when I got tired. I’ll do the same at a later date for the New Testament but I feel a need now to get back to current reality so I’m tackling Picketty’s Capital in the twenty-first century, which has been sitting on my must-read shelf for a good while.

I’m not discontented with my reading about the Bible, however – it’s given me a slightly better framework for my intended use and the ragbag of associations in my brain is better ordered.

The Bible is a curious book or rather a curious combination of books resulting from Christianity’s only partially successful takeover of the Jewish religion. It’s amusing to think of what could have been the result if Christianity had developed a similar relationship with the old Asa religion instead of supplanting it. Editing the Nordic sagas and combining them with a New Testament to form the basis of a religion would be a challenging occupation (the occasional brutality wouldn’t be too much of a problem as there are some pretty wild episodes in the Old Testament capable of getting God hauled up before the International Criminal Court in the Hague, which Christianity takes in its stride). I shall make a note of this as a rainy Sunday activity.

The Bible is also interesting from the point of view of translation as it made its way from Hebrew to Greek and Latin. I was attracted by the word “prophet”, ultimately from the Greek prophetes, an interpreter/spokesman. According to the Online etymology dictionary www.etymonline.com “The Greek word [prophetes] was used in Septuagint [the translation of the Bible from Hebrew into Greek] for Hebrew nabj, “soothsayer”. Early Latin writers translated Greek prophetes with Latin vates, but the Latinized form propheta predominated in post-Classical times, chiefly due to Christian writers probably because of pagan associations of vates…The Latin word is glossed in Old English by witga”.

All of these “vit” words go back to Sanskrit (wit, witness, “vidja” (knowledge) in Sanskrit.

Other words I’ve learnt in the past week or so are “tetragram” (four-letter word), “plangent” (loud and resonant noise with a mournful tone) and “prequel” (as the opposite to “sequel”), which makes me feel that I should have known it before but in fact didn’t.

I also have a somewhat clearer idea of the distinction between the figures of speech synedoche (“all hands on deck” where a part represents the whole) and metonymy (“Crown lands” where an associated word is used).  It’s probably not difficult to find examples where the distinction is difficult.

As I am now changing my social isolation, this will be my last Corona Diary blog post but I shall continue my blog “unnumbered”.

Thursday, 18 June

Between my flat and the old royal graves the roads (vägar) are named after Nordic gods and goddesses. We have Torsväg, (Thor). Odensväg (Oden) and the goddess of fertility, Frej (Freisväg) although strangely enough no road for Ull, Thor’s stepson, a good archer, skater and skier, who is otherwise popular in these parts (he does have a “quarter” (block) named after him elsewhere). Perhaps the city fathers thought that he was doing well enough already with all the place names starting with Ull around the river, which may have been cult places for him.

Close to where I live is Hugin’s road, one of Oden’s two ravens who flew out in the morning to check the state of the world and came back by breakfast to inform Oden of what was going on. The other more shadowy raven Munin has a street too. And there is one for Balder, Oden’s second son, who all animate beings and inanimate things had promised not to hurt except for mistletoe. Loki, father of the Midgard serpent and the Fenris wolf and of dubious repute, deceived the blind god Hodr into throwing the mistletoe at Balder, who was killed. I can’t quite envisage how a soft and yielding plant could do such damage even if it were toxic. There are odd echoes of Achilles heel in the “toe” but here it’s just a confusion and the name derives from twig.

There is also a road named after Snorre, the Icelandic scholar and after arrangements associated with the pagan period so that we have Holmgångsvägen and Envigsvägen, both of which seem to mean single combat (I must check the difference). When these streets were named in 1948, the city council was concerned that they might stimulate fights but they were assured by their naming committee that “holmgång” was not just any old dust-up but a test of strength subject to very strict rules and codes of honour. I haven’t seen anything awry when I’ve passed by just the odd person washing hisher car. Once we’ve stopped keeping our social distance, I’ll pop over and ask “Excuse me, but do you ever go berserk?”.

My favourite is Idunsvägen. Idun is the goddess that guards the apples that the gods and goddesses have to eat to stay young. I’ve been along that road and believe that there are apple trees in the gardens, unknown whether the denizens just like apples or are playing along with the myth.

I shall check again when the apple are in fruit. If there aren’t any apples in these roadside gardens, there should be so I will take a bag with me to eat and discreetly throw the cores into the gardens.

At the very top of the district is Greta Arvidssons väg, a prominent archaeologist and then below past my house all the names are of literary figures, especially those with a Finnish connection. This is fun too but I’ll save these for another blog post.

Sources: Nordiska Gudar och Hjältar, Anders Baeksted (1986); Dictionary of Northern Mythology, Rudolf Simek (2000) and Uppsalas gatumamn, Mats Wahlberg (1994)

Monday, 15 June

Tired of debating with myself whether a 22 km bike ride there and back would be too much for me on a hot day, I get up at 5 am and set off an hour later for the “row village” of Ekeby just off the road to Sala. It’s a pleasant journey in the cool of the morning, with just one awkward section when I foolishly attempt to rebel against the cycle path’s counter-intuitive meandering, ending up at the side of highway 55, a wannabe motorway, no place for a silver top on a bike. But after a couple of hundred metres diesel trudge, a traffic light suddenly appears. I award God a half quality point for this miraculous intervention (it would have been a whole quality point if the boring old green, yellow, red had been replaced by a messenger angel with a shining selfie stick pointing out the way ahead….). But shortly after I’m off the wannabe motorway and all is peaceful and bucolic. I’m tempted to stop to examine the flowers but am eager to get my journey done before the sun gets high in the sky.

I want to see Ekeby as it’s arranged like many mediaeval villages were in Sweden before the eighteenth and nineteenth century agricultural reforms, the so-called partitions, the Great Partition (storskifte), enskifte, laga skifte, with increasing degrees of compulsion. Previously, the farms had been gathered together in traditional villages (in a row of buildings with the amount of frontage depending on the amount of land owned), with houses on one side and farm buildings on the other. The farmers then owned strips of land, some on better and some on poorer land, scattered around the village. They were often dependent on one another, working together and deciding what to grow. The agricultural reforms aimed to concentrate land holdings and, after the “laga skifte” partition in 1827, enabling a single farmer to demand partition, the farms were often moved away from the traditional village. The farmers became less dependent on one another and employed more landless labour.

This process can be viewed in many perspectives – agricultural efficiency, social divisions (the landless as cause and effect of the partitions), the effect on the rural community, its different impact in different parts of Sweden (weak in Dalecarlia/Dalarna, for example, where many villages remain intact), the effect of differing traditional provisions on inheritance on the division and sub-division of the land, and the ideological justification and interpretation of the partitions.

Ekeby is unusual as it not only has a row but also a ring road around the core of the village like many mediaeval settlements, which apparently has only survived here. The village with its cluster of falu red buildings is visible from some way off. It’s an idyllic place but didn’t obviously look like a collection of working farms. I wonder what happened to land ownership here. Did the survival of the village mean that the partition of the land didn’t take place or was there some other reason for the survival of the traditional village? (photos on my facebook page).

There’s no noticeboard at the village to explain what we are looking at. I don’t suffer from craft shop deprivation but it would be interesting to know more, to understand that the differing countryside in, for example, England and Sweden but also within Sweden. isn’t just natural phenomena but the result of distinct historical processes.

A couple of notes on terminology. As far as I can see “partition” is the word used, although what actually happened was more of a re-partition (and joining together rather than splitting). I’ve also sometimes seen the word “enclosure” used although enclosure in England differed. There it was a matter of enclosing or privatising common land and I’m not sure that this played such a major role in Sweden even if the causes, aims and effects of agricultural reforms bore some similarities.

“Row villages” also has an awkward translation flavour – it comes over as reihendorf in German, which may be more convincing. There might be a better technical term.

Dalecarlia, an English or rather Latin term, is hardly used in everyday English (unlike Gothenburg).

Dalarna does not require any unfamiliar oral gymnastics (also unlike Göteborg) so most English people are probably happy with that. I learnt the other day that Dalecarlia is an exonym or xonym (like Germany or Sweden) – an external name for a geographical place, group or people (while Dalarna and Deutschland are endoyms (or autonyms) used internally; a satisfactory acquisition along with ethonym and glossonym.

10 June 2020

Confronted by a very fast road without a cycle path, I abandon my plan to cycle to Ekeby, a small village that has kept its mediaeval structure and not moved all the farms out of the old village in connection with the eighteenth and nineteenth century land reforms, the so-called partitions.

I see from my map that I am close to Hässelby Park, which is also on my list. The guidebook is lyrical about its oak and other deciduous trees and I go there instead in the hope of walking through something like an English wood.  But it’s rather a disappointment as there are too many sombre, acidic spruce and pine trees among the fresh green. Either I have not found the right place or it’s only lyrical to a Swedish eye, more accepting of the conifer as a fact of life. I’ll have to sit and dream in the English Park at Drottningholm instead.

I return by a roundabout route past Ulva kvarn, an old mill which has been there in various forms since the fourteenth century. The café is open and there’s hardly anyone around so I decide to risk an outdoor coffee, my first commercial coffee since I started my self-isolation (pics on my Facebook page).

I’m tempted to make a detour to Ärentuna again to see if I can get into the church but a headwind is dampening my euphoria. But I can cope with it and notice that I don’t feel I always need to get off and push my bike uphill. I’m getting used to riding a bike again and I even overtake a lady cyclist as I near home. I resist the temptation to shout at her as I overtake “you make me feel like Achilles”, which could be misunderstood (I have learnt not to make jokes in situations when I don’t have an explanatory leaflet (with footnotes).  She would probably not have been quick enough to answer “surely, only like his vulnerable part.”

15-20 kilometres is enough for me and I’m glad to be back to start working on planning a summer trip around Uppland.

Sunday, 7 June

I’ve finished reading “The Global Gamble” by my old friend, Peter Gowan. I have had a bad conscience for never having tackled it but now, twenty years after its publication, I’ve done so, thanks to Corem-19. But otherwise, I’ve mostly been occupied by the less worldly of my interests, and then too in a rather scattered, unconcentrated way; perhaps due to my long period of self-isolation or maybe a physical reaction from spending too much time in my dust-laden flat.

I’ve been working through a local guide “Hitta Uppland – Guiden till Naturen och Kulturen” with a view to travelling around the county in the summer. There’s a lot to see – I’m attracted by the coast and the old metal-working and Walloon areas in the north of the county.

Another place that interests me is Balingsta to the west of Uppsala. Here a new neo-gothic brick church was built in 1872 and the decayed mediaeval church abandoned. I was somewhat puzzled when googling on the church to find pictures of a romanesque church, which was neither brick nor neo-gothic, the explanation being that in 1917 it was decided to restore the old church and Adrian Crispin Peterson’s nineteenth century creation was demolished in 1934 (There are over 30 other of his churches so I suppose the loss of one is bearable). The abandonment of the old church seems to have been a matter of dispute for the parish. I read originally that the new church was disliked because it was considered alien, not in the spirit of the prevailing national romantic style. And I suppose discussions in the parish could have been in that direction although a key player in the restoration of the old church was not profoundly a Swede but a new priest, an Englishman by origin, Edward Holliday-Owen, born in Chester, who had spent many years in Sikkim as a missionary. Nathan Söderblom, the archbishop approved of this project and the restoration project was financed by Alfred Berg. the banker and owner of nearby Wiks slott. Why and how Holliday-Owen came to Sweden and how he learnt Swedish and was able to serve as a priest here, I don’t know but I shall dig in the Uppsala newspaper archive when it’s safe to do so to find out more about him and what happened to the church.

I want to read more about neo-gothic churches in Sweden. I know that, just as in England, there was subsequently criticism of some of the more ardent proponents of the style such as Helgo Zetterwall. The turn back to the gothic style was accompanied in England by a fascination with the mediaeval period. I don’t know if there was any equivalent to this in Sweden or how the neo-Gothic related to the later national romantic style with its more muscular references to the past.

I’d like to read some Swedish writers who wrote fiction about Uppland and have so far come across Jan Fridegård, according to Wikipedia “a Swedish writer of the proletarian school”, although he has also written a trilogy about Viking times as well as novels based on his own upbringing. It’s perhaps a bit like Ivar Lo-Johansson and I’ll begin by reading his trilogy about his own life – “Jag Lars Hård”, “Här är min hand” and “Lars Hård går vidare”. I suspect I may own some of this works among those I have at Kungshatt rescued from various library purges.

And for bedtime reading, I’ve been reading Chaucer’s “The Franklin’s Tale”, which has been on my bookshelf for some time. It’s pleasurable to read Middle English but, to enjoy it to the full, I need to get a better annotated Chaucer than the cheapy version I acquired in some charity bookshop.

I feel I’m making good progress with some of my aims and have played a bad hand reasonably well. It always strikes me that “defeat management” is a neglected skill; there’s something attractive about the expression “plucking victory from the jaws of defeat”. Weeping over the absence of aces is anyway a waste of time.

But after more than 80 days isolation, it is beginning to feel irksome and I’m unsure about the next step. I don’t think I can stay in isolation until a vaccine is available in perhaps nine months time or more. I guess I will proceed cautiously, with slightly more social contact but taking great care to avoid crowded situations. It’s more complicated than avoiding everyone, however.

Thursday, 4 June

I’m a bit apprehensive about the distance but I feel I need a change of air and cycle to Ärentuna, a small village about 10 km north of Uppsala. It’s an easy ride, all on the flat, past Gamla Uppsala cemetery and the turn-off to the river bathing spot. Then on to Queen Christina’s long straight road to the north; it’s no longer the main road but it still has a brisk business-like feel to it. I follow it over the bridge, past the military airport and the signs to Uppsala’s second airport, south of Bälinge (what we would call an airfield). The last few kilometres are on a rural by-way to Ärentuna. It’s very pleasant and I recall memories from youthful trips in the Somerset countryside sixty years ago. I’m making for Ärentuna where the fourteenth-century church has wall paintings worth seeing. Some of them are at the National Museum in Stockholm but I believe the interior of the church still looks decorated in the mediaeval way, before literacy, before translation of the Bible into Swedish, before simplicity and introspection. However, I have to re-visit as the church is locked and I can’t find or contact the caretaker. But I’m not bothered to have to come back as it’s a luxurious place, still and surrounded by fields and a few church-related buildings. I wish I’d brought my copy of Chaucer’s Franklin’s Tale, which I started the other day, appropriate for the fourteenth century surroundings. But it’s very fine to sit and muse.

I wouldn’t know from the outside that the church was originally fourteenth century. In England, I could probably tell from the windows and arches but the rounded windows of this church don’t fit in to our pattern of Norman, Early English, Decorated and Perpendicular. I’m not sure but I believe that way of categorising churches dates from the nineteenth century. It would be interesting to know how other countries organise their view of the gothic period. Most churches in Sweden seem to just refer to the century the church was built or refurbished.

There are other things worth seeing in the neighbourhood but I decide not to be over-ambitious and make for home. I’m quite tired by the time I get back but pleasantly so.

It’s very quiet on the work front now – I had an order today for a job in July but I’ve nothing in process just now. I spent yesterday organising a box of family history documents that has given me a bad conscience every time I saw it. I’ve now sorted it by family, the next step being to list the documents, copy old handwritten documents on to archive paper, and to make notes of what has been done where and logical next steps.

Most of this work was done thirty years ago and I’ve only dabbled a bit since then. I wanted the family to know its history and to produce an archive that could be handed down. The common people have a memory of three or four generations and then it’s lost, which I think is a pity. I’ve traced my father’s line back to the sixteenth century, fairly easily as they didn’t move around much but stayed in the same North Dorset village. To get further back to the period before parish registers were kept, you would have to look at the manorial documents, which requires a knowledge of mediaeval handwriting and some latin. And that might not tell you who exactly was in your line but you could perhaps see whether there were people of the same name in the village or not.

There’s a generation missing on my father’s side as his father was 40 when he was born and he was 55 when I was born. My paternal grandfather was born in 1855 and died in 1895, making the Victorian age feel closer for me. Just now I’m concentrating on sorting but I did notice (for the first time) that my maternal grandmother had 13 siblings and my maternal great grandfather couldn’t write but made his mark, a cross, on the marriage certificate. After leaving the army, he became a convict warder at Portland prison, Hardy’s Isle of Slingers so I have Dorset ancestry on both sides of my family although my maternal great grandfather originally came from Ballymena in Northern Ireland (where I believe the late Reverend Paisley came from…).

Sunday, 31 May, Nathan Söderblom and Gustaf Fröding

A fine summer day with intense blue and light green overpowering the gloomy pine. I make for Luthagen west of the river, next in line in the expansion of my familiar Uppsala. There are more buildings here by Gunnar Leche but I leave these for later and make for Stabby prästgård, originally a prebendal house for the professor of theology (picture on facebook). Its origins are in the sixteenth century but only the cellars remain from earlier times of what is now a nineteenth century building. It’s known latterly because the renowned cleric Nathan Söderblom lived there for over a decade before becoming archbishop of Uppsala and moving down to the archbishop’s palace. Then it was on the edge of the city and it’s still pleasantly relaxing to sit in the garden, which is permitted when the building is not let.

After communing with nature, I continue to the old cemetery, finding a place with a number of bikes already parked where I can hopefully achieve flock protection from cycle carnivores. Compared with Park St and especially compared with some tumbledown romantic jungles in the UK, the cemetery is very orderly with its neat rows and no stones lying at crazy angles. I photograph the list of graves of the great and the good for a planned visit later and content myself with Carl Peter Thunberg, Linnaeus disciple who went on botanical excursions in South Africa with fellow botanist Lady Anne Monson on her way to Calcutta, social success and an early death. And then down to the end to look at the poet Gustaf Fröding’s grave; his funeral was in Stockholm before being taken by train for interment in Uppsala. Nathan Söderblom by then archbishop said the following bierside words “Tre små böcker kom ut – och ett helt språk har sorg”. “Three small books were published and a whole language is in grief” (from the translation of Nathan Söderblom’s bio I believe). I presume that this was at the funeral service in Stockholm as Erik Axel Karlfeldt, fellow poet and later winner of the Nobel prize, held a speech at the interment and it sounds rather a jostle if the archbishop was trying to get a word in there too. In fact, I can only claim a half point for Fröding as I saw the grave but seized by the idea of an anonymous, epitaph-less wordless poet’s grave, I was convinced that it was an unmarked marble column nearby. Even the half point is fragile as I haven’t read Fröding – my knowledge of Swedish poetry is weak. But ideal David Kendall is going to fix this (as well as reading Nathan Söderblom’s bio and getting a better grasp of the cultural environment at the turn of the last century. I will at least return soon to the cemetery and tweak this irritating memory.

I’ve never been inside the cemetery before but I’ve known the area well for years, visiting it many times in the 1980s when I was a doctoral student in Uppsala. It was here that I had my Damascene moment when listening to an academic expatiating on some convoluted system with, (IMO), more than a whiff of merde de taureau. And the thought struck me what am I doing putting all this effort into obtaining an entrance ticket to an environment that bores me. And not so long afterwards my research object disappeared in the upheavals in eastern Europe, easing the passage of the jumble of pretend thesis papers to the recycling skip. It was just as well – butterfly minds shouldn’t try to do PhDs.

Friday, 29 May

I notice that life is not normal when I feel disproportionate pleasure about fixing something now rather than post-Corona; the joy of receiving a humble roll of blue cotton thread to mend an Indian shirt, which the seller managed to send me in a small letter-box friendly consignment and not in some grossly oversized container that had to be picked up elsewhere. And a copy of Mats Walberg’s Uppsala Gatunamn, the first book I’ve bought in hundreds of years.

Walberg’s book, almost four hundred pages not just of explanations of Uppsala’s street names but dealing with the history of the city, the academic feuds about the origin of its name and more.

Uppsala has many street names referring to Nordic mythology, especially where I live close to Gamla Uppsala. I know a bit but I’d like to know more and, if I’m in Sweden this summer as is likely, it seems a good time. I’ve lived in Sweden for almost half a century so a knowledge of the Icelandic sagas and some idea of Old Norse is a minimum requirement for a civilised person. It would be amusing to sit close to the old kings’ grave mounds and read about Old Norse (although the prospect of conversation practice seems unlikely even in the mystic twilight of a midsummer night).

Today, I took another bike ride to look at buildings, this time the older area around the cathedral with the aid of Dan Thunman’s “Uppsala vandringar” published by the municipality (see pictures on my Facebook page). I discover a street behind the cathedral, which I hadn’t seen before, a kind of cathedral close with three or four rather lovely buildings. It would be pleasant to live in such a place although perhaps not now when extensive renovation work is taking place at the cathedral.  There are not many really old secular buildings in Uppsala although there are some with origins in the middle ages with the older parts encased in later refurbishment. There was a fire in 1702 that destroyed much of the town leading to new building in the eighteenth century. The name Carl Hårleman (1700-1753) often crops up as the architect of new or refurbished buildings, restoring the fire-damaged castle and parts of the cathedral. He was also active in Stockholm and other places in Sweden, went to France a number of times and is referred to as the architect who introduced the Rococo style to Sweden. The buildings I looked at today – the Old Senate House (Gamla konsistoriehuset) and the Cathedral Chapter House (Domkapitelhuset) didn’t fit in with my concept of the rococo. But I wouldn’t challenge anyone to a duel to defend my ideas about the rococo so I should probably get hold of Göran Alm’s (1993) Carl Hårleman och den svenska rokokon and tidy up. The other book I want to read, which I already own is Frederic Bedoire’s two-volume Den svenska arkitekturens historia. I want to draw up reading lists in a number of areas that interest me. While I can’t tackle them all at once, it would be good to have such lists for a structured approach as too much of my reading is spontaneous – I catch sight of something that takes my fancy, often serendipitously but some structure wouldn’t be bad – at least I could attempt to keep my brain in some kind of order.

I left one major building, Holmgren’s nineteenth-century main University building, for another day. I’d like to do a tour focusing on the nineteenth century and will probably include it then. I also want to go to the old cemetery and the English Park, which I haven’t visited yet.

It’s very pleasant that I have been able to devote time to my surroundings, which are becoming much denser and richer in associations, enhancing my feeling that I actually live in Uppsala, not just using it as a base or hub/extension of my usual semi-nomadic existence (a place in its own right in my life rather than a kind of London E350…).