The Wanderer Anglo Saxon History, mythology, Folklore and religion
Sep 15, 2026 · 7 min · 5 segments
On 25 September 1066, King Harold Godwinson won a crushing Anglo Saxon victory at Stamford Bridge, destroying the invading Norwegian army of Harald Hardrada and Harold’s own brother Tostig just days…
September the 25th, 1066.
Stories you see are like old teeth left in a jar.
They don't go away, they just wait in the dark, chewing on the silence until someone comes along to rattle the glass.
But history rarely starts where you think it does.
History likes a prologue, and the prologue to 1066 didn't smell like French wine or salt spray.
It smelled like sweat, hot horse flesh, and the coppery tang of river mud.
It smelled like the end of the world, or at the very least, the end of an age.
Today we're walking up to Yorkshire, to a little place called Stamford Bridge, where two Harold's walked in and only one walked out, and even he didn't have much time to enjoy it.
Picture the scene.
It is late September, the summer is trying very hard not to die, but the air already has that crisp predatory bite to it.
Down in the south, King Harold Godwinson of England is sitting in London, waiting for William the Bastard to step off his boats.
He's looking south.
Everyone is looking south.
Except the horizon isn't in the south today.
His horse is lathered in white foam, the rider's tongue is swollen with thirst, and he brings news that makes the king's blood run cold.
Harold Hadrada.
Now if you haven't met Harold Hadrada, imagine a giant carved out of old oak and bad intentions.
He was the last of the great Viking warlords.
He'd fought in Constantinople, he'd blinded emperors, he'd written love poems in ruins, and he was roughly seven feet of pure, unadulterated troubles.
With him was Tosti, Harold Godwinson's own brother, a man whose family tree was basically a circle of knives.
They had sailed three hundred ships up the River Ouse, burning York, taking hostages, and laughing in the autumn sun.
September the 25th, 1066.
Stories you see are like old teeth left in a jar.
They don't go away, they just wait in the dark, chewing on the silence until someone comes along to rattle the glass.
But history rarely starts where you think it does.
History likes a prologue, and the prologue to 1066 didn't smell like French wine or salt spray.
It smelled like sweat, hot horse flesh, and the coppery tang of river mud.
It smelled like the end of the world, or at the very least, the end of an age.
Today we're walking up to Yorkshire, to a little place called Stamford Bridge, where two Harold's walked in and only one walked out, and even he didn't have much time to enjoy it.
Picture the scene.
It is late September, the summer is trying very hard not to die, but the air already has that crisp predatory bite to it.
Down in the south, King Harold Godwinson of England is sitting in London, waiting for William the Bastard to step off his boats.
He's looking south.
Everyone is looking south.
Except the horizon isn't in the south today.
His horse is lathered in white foam, the rider's tongue is swollen with thirst, and he brings news that makes the king's blood run cold.
Harold Hadrada.
Now if you haven't met Harold Hadrada, imagine a giant carved out of old oak and bad intentions.
He was the last of the great Viking warlords.
He'd fought in Constantinople, he'd blinded emperors, he'd written love poems in ruins, and he was roughly seven feet of pure, unadulterated troubles.
With him was Tosti, Harold Godwinson's own brother, a man whose family tree was basically a circle of knives.
They had sailed three hundred ships up the River Ouse, burning York, taking hostages, and laughing in the autumn sun.
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