Darien and I rose early and walked downtown for provisions. Marketing in Iceland is a challenge, since it is so expensive to get food in. Vegetarians suffer here. We were soon in our rented car on the road, heading toward the former gathering place and parliament of the ancient Iceland clans, Thingvellir, and then eventually out to Snaefellsnes. On a sudden impulse, we pulled off the road to revisit to Halldor Laxness's home,
Gljúfrasteinn. The Nobel poet is among the most revered of contemporary authors in Iceland -- sort of the Bjork of literature. Darien was hoping she could find an English translation in the shop of something she hadn't read yet, but no luck. The weather stayed warm and sunny, and the stream behind the white walled house still ran cold and clear.
We continued up the highway so Antonia could get a look at
Thingvellir. Apart from its historical interest, Thingvellir is a geological marvel, where one can look across the plain and see the results of glacial movement and the fissure of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge tectonic plate, to say nothing of seeing distant geothermal steam billowing out of the earth. We would have liked to take a hike across the lava fields, but didn't have time. Instead, we asked one of the rangers about the gravel road cutting toward Snaefellsnes. On the map it looked shorter than heading back to Reykjavik and back up the coast, but we knew that it was unlikely to save time, even though it was a mere 50 kilometers away as the crow flies. The ranger said the national road service had given the nod to the route, and she thought our little Hyundai could handle it. Looking at the map, we saw it just skirted the gray wilderness. We were in an adventure mood, so we plunged ahead.
We climbed slowly up the road, tailing a pale blue and white van. At a fork in the road, the van went right. We stopped and studied the map. Left seemed safer, so we took that. Looking back, we saw that the van had reconsidered and was turning around. The grade in some parts was quite steep, so I left the car in second gear, sometimes slowing to less than 20 kilometers per hour. We passed a car parked on the side of the road. A blanket was spread out and a couple was sunbathing surrounded by the lava outcrops, moss, and sedum; I resisted the urge to take a novelty photograph, but now wish I had. In parts the road turned into a jittery washboard, and the jarring slowed us down, but sometimes I could get up to 40. When the road smoothed a bit, there were often large stones in the middle, so I had to decelerate again so I wouldn't kick one up under the chassis and damage something. We passed a dead lake, with nothing growing around it, and saw glacial mountains in the distance. We were told afterward that there were a number of waterfalls to be seen along the road, but we didn't notice them. Maybe we were focusing too hard on staying on the road. No one passed us, and few cars came the other way. In spite of the stark moonscape environment, we weren't bored. The colors -- greens, golds, dark blue, umber, and infinite shades of gray and brown -- kept our interest, and there was always something new to see. We traded several hours of time on a dusty road for glimpses of eternity.
Eventually, the road began to level a bit, and we came into a valley with farms. Sheep, horses, and wheat fields were our companions for the last half hour before we hit the asphalt again. We could see Borgarnes, a coastal town of 2,000 leading up to the foot of the Snaefellsnes peninsula. Gas was in order, since there were long stretches of empty road ahead of us. We knew there wasn't much in the way of food in Borgarnes, but Darien called ahead to our dinner destination and ended up with a recommendation. She is very resourceful that way. We ended up at
Landnamssetur, which was not a bad restaurant by Icelandic standards, and where "tender horse flesh steaks" really was on the menu. I settled for a salad with smoked wild trout with rye bread baked at a hot spring -- the waitress wasn't sure how they did it, but evidently the baking dish is buried in the heated earth near a geothermal eruption and slowly baked for hours. Even if you don't have a thermal spring handy, you can still
try your hand at traditional Icelandic rye bread. I was still hungry so I ordered a quiche, which had some indeterminate green leafy substance baked into it. Antonia and Darien decided upon the buffet, which had a very nice soup and tasty hummus. Unfortunately, the tourist shop lured the two in after lunch and we did not escape without a few purchases. The building were we ate was built in 1887, among the oldest in Borgarnes. For a country that has been around for over a thousand years, buildings don't last all that long.
We headed out to the peninsula toward the Snaefellsnes glacier, or
Snæfellsjökull. This is a mystical place for Icelanders, where the hidden folk (
huldufólk) are common and strange things can happen to the unaware.
I once visited a cave at the foot of the glacier where eerie singing voices are heard, and have seen rocky outcroppings in the shape of creatures that seem to move.
I once went horseback riding and lost my wallet, and searched for several hours. Several months later someone sent it to me, saying it was found on the floor of the cabin I stayed in.
It was at Sanefellsnes that Jules Verne found his passage to the center of the earth here. I had to slow several times for sheep in the road, and brake hard once when a farmer decided now was a good time for him and his dog to move his herd of cattle across the road. We crossed glacial rivers and whizzed past plains that would be flat were it not for the black lava rocks that rose up everywhere. The mountains have rugged, vertical cliffs at the top, then slope rapidly down from the crumbling stone, gradually flattening out enough that you can imagine the cliff rocks at the top breaking and pulverizing and slowly forming the base. The mountains grew closer to the shore, encroaching upon the sea, as we continued along the peninsula, slowly squeezing out the land and pastures.
We spent the night at
Lýsuhóll, a horse farm with a half dozen modern Scandinavian style cabins. We shared one with a few other travelers. A herd of the diminutive Icelandic horses -- don't call them ponies -- grazed right off our front porch. Tina showed us around. She was German, working temporarily on the farm and taking visitors out on rides. She was waiting for her job as a teacher of the developmentally disabled to start later that year in Germany. The farm itself uses animal therapy with troubled youngsters, so it was good training for her. Next to the property was a school, but at this time of year when the students were gone it was converted to a spa because of the hot springs that bubbled up there. Antonia and Darien of course decided that additional schooling was in order. I stayed behind.
In the evening we went to the
Hotel Budir for dinner, reputedly one of the best restaurants in Iceland, even though it sits on an isolated spit of land on the edge of the Atlantic surrounded by lava wilderness. It was a over a kilometer from the main road out to the hotel. On the way up to the lonely hotel, we saw a young man walking, carrying a guitar case and rolling his luggage behind him. He was walking away from the hotel toward the main road. We constructed several stories about him, and hoped we could pick him up on the way out.
We had been turned away last time we were at Budir because we didn't have reservations, but this time the restaurant was only three-quarters full on a Friday night, so we had no trouble getting in. We sat in a windowed room near the bar, having a glass of wine, and looking through a brass telescope at the distant mountains across the water and soaring birds. The ring of one of our cell phones unsettled us. It was Peter, who had a question for us. "If you were going to have body work done, where would you take your car?" he asked, which was his way of informing us he had hit a deer on 64 and almost totaled the RAV. Gabriel and a friend were with him at the time, but no one was hurt other than the deer. At least we could dine in peace.
I had three types of lamb for dinner. The most interesting was a dish in which the lamb was shredded and heavily spiced. The potatoes were thinly sliced and layered, with lots of butter between. The wait staff was either very haughty or very obsequious. The hostess would barely look at us, while the waiter repeatedly interrupted our meal to ask permission to fill our water glasses. They were very small glasses, so he asked a lot. Another waiter, his blond hair in a tight ponytail bun, had eyeglasses he said were of German design. They looked like they were inverted, with the frame on the bottom and the lenses sitting freely on top. They were wrap-arounds with an aluminum look to the frame -- all very trendy. "It makes perfect sense," he told us. "Your vision isn't blocked by the frame." Plus, it looks very smart.
We walked outside afterward, peeking in the windows of the wood frame church and reading the gravestones near by. We went up to the edge of the shore. The waster was deep, deep blue with swirls of green. It was past 11 PM and still the sun reflected off the mountains across the water, and on the white glacier in the distance. The gulls sounded the close of a day that never ended.
