The Viking revival is all about searching for stability in a chaotic age

“Hail Thor!” The priestess and her heathens, standing in a circle, raised their mead-filled horns.

- Siri Christiansen

We were gathered in a pine forest outside Stockholm. This was our temple, and a large, mossy stone was our altar. I was relieved to see that the animal-based sacrificial offerings were long-dead and highly processed.

A dozen people had gathered for an autumn sacrifice to summon Thor, the hammer-wielding Norse god of harvests and storms. Many pleaded for him to bring rain, after a summer of drought. Others asked for the strength to battle unemployment, or for the recovery of a sick mother. We all had our own reasons for being there.

I was there because pagan events kept popping up in my Facebook feed, and I couldn't fathom why. I'm staunchly secular, I like modern medicine, and my social media usually reflects that. Having just moved back to Sweden after five years in the UK, my online world consisted of London friends and British banter. But my algorithm kept recommending I check out neo-Norse sacrifices in my area. It suggested that the movement may be mainstream, and the two middle-aged women standing beside me in the forest seemed to confirm this: they looked normal. I had not expected to return home to a Viking revival; nor that it would be so chilled out.