Iceland Journal

by Vincent Guy

Iceland is my second choice. For years, my dream has been to go to Antarctica. But, cost apart, the journey’s logistics are daunting. And what if you get there and find you’ve forgotten your gloves? So I choose Iceland for its exotic geology and intriguing culture. The former I’ll be exploring with a small group on a photographic tour organised by Wild Photography Holidays; the latter by staying on a few days in Reykjavik. I’ve been a serious photographer for a decade. For this trip I’ve sold off my pricey cameras and lenses and bought the latest iPhone – travelling light.

Day 1

Arrival delayed two hours; the plane had a faulty tyre. At the airport: crumbled black lava everywhere. From the bus to the city, flat empty landscape covered in rocks the size of fists, until, in the distance, the pyramid forms of volcanoes.

Reykjavík cityscape: modern rectangular buildings, white, cream, grey, few more than 30 years old. The locals I come across friendly and helpful, speaking perfect English. The dreadlocked receptionist at Hotel Kellur starts a lively chat with me about Arctic tern migration. On my phone a warning of nearby volcanic activity.

Day 3

The highlight was a huge waterfall.

Took some snaps, then, with our Hungarian-Swiss team member, mounted the steps to the top. The others chickened out. We made it, Mishka helpfully taking my rucksack, so I only needed one pause for breath. There we found a new vista, including another waterfall of a completely different shape, horizontal rather than vertical. Descending, Mishka estimated the number of steps at around 400. Back in the van, consulting phones, we find it’s 542. Not bad for a young octogenarian like me.

Day 5

Two stunning events. The first, revisiting a bay with stacks (pokey up rocks) which we saw yesterday in the mist; today from a different viewpoint, and the mist clearing. A bay of black sand with white breakers rolling over it: rock formations, sea birds, sounds of the tide. 

Second scene, an open field beneath a basalt mountain. In the distance, snowy white caps and in the field, Icelandic horses, each with a different pattern and colour, a different temperament. Several extremely friendly, happy to stand around and be petted (and of course photographed - see title photo), one even attempting to eat my tripod.  After such grandeur, this scene was intimate and calming.

Late afternoon extra: visit to another waterfall. Option to go in behind the falling water, with a high probability of getting wet. The other menfolk all go in, layered in waterproofs, to return duly drenched. I opt to stay with the women.

Day 6

Long drive today, a little dull, from the southwest of the island to the southeast, mostly through rain. Scarcely a sign of human activity; occasionally a house, café or tourist hotel. In 30 miles you might see one tractor. And some powerlines.

We reach the glacier zone. Stopped briefly at the Ice Lagoon. Like most sites of interest, it’s overpopulated with tourists taking selfies. Tourism’s a major industry. But back on the road, it’s all endless emptiness, lava rocks and craggy mountains.

Day 7


Back to the Ice Lagoon, dramatic in the gloaming. A huge glacier sheds its calves into a pool. Then a narrow point causing an ice jam; it takes a long while for the icebergs to get down to the sea. They pile on top of one-another, looking like pieces of blue cake lying askew in the pool. A family of seals cavort and tease each other. At our feet snow buntings hop without hint of shyness.



Day 8


Weather: always fickle, random, unpredictable. Drive 10 miles and… has it changed or is it another microclimate? Forecast 24 hours hence is best ignored.

Stop for coffee. The café owner, a voluble showman, insists we try two traditional Icelandic specialities: gravad (buried) shark fin and pickled ram’s testicles. He presents two small dishes of moist greyish cubes the size of a fingernail. My companions turn up their noses; the odour is penetrating. The only victim willing is me. Mine Host proffers a bit of shark on a fork, then the testicle. Which is more revolting? He pins a “True Viking” badge on me. The group tease me with that moniker for the rest of the trip.

Day 9

Time to engage with Iceland’s ice. In the morning we travelled to a cave inside a glacier. Magical, as if decorated by some modernist designer: interlaced shell-like patterning on the ceilings. Drips falling onto us and the dark slippery floor.

We could see further pilgrims in Indian file walking up the slope. The pilgrims, to be frank, were the problem. As everywhere, selfie-seekers were crawling over everything like ants. Before some miracle of nature, without even glancing at the scene, they pose for Instagram with arms outspread, like Goya’s painting of resisters being shot by Napoleon’s soldiers. And because of the chattering, jostling numbers, our stay was limited to 15 minutes. This after a substantial drive in our own van, an off-road vehicle weaving us along a bumpy track, and a final scramble on foot. A whole morning invested for a few minutes of sublime beauty. But yes, it’s worth it.

Afternoon, return to the lagoon. The hoped-for sunset doesn’t materialise. But no matter: the whole beach is strewn with ice chunks, some the size of a krona coin, some as big as a troll reaching out for the moon.

As the breakers intermingle with them, there might be upward sea spray or changing colours in the ice fragment itself as the sea flows under it. And each piece is a different shape, a different style. One is a smooth rock; another a jagged mollusc; the next full of holes with the sea flowing through, its neighbour a sculpture reaching skyward. And even as you watch, the shapes slowly change, eroded by the waves or melting in the warmth of day. Some are in the water at the tideline; others, as the tide ebbs, left behind like stranded fish on the black sand.

After dinner, back to the lagoon, this time on the other side looking directly onto the glacier and its icebergs. We hoped to photograph aurora borealis, the Northern Lights, but Aurora, a moody goddess, fails to appear. With chilly fingers we coax our cameras into revealing, if not the Lights, the icy forms in the darkness.

Day 10

In keeping with the whirligig of weather, yesterday evening presented us with the ne plus ultra of Ultima Thule: Aurora finally came out to play. Above the Ice Lagoon there were lines gradually tracing across the heavens presaging the Lights. Jethro, our guide, shows me a technique on the iPhone: I can point it at the sky and, without seeing anything on the screen, hold the button steady for three seconds to reveal the universe; an infinity of colours, streaks and stars.

After a while, the tips of my fingers fairly froze so I went back to the van. (They stayed numb for a couple of hours.) An even stronger motive for retreat was the arrival of a dozen Italians with lights, camera, action – even more arm-waving and exclamations than from the Chinese.

Maybe I missed the climax of the Lights’ display, but I was happy; what I’d seen was dramatic, what I caught on camera beyond expectations.

Day 11


Now back in the capital, if somewhat exhausted, ready for the new solo phase of my trip.

Caught in a horizontal blizzard, I realised why people here don’t use umbrellas. I took refuge in the Lava Show, enlightening and vividly presented by a Scotsman. Emerged into a heavyweight thunderstorm with rain still horizontal, in the other direction.

Tourists outnumber the natives on the island. Chinese predominate, mainly young women, dressed fittingly in white. Our guide to the geysers (she’s Swiss) tells us that tourism really took off after 2010; the explosion of the unpronounceable volcano, Eyjafjallajökull, brought Iceland to the world’s notice. More remarkable is that all the people public-facing are immigrants. The Icelanders tend stay behind the scenes owning the businesses and running the politics. The only local I’ve chatted to at any length was a guy making a film – about tourism.   


On a bus trip we visit this volcanic crater, no longer active, the rock reddened by iron.

Other sights, each one of a genre I hadn’t seen on this trip or indeed in my life: the rift valley where the continental plates meet; the eponymous Geyser; a vast waterfall, Gullfoss the Golden One, tumbling at multiple angles. 

Last day

I’ve trimmed my sails for the day. Just pack and go to the swimming pool, ready for an early night. At the entrance my bank card fails; it’s just expired. Well, it is April Fools’ Day. However, I manage to sweet-talk my way in for a free entry. The local rule is that before entering the pool area you must take a shower, naked. The showers are wide open, though it’s single sex so I’m not too bothered. Beside the pool are various geothermally heated tubs. I revel in the massage effect of the vigorous underwater jets. The bathers are all Icelanders, and I notice that most are dark-haired. Hardly a trace of that Nordic blonde look. The suggestion that the Vikings brought captive Celtic women with them might have more than a grain of truth.

Later in my hotel room, I hear banging in the corridor - men at work?  The bed shakes. I realise it’s an earth tremor from volcanic activity 40 miles away. When I inquire at reception, they think it’s a great laugh, “Just look out of your plane window when you leave. You might see something cool.“

Given my defunct bank card, I spend my last day in this expensive city without spending one krona. It takes me back to my twenties, hitch-hiking around Iberia without a peseta in my pocket.

I drop into an art gallery. The picture above could well be our little group of photographers dodging between rock and troll. Except we were in a VW 4x4.

Literature

Did some reading. The supposed masterpiece of Icelandic literature is Independent People  by Nobel laureate Halldor Laxness. I found it an uphill climb; stopped halfway up. Spoiler alert: the book’s first half has a farmer living in remote corner of the island, an unpleasant fella, though able to sing. His wife is, in the modern jargon, challenged, both mentally and emotionally.  His neighbours talk tediously about weather. A sheep goes astray so he goes in search, leaving his dog behind (if you can imagine a shepherd leaving his dog behind on such a mission). He naturally gets lost and is away for days. Arriving back home, he finds the wife has died in childbirth - but Hey! no worries - the dog is feeding the infant. Unclear whether Lassie is doing this from her own bosom or mixing up formula in the kitchen. If this is great literature, I’ll eat my hat with a side-serving of pickled ram’s dangles.

Reflections

My experiences here have been as intense as I imagined. Not only does the weather keep changing but the scenes before our eyes (and our cameras) were varied, surprising and new. Of the Icelanders’ way of life I’ve only scratched the surface, but I get a sense of its contrasts and paradoxes. A modern forward-looking economy where language and literature preserve aspects of a millennium ago. A prosperous egalitarian society with the arts engaged mainly with gloom and doom.

Reykjavik Concert Hall epitomises the hyper-modern aspect of Iceland’s worldview

Its interior echoes patterns in the ice.