Pixies, Ponies, Trolls and Goblins

by Rachel Kruft Welton

The flight from Gatwick took about 4 hours. We picked up the hire car and drove up from Reykjavik to the northern coast of Iceland. We had booked a cottage for 2 weeks in a village called Blonduos. As we soon found out, no-one had ever stayed that long in Blonduos before, and we quickly became local celebrities recognised wherever we went.

Local houses with turf roofs

The wooden cottage we stayed in was small, but warm and comfortable. The warmth was particularly useful when the day after we arrived the temperature dropped to minus 10C with a minus 10 wind-chill and it started to snow. I felt particularly betrayed by the sales brochure which had promised the June temperatures in Iceland to be around 13 - 15 degrees. I bought a thick woolly green scarf, and we drove off around the coast to look at the scenery. Northern Iceland is spectacular. There are virtually no trees so the bones of the country are exposed. The way the clouds move and light changes across the land catches your attention, and there is an incredible sense of space. There are snow-capped peaks at every turn rising starkly out of the lava bedrock. I fell in love with it.

There is only one main road. It circles Iceland and is tarmacked most of the way round. The rest of it is packed dirt. Shaggy sheep and wanton ponies wander at random across the road, daring you to hit them (compensation is payable by the driver to the farmer). There are no edges to the road and frequently there may be a drop of several hundred feet on one side, with nothing to tell you where the edge is in the fog except for widely spaced reflectors on small poles. There are other numbered roads too, and if the sign says "4-wheel drive only" then it really means it. The better roads are deep gravel and stone, with potholes you could lose your car in, and often have streams or small rivers running across them.

The weather improved after the first few days and it stayed at around 11 -15 degrees C for the rest of our stay. The locals came out in daring T-shirts (we carried on wearing our coats) and some of them asked us if we'd been about for the unusual snowstorm the weekend before. I forgave the travel brochure for its weather misinformation, and Nick and I went horse riding.

Riding Dimmi

Nick had not been on a horse since an unfortunate incident in Finland the year before, so he was particularly nervous. It didn't help when the horses were introduced as Dimmi (translating as Dusky) and Krappy (which apparently means Slushy Snow). Nick's feet nearly met under the pony's belly (Nick is 6'4") and his riding hat had to be tied on with string as his head was too large. Nick's plaintive cry to let him get off was ignored by our cheerful guide who didn't speak English. This may have been a good thing in the long run as once again the scenery was spectacular.

We rode down along the river Blonduos between two towering mountain ranges. Icelandic ponies are sure-footed and hardy, and wonderfully patient. Nick trailed behind, wary of encouraging Krappy to move faster than a walk. Krappy didn't seem to care, happy to go at Nick's pace. Nick slowly regained his confidence, and we both enjoyed ourselves.

In general the tourist industry hasn't really got the idea yet in Iceland. It takes a fair amount of courage to drive up to what looks like an abandoned warehouse, under the eyes of all the local children, knock on the door, and ask if there just happens to be an ancient shark-fishing vessel in there. As it happened, there was a whole museum of artefacts, from the first car in Iceland to shoes made out of fish-skin. Iceland does that to you a lot - you thought it was just an isolated petrol station on an empty road, but underneath it there is a whole shopping centre where you can buy sweets, woolly jumpers, travel maps, works by a local painter and some postcards to send home. It is incredibly expensive though. Nearly everything is imported and the prices are through the roof - take plenty of spending cash.

Up in a town called Husavik there are whale watching tours out into the Arctic Sea. They claim to have a 96% success rate, which naturally I didn't believe until we got out into the far reaches of the bay. There is something magical about seeing the giants of the ocean. I have seen, with my own eyes. We saw about 6 minke whales before we were honoured by a display of the collective talents of a school of dolphins. They threw themselves out of the water racing in front of the boat, showing off, twisting and turning. I honestly think they were having more fun than the watchers. The boat staff provided warm mittens and hot coffee towards the end of the trip, just when we needed it. I came away feeling as though nothing could top the experience.

Further round the coast from Husavik and a few miles inland is a valley in the shape of a horseshoe. It goes by the name of Asbyrgi and it is said to be a hoof print of Sleipnir the 8-legged steed of the Norse God Odin. It has hundred foot cliffs, a haven for nesting seabirds. Their calls echo around the valley. It is also one of the rare sheltered places in Iceland and consequently it is full of dwarf silver birch trees, undergrowth and mosses. That and the constant calls of the birds create a magical atmosphere where trolls and goblins might find shelter. It is a truly unforgettable place.

Reluctantly we drove further inland along a cinder road only just reopened after the winter. They must get through a lot of hire-cars in Iceland, that or there's a hot trade in new suspension systems. Eventually we got to Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe. It thunders down between the sheer sides of a gully. You can feel the vibrations in your chest. In some respects it puts Niagara to shame - maybe because the Icelandic token towards tourism was a couple of organic looking toilets, and a flattish bit of rock to park on. There were no souvenir shops or restaurants, not even a kiosk to buy postcards from. It was genuinely unspoilt, and I appreciated that.

We struggled on down the road, occasionally getting up into third gear. I was glad to reach the main road again. The next stop was a volcano just outside the famous area of Myvatn. Myvatn means 'midge lake'. It is a green and beautiful area, with mounds of moss, and spiky boulders of lava sticking up out of the lake. The volcano caught my imagination though. It is supposed to be dormant, but the steam rising from the vents (fumeroles) makes you wonder. From the top you can see just where the black lava flowed last time it erupted, complete with flow marks like setting chocolate or icing-sugar on a cake. On the side of the mountain there are pools of boiling sulphurous mud, with cute little signs telling you not to stick your foot in there.

One word of warning: if you ever come to Iceland, all the heating and hot water is powered by geothermal energy. In practise this means the water smells faintly of sulphur, which adds an interesting counterpoint to tea and coffee, and turns all your silver jewellery black. The tarnish does wear off eventually, but the Gods only know how Thor kept his hammer shiny!

We experienced another reason why geothermal energy is so convenient when we went white-water rafting down one of the glacial rivers so common in this part of the world. The rafting was fairly exciting without being too challenging. The water, as with all glacial rivers was a luminescent turquoise colour. Half way down, just as we were starting to get cold, we pulled the rafts over to the bank and the guides pulled a box out of a small cave in the ground. It had all the equipment for making cocoa in it, and the hot spring nearby produced near-boiling water, to provide the last ingredient. Set up for the rest of the journey, we accepted the challenge of leaping off a cliff-face into the river. It looks a lot further down from up there. I was sorry when the trip was over.

Back in Blonduos we walked on the black basalt beach and saw the midnight sun hanging in the sky with the full moon on the summer solstice. It never did get dark the whole time we were there. It was time to go. We waved goodbye, filled up with petrol, and pulled out of the petrol station up to the roundabout. With a sudden shock I realised I was on the wrong side of the road. A puzzled looking local drove past, recognised us and waved. I pulled out on to the roundabout, and Nick pointed out that I was also going round the roundabout the wrong way. I wobbled merrily onto the right side of the road, and with this final piece of excruciating driving we left Blonduos and headed for Reykjavik.

Reykjavik looks like pixie town from a distance. All the roofs of the houses are a different colour - red, green, blue - dotted about on the slopes. There are a couple of shopping streets in Reykjavik, which makes it a veritable metropolis in Icelandic terms. The prices as everywhere were extortionate. A pint of beer or glass of wine cost about £5. Rumour has it that Icelanders take weekend shopping sprees to Glasgow, which cover the cost of their flight. I can believe it. Having said that, I liked Reykjavik. It was relaxed, the people were friendly and went out of their way to help us. We dropped off the car and were picked up early in the morning by the transfer bus, which took us to the airport.

We left Iceland with the feeling that we'd not seen the half of it. I think we'll go back one day, and try to see some more of it. I would not choose to stay in one place for the duration next time, rather I could move from one guesthouse to the next. Whether I do make it back or not, it was a place I shall never forget.

First published in VISA issue 31 (winter 1998)