I packed my garb in a wooden box, hoping this little dollop of authenticity would enrich my campsite. Turns out, when the nylon tent goes up at 6pm and comes down by 9:30am, a wooden box does not really make much atmospheric impact.
On the other hand, the folding wagon was excellent. I used it to schlep my camp gear to the car, and then kept my on-site gear in it. Mostly it stayed parked under the Storvik sail-hall, but I dragged it around a bit earlier in the day. (I kept a wool blanket over it to hide the ugly, at least a bit.)
Friday night boasting was fun. Master Igor brought a tall tale in verse; Mar Yaakov issued his storytelling challenge in fine form. Some of the populace chimed in here and there.
Friday night bardic was awesome! I got to sing two of my new pieces. Linnea of Angelsey told a fabulous translation (her own) of the story of Macha and the Ulster curse. A brewer (whose name I missed) with much-acclaimed meads gave us mouth harp and Scandanavian folk songs. Wynne performed lively songs with his guitar.
I busted my voice. Again. I did not perform my six new songs for Storvik, nor did I tell a story the next day. However, this was the smart thing to have done. I haven't lost my voice entirely this time, and today I think I'm close to being pretty good again. But it makes me wonder if I didn't fully recover from the last bout of laryngitis?
Harp and Tea
I played improv for the baroness's tea. I enjoyed myself (and snagged an excellent macaroon at the end), and they enjoyed the music. I remembered to keep my mouth shut, as I was not there as a guest but as an entertainer.
Three entries into the Poeta's competition! Baroness Janina helped me score them. (Mistress Fevronia recused herself, as her husband's poem was entered.) Our scores pretty well agreed down the line, which seemed a good sign. I tried to write helpful but not soul-crushing comments.
Stupid voice. I did not tell the tale of Guthrun or Thor's Wedding, again. However, I did have the pleasure of listening to five fine raconteurs speak a dizzying variety of tales: Esau and Jacob, recast in Nordic terms (Yaakov); bit of a shaggy dogger that also told a good lesson about greed and satisfaction (Igor); a Scots youth versus the devil (versus the Norse) (Ruadhri); three Irish tales (Linnea); and a fable about a tailor (the lord with the Swedish persona whose name is escaping me). The royal bard, Lady Scholastia, selected Linnea as the winner, although the competition was close indeed.
The cold that had sacked my voice had be very worn out (and also I had slept poorly), so I packed it in before court. All told, an excellent time in excellent company.