Category: Iceland

Iceland: It’s not all about the Northern Lights.

4/29/2018

Keep an eye out for Icelands churches. Although most are of similar, simple design, their locations and views can be spectacular. Reykjavik’s Hallgrimskirkja, soars to the skies, dominating the city below and affording spectacular views from its summit, but it is the little ones which have taken our fancy. Small and discreet, they can appear in locations chosen, it seems to catch the eye: by a harbourside in Akranes where it can survey the fishing fleet, or standing faintly aloof from the rest of the town in Grindavik or on the river bank at Thingvellir, remote from any other habitation except the small row of attendant cottages next to it.

The one that drew me in is the church at Saubaer.

We saw it first as we found our way to our cabin in the snow, a small church lying down by the dark, rippling waters of Hvalforður.

Saubaer Church has been placed away from any immediately visible human habitation. Presumably, like some of our own rural Western Australian churches, it is there as a ´halfway´ spot: a place where everyone can suffer equally to get there.

It is floodlit at night, as if a beacon to a lost local or, perhaps, a whaler returning to the base of the head of the fjord. So, sitting in our hot tub, surrounded by snow - as you should, if in Iceland (and, yes, I was sceptical less about the joys of sinking into hot water, but more about picking my way back over ice and snow on the return journey) - looking for the few strands of gossamer green light which is all we did get to see of Aurora Borealis, we notice a tiny, glorious splash of light on the shoreline.

It must be investigated.

Next afternoon is still: a day of brooding skies and little wind makes for an eerie, silent ambience at the church. A building nearby has a Volvo parked outside. It is, presumably, the caretaker or priest’s residence but there are no signs of activity anywhere. Deafening footprints in the crusty, deep snow mark my journey around the church in the dusk. It is an idyllic setting: built on a small mound, the church has 180 degree views of the fjord and the light that shifts and changes off the opposite hillsides.

But as that light failed that afternoon, something else is revealed to me: the gloom must have reached just the right intensity to set off the solar sensors in an unexpected array amongst the sombre grey headstones. Quite suddenly lines of crosses are glowing and glittering in the gloaming. It really is very pretty.

Icelandic traditionalists decorate many gravestones with lights in winter. It does not happen in the summer months - with 24 hour daylight, you would not notice them anyway - but around Christmas time graveyards spring into light in the evening, adding a magical, ethereal feel to a normally sombre place. It is not only a positive way to celebrate a loved one’s life but also a small array of welcome lights pinpricked yet defiant in the monochrome of an Icelandic winter dusk.

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Swimming to america

4/8/2018

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We have, we think, become used to some of the more ‘unusual’ aspects of Iceland and are not expecting anything but a peaceful walk through this unique, glorious, setting at Þingvellir (it is pronounced Thingvellir.).

We had left our small cabin in the hills near Akranes to wind our way around Hvalfjörður in the ever-shifting light. Through light snow breezing across the single track cleared by the ploughs, we have driven past small, scattered, colourful farms nestling lonely in snow fields at the base of high, ruggedly-rounded hills. We have seen dozens of small, hardy Icelandic ponies, and skidoos gliding over the smooth-as-icing landscape.

Now we are at Þingvellir, which is a UNESCO World Heritage site. It was home to the world’s first Parliament in 930 AD when Icelanders started the first annual camp out for a few summer days in the plain below high rocks from which they were addressed by the country’s various leaders or chieftains.

There is a stunning view from the rocks. Snow has rounded and softened what would be, in the summer, a rocky, sparse landscape. A river runs quietly through the plain to feed into Þingvallavatn, Iceland’s largest lake. On the banks of the river stand the only visible buildings in the whole vista: a small church with its distinctive spire and simple structure and five houses standing side by side a short distance from the river. The weak, watery sun, barely peaking over the horizon on this midwinter afternoon, is glowing onto the plain and still waters through wispy clouds. Mountains surround the scene on all sides except the north.

So the signs warning us to watch out for divers - then the actual sight of divers - is head-shakingly bemusing.

These divers are not the avian type. We’re talking about scuba gear and oxygen cylinders - in ice- cold water. In the sub-arctic.
And you need to watch out for them on the roads, climbing up out of ponds, lumbering through the snow. It is very disconcerting to the unprepared, but is easily explained.

Þingvellir is placed on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The high rocks from which the chieftains addressed the early Icelanders are the crest of this 65,000km long ridge - regarded as the largest mountain range in the world.

The continental rift at Þingvellir means diving enthusiasts can swim between the continents. You can take diving tours to explore the clear, glacial water which runs between the European and North American tectonic plates. Pictures and videos show waters as clear, clean and colourful as you would expect to find at a tropical reef, although, of course, the scuba gear is dry gear. Anybody who is over 12 years old, weighs more than 45 kg and is higher than 150 cms can go. You can be picked up from your accommodation in Reykjavik 45 minutes away or meet the qualified PADI guide at the site.

So we left Þingvellir much wiser than when we arrived. Not only had we learned about the history of the site, but also that, geologically speaking, we had walked from North America to Europe and, had we known, we could have swum across too.

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Iceland: land of laughs and lava...

3/5/2018

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The first indication of what was in store was, I suppose, on the plane. An Icelandic movie about two friends driving round Iceland to raise money for charity. An American-style road movie set in Iceland, I thought. Yes. But it’s been given an Icelandic twist: they drive round in reverse. The film (“Bakk”) is ‘different’, quirky and very amusing.
Much like Iceland itself, it transpires.

The second indicator manifested itself as the plane drew to a halt. Amid the tumult of passengers standing up, the pilot added, very unobtrusively, a final rider to the usual airline-style welcome-to-country.

“You may,” he said nonchalantly, “wish to put your jackets on as it is a little bit chilly out there.”

And there you have it - the delicious Icelandic understatement still in our windblown ears as we clung to the rail of the icy stairs descending to the tarmac below, small flurries of snow swirling past us as we traipsed to the bus. A “little bit chilly”, in Icelandic terms refers to a -7 degree temperature, it seems.

Later that evening and the next morning we encountered this humour in all sorts of locations around Reykjavik: on walls, cafe blinds, T-shirts, tourist guides, menus and from the people we met and talked to. It’s a humour that would resonate with most Australians: a dry, obtuse view of the world moulded to understated observations bordering on gallows humour. Is it because, like Australia, Iceland is a country settled in the face of grim hardship that forces, in the grip of the realities, a wry humour as a means to cope?

There’s the first floor cafe terrace announcing it will only open when the ‘temperature reaches a toasty 5 degrees.’ Despite it being a mild winter by Iceland standards, I suspect that terrace would remain closed for a few weeks yet.

A little array of single gloves is arranged on the spikes of an unobtrusive entry gate It appears to be someone’s original advertisement for, I think, a speed-dating meeting. And there’s a random mural on how to tie a tie, just in case you find you need to be reminded. In Reykjavik, on the main street.

We happen across the ‘Iceland Phalllological Museum’ - yes, that is exactly what it’s about! - proudly advertising itself on T-shirts as being ‘Not for Pussies.’ Other, less risqué outlets cheerfully sell similar garments pronouncing “Don’t Mess with Iceland: We May not have the Cash, but we’ve got the Ash” I would have bought one, but the word ‘Mess’ was actually substituted for something less child-suitable.

Reading up on one of our destinations, Thingvellir (more on this fascinating place another time), we discovered a line about the location’s suitability, in the south west of the country, for a meeting point for ancient chieftains. The guide observes that those making the seventeen day journey from the eastern side of the island did find crossing the glaciers and rivers ‘problematic.’

A little bit down from the inexplicably named ‘Chuck Norris Burger Bar’ we are trying to buy orange juice. “Appelsinusafi”, we learn. Not to be confused with Apple juice , which is “eplasafi”.
“Yes!” the assistant happily explains in perfect English (all Icelanders learn English from seven years old). “The word apple entered our language twice and we kept both!” And why not?

Do walk around Reykjavik’s centre. It’s marked by the towering Hallgrimskirkja Church which affords quite exhilarating 360 degree views over the capital’s colourful roofs to the harbour, inlet, lava fields and crisp, clear, snowclad ranges beyond. This vibrancy of colour lends a wonderful energy to this subarctic city, home to two thirds of Iceland’s 350,000 strong population. Houses are coloured brightly, people wear colours (and occasionally even black,) buildings and installations are lit at night by colours, predominantly echoing those of the Northern Lights.
Mix these colours, the humour, the sharp air, the inconsistencies - the political incorrectness - and the snow together and the refreshing energy is there even in the long subarctic nights kept crackling with the boom of fireworks .(Icelanders love fireworks: selling them as fundraisers for various community organisations, they let off 650 tonnes of them each year.)
A soft, understated pulse running through the world’s most northerly capital city, warms you to its quirks even when it is “slightly chilly out there.”

And I haven’t even touched upon the geothermal hot-tubs in the snow yet….

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Iceland: It’s not all about the Northern Lights.

Swimming to america

Iceland: land of laughs and lava...

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