The inn

We have travelled a long way with a herd of bullocks, which will hopefully fetch a good price from the Ribe cattle dealers. Then they will drive the animals further south, thus making a good profit.

We've been able to hear loud singing and laughter for quite some time, and as we draw nearer to the trench and low rampart that mark the edges of Ribe town, the enticing smell of food wafts out towards us from a long, clay-daubed building. Right now, a good mug of mead and a rest would really hit the spot, before the important trading begins. In the Viking Age, there was a strong oral tradition. People would both tell stories and recite poetry – and many wise words were thus passed on to the next generation. The following is from the poem Havamál:

Drink your mead, but in moderation,
Talk sense or be silent:
No man is called discourteous who goes
To bed at an early hour.
Less good than belief would have it
Is mead for the sons of men:
A man knows less the more he drinks,
Becomes a befuddled fool.

In the early Viking Age, if you came into Ribe from the south, you would come to a 1-m long and 5.25 m-wide building made of wattle. The function of this building is uncertain, but Ribe Viking Centre has chosen to fit it out as a taproom. You'll be very welcome inside in the warmth! Sit yourself down, let your eyes grow accustomed to the dim light and let the peace envelop you – and maybe you'll get talking with the innkeeper or the young folk, if they haven't just left for the market to buy fresh goods.