The trolls in folklore originate from the jotnar. The jotnar were in conflict with the Aesir. They were the arch-enemies, and it was the jotnar who caused all the disasters in connection with Ragnarok. Yet, the jotnar were feared, but also respected.
When Christianity made its entrance, they tried with all their might to 'eradicate both the Aesir, Vanir, and Jotnar.' But the Jotnar and dwarves, who in many ways can be said to represent the forces of nature, lived on in folklore, now as trolls and dwarves. The trolls had become evil and stupid, and the dwarves had become small and lived inside the mountains.
The giants were not stupid and evil in the first place. Odin, the chief god, was half of giant descent. His father, Bor, was the son of the primeval god Bure, who was licked out of the salt stones in Ginnungagap by the primeval cow Audhumla. The saga does not mention anything about Bor's mother, but he was at least married to the giantess Bestla, daughter of the giant Bolthorn. She was then the mother of the trio Odin, Vé, and Vili.
Loki, Odin's friend and blood brother, was of Jotun descent. That is to say, his father, Fárbauti, was undoubtedly of Jotun lineage, while there are those who claim that his mother, Laufey, was an Aesir. In any case, Loki is considered to be of Jotun descent, yet still respected as an Aesir, and he resides in Asgard. He is Odin's blood brother and Thor's best friend. His relationship with Freyja and Heimdall can probably be said to be a bit more variable.
Another jotunn who resided in Åsgård was Mímir. He was the wisest of all, Æsir, Vanir, and jotnar alike. He was the guardian of the well of wisdom, Mímisbrunnr. Whoever drank from the well gained wisdom. Odin was allowed to drink from the well in exchange for pledging an eye, which was placed in the well. Nevertheless, he had to consult Mímir, later Mímir's head, when important decisions were to be made. Mímir met a somewhat unfortunate fate. War was, as it is now, not an unfamiliar phenomenon. The Æsir and Vanir fought and waged war among themselves. But in the end, they realized that nothing good would come from this fighting. They made peace and sent hostages to each other.
Høne and Mime were sent to the Vanir, while Njord and Frey were sent to the Aesir. The Vanir were not entirely satisfied with the exchange. They felt that they had sent more significant hostages to the Aesir than what they had received in return. They cut off Mime's head and sent it back. Odin took care of it, prepared it, and could still speak with it and receive advice. Another Jotun, who perhaps does not exactly live in Asgard since his hall is under the sea, but who is highly respected and frequents good company, is the jötunn Ægir, ruler of the sea. He is married to Ran, a personification of the sea. It is not clear whether she is an Aesir or a jötunn, but as a personification of the sea, she is probably a jötunn as well.
Among other Jotuns, those who lived in Jotunheimen, can be mentioned Trym, the one who stole Thor's hammer and demanded Freya in exchange. Quite a crude guy, but still not particularly intelligent. His morals could probably be described as questionable. Utgårdsloke could probably be described as a trickster. A big trickster. When Thor and his companions were on their way to Trym, they found a cave where they spent the night. The cave had two rooms, one large and one small. When they got up the next morning, they saw that the cave was actually a mitten. Utgårdsloke’s mitten. He tricked Thor into breaking backs with Elle, the personification of old age, drinking from the sea in a drinking contest, and trying to lift the Midgard Serpent, believing it was a cat. The Jotun Tjaste tried to kidnap Idunn, but it went badly for him. He was burned by Odin and killed by Thor. Then we have the giant Rugne. Not particularly intelligent, but considered the strongest of all the Jotuns. His buddy, Mokkurkalv, large and incredibly strong, is by some considered a Jotun. He was as dumb as a loaf of bread and besides, cowardly and easily frightened, but was, after all, an artificial figure, built by the giants to participate in a duel against Thor and Thjalve. Unfortunately, they had made the mistake of giving him a mare's heart. When he saw Thor, he was utterly terrified. He was then killed by an arrow from Thjalve. By the way, it can be mentioned that Thjalve and his sister Roskva were neither Aesir, Vanir, nor giants. They were humans.
The giant Vavtrudne was considered very wise and knowledgeable. Odin was anxious that Vavtrudne might turn out to be wiser than himself. He therefore disguised himself, called himself the Wanderer, and went to Vavtrudne to try to trap him in a contest of knowledge. But Vavtrudne matched him freely and was equal in knowledge. Finally, the Wanderer asked, 'What words did Odin whisper in the ear of the dead Bragi as he lay on the funeral pyre?' Then Vavtrudne had to give up and answered, 'No one knows what your son said in your ear in ancient times.' With this, he admitted defeat, but also revealed that he had seen through Odin's disguise.
As one can see, the trolls were neither evil nor stupid. Some were, but the same was true for the Æsir (we probably can't exclude humans from that either). There was a mutual respect between the races. There was extensive interaction between the clans. That lasted all the way until Ragnarok, that is. And Ragnarok, we are still waiting for.
It is only when Christianity makes its entrance that the trolls become evil. Partly, the Æsir are also counted among the wicked and fought against with harsh clerical hands. The ancient Norwegians were not particularly literary. It was the oral storytelling tradition that prevailed. They had the runes, but these were not particularly suitable for writing history or long explanations. They were mostly used to carve witty sayings into stone or wood.
Most of the Norse mythology as we know it was written down from the 1100s onwards. With Christian pens. Snorri Sturluson, who is perhaps the greatest contributor to what we now know, was a Christian. This has naturally had an influence. Even though Snorri might be considered a dedicated historian, some Christian bias probably shines through in his writings.
Otherwise, the priests did what they could to eradicate both jotnar, Æsir, trolls, Vanir, both overworldly and underworldly beings. There was supposed to be only one god, Christ, who mattered. By the way, that was why the Christians were unpopular in ancient Rome. It wasn’t because of the one god. The Romans already believed in many gods, and one more – well, they could probably tolerate that. But when all the old gods were to be exterminated and the new god was to be in charge – not just in charge, but the one and only. Yes, that was unbearable. And furthermore, a god who demanded submission and asceticism and threatened eternal suffering, in contrast to the Romans’ more human-like gods with their flaws, their jealousy, their appetite for relationships with humans, and their sense of festivity and celebration.
The old royal candidates, the Olavs, Tryggvason and Haraldsson, probably considered Christianity as a suitable tool to subdue the old Norwegians. Both farmers and fishermen and Vikings. They had probably learned from the emperor in Byzantium. Constantine the Great who quietly introduced Christianity to the Roman Empire and used it to patch together a crumbling Roman Empire and to consolidate power with the emperor. It was Constantine who convened the Church Council in Nicaea (in the year 325) where they fairly agreeably decided what they were supposed to believe. At a later church council in Carthage in the year 397, it was agreed which books should be included in the Bible. Well, this is perhaps somewhat disputed whether it really was in Carthage, some believe it was earlier, but for now, we’ll stick with Carthage.
Christianity in the Nordic countries was introduced with a heavy hand and with a sword in hand. Or an axe. Many were given the choice of either being baptized or losing their farm, land, and life. And their descendants. Only the most powerful could resist for a while longer. And those who lived far away, like Erik the Red in Greenland. His son, Leif the Lucky, the Vinland Explorer, paid a visit to Norway and there he had to be baptized.
Since then, it followed blow after blow, with tithes, witch burnings, and all the way up to our times with various ignoble actions with Christian intent and corresponding approval, against the population in the northernmost parts of the country, the Sami.
The old Norwegians were tough and brutal. So were their gods. But, like the gods of both the Romans and Greeks, they were more human, had flaws, were jealous and vengeful. They were perhaps not as eager to mate with humans as the more hot-blooded Mediterranean gods. It is possible that the jötunn women were more interesting in that regard.
One cannot help but wonder, would we not have been just as well taken care of by trolls and giants, gods and dwarves as by Christianity. Not to be understood as wishing for the old times, nor for Norse paganism, to return. Surely no one with most of their wits about them does. The world has moved on. We have different norms for human relationships, we can explain lightning and thunder without having to resort to thunder gods.
But the strange thing is: many, among them presumably intelligent people, firmly believe that Jesus will come back, that he will judge both the living and the dead. Not based on their deeds, but on whether they have prayed enough for forgiveness, whether they have shown enough gratitude. Almost something Trumpish about it all (couldn't help myself). In addition, they believe that we, in order to appease their deity, should implement the same laws and rules of conduct that applied in the regions of the eastern Mediterranean over 2000 years ago.

If anyone is wondering how it happens that the seagull can fly, I can tell you right now. It's pure and unadulterated STUBBORNNESS! That flapping of the wings is just for show. No, he flies on pure stubbornness. He's even more stubborn than the wi… well, let's leave that unmentioned. But in any case, he's the most stubborn thing you can wrap in feathers.
I have now politely tried to talk properly with him and persuade him to move his nest and breeding site to places other than my porch. There should be plenty of suitable places in the local area for nest building.
For a while, I thought he was aiming for a mobile existence, because every morning I found straw and twigs and things like that on the car roof. But here yesterday evening, quite late yesterday evening, actually long after a reasonable bedtime, I was letting the cat out. Then I realized what was going on. They are doing their thing on the car roof. So the arrangement with straw and twigs is probably just to prevent the flat-footed ones from slipping on the slippery roof. It’s probably nice to get a little push-off when the seagulls are at their worst.

I had now convinced myself that it was too late for this pair of seagulls. They haven’t had it easy this year, being homeless and chased around as they have been. Twice, their egg has been taken from them. I thought the season was lost for them. But not at all. When I saw the activities they were up to on the car roof, I realized there was more to come. And sure enough, this afternoon when we came home from work, they had made a nice little nest bowl. Where to? Well, I can tell you. In the other flower box on the steps. Well, not ON the steps, as it hangs outside the railing, but still. No egg has been laid yet, but the intention is clear.

That stubborn bird!

Larissa, and not to forget her mate, Larris. Last year they settled on the garage roof, right at the edge, where they took turns incubating a single egg. Eventually, out came a little gray-green speckled downy chick, and the seagull-like happiness was immense. Yes, we shared, more or less, the excitement over the little one. But both Larris and Larissa became quite grumpy and quarrelsome. Not to mention loud-mouthed. There was screeching and scolding like no other whenever someone went out the door. Well, we thought, it won’t last that long. But it did. The fairly flat garage roof with asbestos-cement sheets was a perfect nursery for the seagull chick. There was busy traffic to and from with treats for the growing family. Every time the feeding express had a free moment, there was either loud choral singing from the roof ridge or dive-bombing after the cat or other creatures unfortunate enough to be in what they clearly defined as a forbidden area. However, it must be admitted that the residents of the house had a kind of free pass to move around the area as long as they stuck to ordinary, everyday tasks. Except for the house cat. The cat developed acute agoraphobia. It eased a little over the winter, only to be replaced by a touch of cryophobia, but now the agoapphobia has flared up again.
The maternity ward on the garage roof eventually turned into a kindergarten, preschool, elementary school, and finally a middle school. Every day when we came home from work, the little one was the first thing we looked for, to see if it had jumped down. But we were disappointed—every day. We even set up an old foam mattress to soften the fall, but it didn't help.

But suddenly one day, he was both able to fly and confirmed and almost an adult, and then he was gone. Peace settled over the courtyard, and we could once again welcome visitors without equipping them with helmets and hearing protection. It was in that context that I had a serious talk with Larris and clearly warned him that we would not tolerate this. They were evicted from the garage roof and were welcome to find another breeding place.
Then winter passed and spring came. And with spring, two clearly spring-crazed little seagulls: Larissa and Larris. They were busy with what seagulls do on bright spring nights. Such springtime gull activities eventually lead to an intense urge to build a nest, and the serious talk we had had was obviously forgotten. I felt compelled to put power behind my words and demanded the removal of the illegal structures. After two or three attempts, I realized that stronger measures were needed. A seagull-scaring owl was purchased. 'Greets passersby with blinking eyes and a friendly hoot,' it said on the box. Friendly hoot? By now, we were well past the friendly phase. The owl looked so plastic and unconvincing that I was embarrassed to show it to the seagull. It was never set up, just packed away and forgotten. A ladder with a fluttering red plastic bag seemed to do the job. Now it only covers a small part of the garage roof, but fortunately, it seems that it's exactly that spot which is the only suitable seagull nesting site. For it eventually got through the plumage that the garage roof was terra clausa for nesting. In sheer desperation, Larris set up an emergency nest in a flower box outside the steps. It was high time, because as soon as the last straw was laid, an egg plopped out. Now it may be that they got very busy 'charging' the next egg, and less concerned with taking care of the one they had, for the next morning the egg was gone without a trace. 'What do we do now, little dove?' said Larris. 'Pressure's building up, it's building up, hurry, hurry,' said Larissa. She couldn’t scream out the proper seagull way, because she was afraid the egg would just pop out. Larris understood that there was urgency, so he arranged some straw in the nearest flowerpot so she could relieve herself. And there they lie now, Larissa and their egg. Yes, Larris is diligent and takes his turn incubating too. He has a slightly milder temperament than Larissa. She is more short-tempered, especially if someone surprises her. Otherwise, they have become quite friendly while incubating. Even the cat is quietly tolerated. Well, quietly might be an exaggeration. Using an indoor voice is not something seagulls are good at. But one thing is certain: when the egg hatches, the area will be evacuated fairly quickly. No seagull chicks get to sit in peace until they are capable of flying, and even more so. (I hope)

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Update: Today, when we got home from work, a small tragedy had occurred. The seagull was lying on its nest but took off immediately when I swung into the driveway. Otherwise, they have not been so easily disturbed. They have stayed put and incubated diligently even when we stood on the porch just a meter away. Something had happened here, I thought. Then I went up to the porch and saw this:

Life is sometimes quite short – especially a seagull's life that has not yet come out of the shell. We suspect that it might be the magpie that is to blame. It has a nest up in the tree right next to the stairs and has a full view of everything the seagull might be doing. Perhaps it has been lying in wait and struck in an unguarded moment. The misdeed must have happened quite recently, I suppose. Then we'll see what happens next. If the seagull gives up, it lays a new egg in the nest or finds a new nesting place.

Vita brevis, acuta rostro!

One thing I am sure of – I am not going to be troubled by kidney stones in the near future. It should also be noted that it is an affliction I have never suffered from. But in any case, I have just been fully vaccinated against such conditions. You see, I try to make it to the Kråkeslott Festival every year. So I did this year as well. I find it a bit too much to attend for three full days straight, so this year I chose Saturday. I am also the kind of person who is somewhat slow when it comes to preparations and planning, so it ended up being a bit of a last-minute ticket purchase. As a result, there is also a light aura of chance over the selected events. That is, Toini and the Tomcats was no coincidence. They were rather the reason I set off on the trip. But I had two more tickets – once you're going on a trip, you have to get the full value. And I knew very little about those performers. So, after running various errands in Finnsnes, I headed out toward Senja and just about made it to the first concert. I sneaked in half-dark wearing glasses that were still dark from the daylight outside. It was just a matter of feeling my way and finding a chair to sit on where no one was seated yet. If I'm going to sit on someone's lap, I want to know whose it is! Among other simple reasons, it must be a lap that can handle the weight. That means it has to be reasonably solid. However, I found an empty seat so that, without touching anyone, I could focus on the beautiful sounds coming from the stage. There stood a young girl and a similarly young man, the latter with a guitar, the former just herself. And, folks, here we have a future new star on the jazz horizon. It was indeed Tiril Lill Jackson who stood there and sang. With a voice that has the potential to belong among the greats, it was definitely the one thing that alone was worth the trip.
But all too soon she was done with her repertoire and disappears to the left (actually to the right, but now in drama, you disappear to the left...). In come a group of young boys. One is wearing a hat, and he sits down at the drums. Then there is one with a bass guitar and two more. One takes the microphone and tells us what we are going to hear. But it seems as if the drummer was raised on impatience along with mother's milk, because he immediately starts pounding on whatever can be pounded and produces sound. And here we are not talking about gentle touches on the drum skin through a towel on the snare drum to make it less sharp. Oh no, here it is full throttle and full edge from the very first moment. And that goes for bass, guitars, and vocals as well. Speaking of vocals, it was a bit like opera. If you haven't read the libretto beforehand, it's challenging to follow the lyrics. I therefore quickly fell off the wagon regarding the message. But as Kim Larsen once said when he was asked what message he was trying to convey with his music: 'Message – that's something for the postal and telecom services.' Just as with opera, the music itself has its own value, independent of the vocals. I therefore sat and listened. Well, 'listened' may not be entirely accurate, because it certainly wasn't necessary to hold my hand behind my ear to hear better. The volume was sufficient, more than sufficient, and the music was performed with both engagement and virtuosity, and with enough power to crush both kidneys and gallstones. As for the drummer, whom one could not help but watch, the hat soon left the top, but the hi(h)hat remained. All in all, a rhythmic, engaging, and very loud session. It will probably never become my favorite genre, but very nice to listen to every now and then, especially when served live by such an inspired group as 10th harmonic.
The next concert I had tickets for was with Faun Fables all the way from California. Now, I actually thought that the fauns preferred to thrive in Mediterranean climates and were otherwise almost extinct. Apparently, that's not the case, and there was considerable emigration from Italy to America, so one or two fauns could very well have come along. California is also both warm and sunny, so it could be a good place for fauns. The music was also a bit special; I heard a mix of elements from Latin, American, and Nordic traditions – and something somewhat indefinably atavistic. And then they had a very charming ending with two little trolls who came in and contributed strong, but not entirely in-tune voices. But the potential is there, so…
Finally, it was the cherry on the cake. Toini and the TomcatsGlittering professionalism and musicality. I was seated in the orchestra section, second row from the front, with a full view, both acoustically and visually. One could say that the acoustics were perhaps a bit excessive, but still, that's just a minor detail. It was a wonderful experience, in addition to hearing the music, also to see how the bassist hammered away on the poor bass. It almost made you feel some sympathy for the poor, innocent instrument. Not that the drummer was any gentler. He kept hitting away. They made fantastic music. When it was over, I felt a slight envy towards those who had tickets to the party afterward. But I didn't, so it was just a matter of heading home. And to be sure, I did not regret any of what I had experienced, but I regretted a little some of what I did not get to experience.

So - until next year...
Should there be anyone who feels called to enrich this little story with illustrations, it will of course be received with thanks – but just thanks, nothing else. Send illustration

PS.
In my ecstatic excitement over the music, I completely forget the very core of it all. The ones who keep the engine running and make the whole thing possible. Namely, those who work tirelessly and organize it all. I don't know, but I assume there are tons of volunteer efforts behind it. And that there are some passionate individuals behind it. I don't know who they are; they obviously don't care much for highlighting themselves. They deserve a big thank you, honor, and acclaim!

Then it's a day off on a Thursday. A public holiday, even. What can you do on a public holiday, those of us who don't hold anything particularly sacred? Launch a boat, for example. It's a nice thing to do on a May Day holiday. With good help, this is done quite quickly. There will also be a little test drive with the kids down the eddy (a slough down the stream here). I was admittedly just a spectator on the shore, but I could clearly hear the cheers as they went back through their own waves.
Dinner. A mostly self-cooking steak. You put it in, after a while you take it out and voilà. Quickly made and quickly eaten.
The weather is not exactly brilliant, but it is okay. Actually, much more than okay, because it is dry, quite quiet, and despite being cloudy, it is a comfortable temperature. Admittedly a little too chilly to sit outside in just your shirt sleeves, but with a thin sweater on it is just right.
So the coffee is enjoyed outdoors. Then you can sit and watch the seagulls bubbling over with spring excitement and who love to proclaim their happiness quite loudly. The tent too, but it's freezing on its feet, poor thing. That's why it keeps shouting: "it bites, it bites". The seagull is so busy renovating and preparing the children's room that it doesn't even have time for its favorite activity: teasing the cat. The cat monster, for its part, has probably been brutally deprived of the spring excitement-inducing body parts, but it can still enjoy snow-free and cat-friendly outdoor temperatures. Just being able to do its toilet in soft, frost-free spring soil is a great cat welfare. Otherwise, it suffers from advanced agoraphobia after successfully killing a seagull cub a few years ago, something it has never been forgiven for. It mostly sneaks from cover to cover while constantly being on the alert for sneak attacks from the air. Only when it has company outside does it feel safe and can roll in the gravel and strut around proudly, with its neck erect and its tail carried high.
It's nice to sit outside like this and enjoy a cup of coffee while observing life around you. Then you can let your thoughts flow as they please, without any kind of control. I guess that's what some people call meditating. Sitting like this and thinking without thinking, that's what I was really going to tell you about, not about cats and seagulls and other screamers. But now the coffee has gone cold, it's actually a little chilly here, and the inspired nothingness has mostly disappeared into nothingness.

Until next time

Great drama outside the door. The magpie, who has a nest in the large tree right outside one of the bedroom windows, has just had a chick land on the grass. Three to four seagulls immediately launched a murderous attack on the poor thing. Repeatedly they swooped down, and at least on one occasion, one of the seagulls hit the chick so that it skidded across the ground. But it got up again. Dazed, but seemingly unharmed, it continued hopping across the field. The drama did not unfold quietly. The seagulls had never learned the art of leaving food alone. Amid cries and squawks, they darted around to secure the tasty morsel. The magpies were not silent either. A terrible flapping concert from indignantly protective parents accompanied the drama. This alarmed one of the house's two-legged residents. She saw what was happening and immediately rushed out to rescue the unfortunate chick. Faced with such a threat, the seagulls took flight.
Thus, it was an open chance for a four-legged, black-furred one, a cat with even darker intentions and a genuine interest in the culinary sides of ornithology. Moving in a low, sneaky gait, he approached his goal. But with the seagull threat averted, the parents could now focus all their attention on the new danger, and they launched a counterattack at ground level. This led to a hurried retreat to the nearest safe hiding spot, from where the sneak hunt could continue. But this time not, as he said, Tordenskiold, the Norwegian commander when he had destroyed the Swedish fleet in Dynekilen. Suddenly, the previously mentioned two-legged intervener, the local Ma Dalton, discovered what was about to happen, and her authoritative voice ordered the delinquent cat indoors.
Now, cats are not particularly receptive to training and obedience, but when a special tone comes into the command voice, their free will evaporates, and with a low tail and bent neck, the assassin strolled indoors to sit on the windowsill and scold the birdlife.
Ma Dalton, derimot, trosset forsvarernes indignasjon og høylydte protester og ilte til for å trøste mobbeofferet. Han/henne ble trygt plassert framfor kjellerdøra der måsen ikke kommer til. Den firbente svarte ninjaen er blitt idømt streng husarrest og får ikke lov til å gå ut. Men å sitte i vinduet og erte sjura, det kan ingen hindre ham i.
It should also be added that the same Magpie is quite short tempered and actually a sworn enemy of feline fur. Aside from the naturally inherited hostility toward a potential egg and offspring thief, there exists a deep personal animosity between the two parties. The reason for this is that a year earlier, the thrill-killer got hold of – and killed one of the magpie's young. It hasn't been proven that it was the cat who actually was the murderer, but the accusations were made with great certainty and zeal. The cat had to be accompanied to go to the (outdoors) bathroom. Over time, the hostility had entered a more passive phase, but there is by no means any talk of forgiveness. Now, with little one in the grass, the hatred flares up again with full intensity. Today, with bonfire and outdoor activities and all that, he managed to get out and relieve both one thing and another. It seems that going forward, both security guards, anti-air measures, and propriety will be needed to allow for successful toilet visits.