Over the course of the next few weeks, I’ll be posting a tastefully-edited version of the journal I kept during the time I spent in Iceland. You can find all the entries and more on the “Iceland Transcribed” page.
I’m glad I didn’t hike to the Lambi hut in Gleradalur, because then I wouldn’t have met Sofia and Mareike.
Yesterday evening, I spent some time over a discount beer with them before going on a walk. As I was going back into the hostel, they invited me to go to the botanical garden with them. They showed me a type of fuzzy edible currant-type berry; it was the first fresh fruit any of us have had since getting here, and we foraged.
We ate dinner together; I shared my mushrooms and they shared their cheese. We discussed politics, and chocolate, and living in Germany versus the States, and where we had traveled to. Hugs were exchanged before we went to bed.
I hope they have the time of their lives in the Highlands.
Right now I’m headed out of Egglistadir [Egk-list-ah-deer] with Toronto and Toulouse – bumpy Icelandic roads are not good for writing.
God, candy and chocolate are so good. I’ve missed it.
The first top after Akureyri was the Laufas turf home. It’s an hold farmstead manor that was built into the ground, and made of the earth itself. The cost to see the museum part of the homes was reasonable, but Toulouse and i elected not to, in favor of poking our heads in the lightless rooms.
The rest of the drive to Seydisfjordur was uneventful. I slept for some of it, but was awake enough to ascertain that most of Norht iceland looks like the moon: alternatively, we drove through empty fields rocky volcano fields, interrupted only by the occasional sheep on the side of the road.
But driving into Seydisfjordur – my god, one can only stare in jaw-dropped awe.
Steep black cliffs rise into snow-capped peaks towering above the narrow valley. The only vegetation is the stubborn green moss, nourished by the many streams wending their way down the mountains before cascading down the cliffs in sheets. All the streams join into a white river that, at the top of the mountain before the windy road into the town, falls, gloriously, gracefully from a dark rock face.
It’s unreal, like from a fantasy land. I can’t believe a place like this exists on Earth.
Toulouse and I found Toronto at a bistro that had free wifi, and we made a tentative plan: drive south and find a place to camp near the Vatnajokull glacier, go to Skogar to see the waterfall the next day, and explore the area surrounding Reykjavik the third day, to return the car the following morning.
We’re lost. It’s getting dark.