Eight days in Iceland
With our New York friends Naomi and Neil we arrive in Iceland on a warm and sunny day - and it's midnight.
Our talkative taxi driver apologies for his poor English. Which is ridiculous, his English is perfect whilst our Icelandic is limited to "Björk" and "Snuggle-puss". The latter has us in fits of giggles, it is our best interpretation of "Snæfellsnes". With "Björk" our only serviceable word we may spend a lot of time in record stores. Or, bars - Icelandair serves a very nice liquor made from birch conveniently called "Björk".
Despite the hour we decide to hit the town - or at least take a walk along the main street. For the first time we experience the surreal sensation of the midnight sun. The cafes have all become bars and the evening is clearly just beginning for young Reykjavikians. The complete absence of police is at first disconcerting, until you fully absorb the friendly, trouble-free, atmosphere. I sincerely hope that the influx of tourists does not spoil the Icelanders sense of responsible fun on a Saturday night.
Eleven hundred years separate the two most significant dates in Icelandic history. In 874 Ingólfr Arnarson and his Nordic mates became Iceland's first permanent settlers. Everything went along pretty nicely until the great financial crash of 2008. In the intervening years Icelanders established one of the first democratic parliaments in the world (930), discovered North America (990), converted to Christianity by general agreement (999), documented their language, history and customs in the Landnámabók and Íslendingabók, (~1100) and generally avoided everyone and everything until the British turned up in 1940 followed by the Yanks in 1941. All this and more we discover in the excellent Þjóðminjasafn Íslands (National Museum of Iceland) and the imposing Lutheran church, Hallgrímskirkja. And, then digest in a selection of excellent cafes and bakeries - our favourite is the Laundrette with its quirky sense of humour.
A word about the light and the food. It's not quite the day of the midnight sun, but it's near enough as to make no difference. Sunset at 11.56pm, sunrise at 3.00am; dusk and dawn one and the same. On a clear day the blue hue is invigorating at 10pm. How Icelanders cope with the dark mid-winter does not bear thinking about. Perhaps they console themselves with Iceland's well kept repertoire of secret culinary delights.
Every town we visit has a bakery turning out fresh hot bread and irresistible pastries. On the meat and veg front the chips are phenomenal, cut from real potatoes with the skins on for real people, none of your fries nonsense here. For the bold there's whale, puffin, cormorant, wolffish, Haröfiskur (tough, wind-dried haddock spread with butter) and Sviôasulta (jellied sheep's head). For the timid there are smoked meats and fish, and filling soups and stews of lamb or fish, followed a sweet Skyr conglomerate of yogurt and sugar. And, for the foolhardy there's Hákarl, dried shark, so vile that it has to be cured for six months just to be remotely edible and chased down with Brennivin, a local beverage distilled from potatoes and caraway. I try everything once, except dried shark that Brennivin seems too smooth to placate. The local beers offer a full and thirst quenching range from summer ales to winter porters, with spirits and liqueurs to follow.
For really fresh food (and to view the islands and wildlife) we take a fjord cruise. The helpful booking agent asks if we know where to find the boat. Neil discovers Icelandic humour is not so dry when his reply of "On the water" provokes much merriment. Meanwhile out on the water our captain trawls for shellfish and we dine on the freshest food ever, straight from the net.
"How to become Icelandic in 60 Minutes" is a quirky little piece playing mainly to tourists at Harpa. Given the challenge of translating Iceland's dry humour into English it's an entertaining show for a multi-national audience. Armed with this quick guide to Icelanders we head for Snuggle-puss to test a few national stereotypes. We've had a relaxing and rewarding three days in the delightful and compact city of Reykjavik.
The road to Snæfellsnes skirts a rugged, barren, landscape. To one side an ocean of lava fields, a vast and violent sea frozen at the very moment that waves break under the invisible hand of an unforgiving wind. On the other side the cold grey Atlantic Ocean. All cast in the shapeless light of a cloud burdened sky. A perfect setting for a fertile imagination and a long winter's night with rumbling volcanoes and quaking ground to give sway to tales of monsters, evil deeds and acts of heroism. It's the Icelandic Sagas, wittily presented at The Settlement in humorous dioramas.
Icelandic Nobel Laureate Halldör Laxness has movingly described Snæfellsnes as "Where the glacier meets the sky, the land ceases to be earthly, and the earth becomes one with the heavens ... beauty alone reigns there, beyond all demands". And he's right; under clear blue skies Snæfellsjökull glacier sits like a crown atop a volcanic cone skirted by lava fields that reach to the seas. Under dark skies Snæfellsjökull vanishes into fifty shades of grey that hold the secrets of many an Icelandic saga. The best views belong to the top - an exciting self-drive snowmobile journey away. With screaming girls holding on tight Neil and I make a beeline for the summit and are rewarded with a stunning panorama of Snæfellsnes Peninsula spread-out below us. We thank our guide enthusiastically who responds with a typically understated Icelandic "ok"; score one to Harpa.
Our accommodation on the Snæfellsnes peninsula is in Stykkishólmur, the sort of town with dark secrets in Scandinavian crime series. Not that it lacks charm, an excellent bakery, two good restaurants and a real gem in Vatnasafn, the Library of Water. This domestic scale building set on a hill with views across Breidafjödur fjord houses water from twenty-four Iceland glaciers in floor to ceiling cylinders. (One of which has since melted away leaving just this poignant memorial, a cubic metre of water). The receptionist gives us a quick tour in broken English concluding with a burst of opera. Wow! The acoustics are extraordinary each note literally hangs in the air. How a small room perhaps 12x8x3m can sound so invigorating has puzzled me for days. I can only conclude that each note is held in a slowing fading vibration of water-based harmonics. In the evening we return for a bit of electric-folk from local band "Ylia". They're good, though surely an acoustic set would be mind-blowing in this magical setting.
From Snæfellsnes we head south past Reykjavik to Þingvellir National Park. Here, North America and Europe drift apart by up to 2cm a year; though given recent snooping stories that might be about to accelerate. In nature millions of years of drifting apart has created a series of rifts, partially submerged, bounded by lava fields and granite walls. It's all rather sedate and pretty, unlike a thousand years ago when this was the site of Alþingi, the first Icelandic parliament; A lively occasion by all accounts with hundreds of people traipsing across the land to debate laws, trade and party for two weeks a year.
Nature provides its own entertainment in nearby Geysir and Gulfoss. Geysir lives up to its name, bubbling furiously until exploding in a spray of hot water and smelly gases. Gulfoss roars like a monster escaped from a Saga soaking anyone who gets to close in a cold spray as millions of litres of water cascade over the 32m high falls and into a narrow gorge. More steam and gas pours from the geothermal power plant at Hellisheidi where nature's might is harnessed to provide electricity and hot water - all concisely explained in the interactive visitor centre.
Thrilled by these spectacular sights of nature we go seeking monsters of our own down Raufarhólshellir. Burrowing below the frozen sea of lava this dark tunnel could so easily be home to trolls and dragons. Poorly equipped we go in 'till it's truly black. Our little torches barely touching the walls several meters apart give us little chance of exploring the lava tube's kilometre length.
With hot water bubbling freely from the earth Iceland teems with pools and spas. In Stykkishólmur we braved an early morning chill to try the public pool and hot baths. Down in Hveragerdi we rugged-up to brave rain and chill winds whilst plunging our feet into hot mud. And, on our way back to the airport we luxuriated at the Blue Lagoon Spa, which is indeed blue. Hidden between moon-like lava fields and the steaming steel of the Stvartsengi geothermal plant like something out of a bohemian sci-fi film. Naomi goes for a facial, three of us plunge into the massive hot pool for a soak and a floating massage. Let's hope the curative effects of alga and mineral salts outlast the coming flight.
Big enough to get lost on.
Small enough to find myself.
That's how to use this island.
I come here to place myself
In the world. Iceland is a verb
and its action is to centre.
Roni Horn (Curator, Library of Water)
With our New York friends Naomi and Neil we arrive in Iceland on a warm and sunny day - and it's midnight.
Our talkative taxi driver apologies for his poor English. Which is ridiculous, his English is perfect whilst our Icelandic is limited to "Björk" and "Snuggle-puss". The latter has us in fits of giggles, it is our best interpretation of "Snæfellsnes". With "Björk" our only serviceable word we may spend a lot of time in record stores. Or, bars - Icelandair serves a very nice liquor made from birch conveniently called "Björk".
Despite the hour we decide to hit the town - or at least take a walk along the main street. For the first time we experience the surreal sensation of the midnight sun. The cafes have all become bars and the evening is clearly just beginning for young Reykjavikians. The complete absence of police is at first disconcerting, until you fully absorb the friendly, trouble-free, atmosphere. I sincerely hope that the influx of tourists does not spoil the Icelanders sense of responsible fun on a Saturday night.
Eleven hundred years separate the two most significant dates in Icelandic history. In 874 Ingólfr Arnarson and his Nordic mates became Iceland's first permanent settlers. Everything went along pretty nicely until the great financial crash of 2008. In the intervening years Icelanders established one of the first democratic parliaments in the world (930), discovered North America (990), converted to Christianity by general agreement (999), documented their language, history and customs in the Landnámabók and Íslendingabók, (~1100) and generally avoided everyone and everything until the British turned up in 1940 followed by the Yanks in 1941. All this and more we discover in the excellent Þjóðminjasafn Íslands (National Museum of Iceland) and the imposing Lutheran church, Hallgrímskirkja. And, then digest in a selection of excellent cafes and bakeries - our favourite is the Laundrette with its quirky sense of humour.
A word about the light and the food. It's not quite the day of the midnight sun, but it's near enough as to make no difference. Sunset at 11.56pm, sunrise at 3.00am; dusk and dawn one and the same. On a clear day the blue hue is invigorating at 10pm. How Icelanders cope with the dark mid-winter does not bear thinking about. Perhaps they console themselves with Iceland's well kept repertoire of secret culinary delights.
Every town we visit has a bakery turning out fresh hot bread and irresistible pastries. On the meat and veg front the chips are phenomenal, cut from real potatoes with the skins on for real people, none of your fries nonsense here. For the bold there's whale, puffin, cormorant, wolffish, Haröfiskur (tough, wind-dried haddock spread with butter) and Sviôasulta (jellied sheep's head). For the timid there are smoked meats and fish, and filling soups and stews of lamb or fish, followed a sweet Skyr conglomerate of yogurt and sugar. And, for the foolhardy there's Hákarl, dried shark, so vile that it has to be cured for six months just to be remotely edible and chased down with Brennivin, a local beverage distilled from potatoes and caraway. I try everything once, except dried shark that Brennivin seems too smooth to placate. The local beers offer a full and thirst quenching range from summer ales to winter porters, with spirits and liqueurs to follow.
For really fresh food (and to view the islands and wildlife) we take a fjord cruise. The helpful booking agent asks if we know where to find the boat. Neil discovers Icelandic humour is not so dry when his reply of "On the water" provokes much merriment. Meanwhile out on the water our captain trawls for shellfish and we dine on the freshest food ever, straight from the net.
"How to become Icelandic in 60 Minutes" is a quirky little piece playing mainly to tourists at Harpa. Given the challenge of translating Iceland's dry humour into English it's an entertaining show for a multi-national audience. Armed with this quick guide to Icelanders we head for Snuggle-puss to test a few national stereotypes. We've had a relaxing and rewarding three days in the delightful and compact city of Reykjavik.
The road to Snæfellsnes skirts a rugged, barren, landscape. To one side an ocean of lava fields, a vast and violent sea frozen at the very moment that waves break under the invisible hand of an unforgiving wind. On the other side the cold grey Atlantic Ocean. All cast in the shapeless light of a cloud burdened sky. A perfect setting for a fertile imagination and a long winter's night with rumbling volcanoes and quaking ground to give sway to tales of monsters, evil deeds and acts of heroism. It's the Icelandic Sagas, wittily presented at The Settlement in humorous dioramas.
Icelandic Nobel Laureate Halldör Laxness has movingly described Snæfellsnes as "Where the glacier meets the sky, the land ceases to be earthly, and the earth becomes one with the heavens ... beauty alone reigns there, beyond all demands". And he's right; under clear blue skies Snæfellsjökull glacier sits like a crown atop a volcanic cone skirted by lava fields that reach to the seas. Under dark skies Snæfellsjökull vanishes into fifty shades of grey that hold the secrets of many an Icelandic saga. The best views belong to the top - an exciting self-drive snowmobile journey away. With screaming girls holding on tight Neil and I make a beeline for the summit and are rewarded with a stunning panorama of Snæfellsnes Peninsula spread-out below us. We thank our guide enthusiastically who responds with a typically understated Icelandic "ok"; score one to Harpa.
Our accommodation on the Snæfellsnes peninsula is in Stykkishólmur, the sort of town with dark secrets in Scandinavian crime series. Not that it lacks charm, an excellent bakery, two good restaurants and a real gem in Vatnasafn, the Library of Water. This domestic scale building set on a hill with views across Breidafjödur fjord houses water from twenty-four Iceland glaciers in floor to ceiling cylinders. (One of which has since melted away leaving just this poignant memorial, a cubic metre of water). The receptionist gives us a quick tour in broken English concluding with a burst of opera. Wow! The acoustics are extraordinary each note literally hangs in the air. How a small room perhaps 12x8x3m can sound so invigorating has puzzled me for days. I can only conclude that each note is held in a slowing fading vibration of water-based harmonics. In the evening we return for a bit of electric-folk from local band "Ylia". They're good, though surely an acoustic set would be mind-blowing in this magical setting.
From Snæfellsnes we head south past Reykjavik to Þingvellir National Park. Here, North America and Europe drift apart by up to 2cm a year; though given recent snooping stories that might be about to accelerate. In nature millions of years of drifting apart has created a series of rifts, partially submerged, bounded by lava fields and granite walls. It's all rather sedate and pretty, unlike a thousand years ago when this was the site of Alþingi, the first Icelandic parliament; A lively occasion by all accounts with hundreds of people traipsing across the land to debate laws, trade and party for two weeks a year.
Nature provides its own entertainment in nearby Geysir and Gulfoss. Geysir lives up to its name, bubbling furiously until exploding in a spray of hot water and smelly gases. Gulfoss roars like a monster escaped from a Saga soaking anyone who gets to close in a cold spray as millions of litres of water cascade over the 32m high falls and into a narrow gorge. More steam and gas pours from the geothermal power plant at Hellisheidi where nature's might is harnessed to provide electricity and hot water - all concisely explained in the interactive visitor centre.
Thrilled by these spectacular sights of nature we go seeking monsters of our own down Raufarhólshellir. Burrowing below the frozen sea of lava this dark tunnel could so easily be home to trolls and dragons. Poorly equipped we go in 'till it's truly black. Our little torches barely touching the walls several meters apart give us little chance of exploring the lava tube's kilometre length.
With hot water bubbling freely from the earth Iceland teems with pools and spas. In Stykkishólmur we braved an early morning chill to try the public pool and hot baths. Down in Hveragerdi we rugged-up to brave rain and chill winds whilst plunging our feet into hot mud. And, on our way back to the airport we luxuriated at the Blue Lagoon Spa, which is indeed blue. Hidden between moon-like lava fields and the steaming steel of the Stvartsengi geothermal plant like something out of a bohemian sci-fi film. Naomi goes for a facial, three of us plunge into the massive hot pool for a soak and a floating massage. Let's hope the curative effects of alga and mineral salts outlast the coming flight.
Big enough to get lost on.
Small enough to find myself.
That's how to use this island.
I come here to place myself
In the world. Iceland is a verb
and its action is to centre.
Roni Horn (Curator, Library of Water)
