Iceland - Gallery 4

The Icelandic Sagas - Frozen

Ice - the second form of water. Solid, yet for ever moving, a form so deep its blue-fissured crevices threaten to engulf us.

We catch sight of it at first in the distance, a faint calling as we speed toward it in the tour bus. Late morning sun reflects from the ice-peaked crown of the mountainous volcano, and the temperature drops in time. Will the ice creak and groan its deep secrets? We are no more than a brief speck on a narrow, twisting path as the glacier stares down impassively upon us.

This immense power, frozen in place. When the volcano erupts the ice will melt and sweep all before it. A huge iron bridge, twisted and torn, bears testimony to the raging waters just a little time away. Will it blow today?

Ice. We venture to the height of the glacier, wrapped baby-like in swathes of thick cushioned material and clinging precariously to the frame of a battered 4x4. This landscape is alien, blackened and unforgiving. A ford, wheels slipping as the vehicle bounces across safe to the other side, and there beneath us a surreal motorised parking lot laid out in neat formation.

We pair and mount the skidoos, gliding across the ice-melt as we crawl in line toward the glacier. All we hear is the roar of the engines as we draw deeper into the white, trailing lines behind us as we pass. Over in the distance a sled of huskies pulls off to the left, and then we are alone in the midday sun. On top of the world.

Ice. We visit its mysterious depth once more, this time pushed out in an amphibious duck that skims across a water of eerie, blue silence. We see shapes form before us - whale-tail, castillations, some deep ocean monster rearing up to greet us. Then a guide-boat pulls close. We hold ice formed fifteen hundred years ago, suckling on its time-chilled freshness.

Alone in this lake of calm, we watch time melt ...

Iceland - Gallery 3

The Icelandic Sagas - Running Waters

Three forms of water carve out this place, and one comes tumbling and cascaded in bright shards of glittering moment, carrying all before it.

We race from the coach to catch first sight of the opal blue jewel beneath us. Faxi streams wide and elegant, carving a swathe between two verdant banks that disappear across the horizon. Look! There, in the mist, can you see him? A fisherman pulls home fresh salmon, gleaming in the morning air.

But nothing can prepare us for what follows. The deafening roar of Gullfoss, just a little way down route 35. It fills the lowing sky, beaten out in misty patterns that sink deep into our skin. You don't see it at first, you feel it. Icy fingers of moisture borne in luminous rising clouds from the heart of its twin-tiered falls. Gullfoss penetrates to the very core, taking hold to clothe us in a watery shroud. We hear its roar and halt in our tracks, a deafening reminder of mortal insignificance in this alien place.

We walk on, further toward its heart, drawn by its call...

Water flowing. Descended from on high, ice-curtain showered past slippy mossed rocks. We spend the week chasing it the length of the Southern seaboard - Svartifoss and black columned basalt, a flowing wave of hexagonal rock that clings to its lip. Hundafoss but a short walk away, thundering down the abyss. Seljalandsfoss, and a portal glimpse behind its white-sheeted waters. And then sweet Skógafoss, in whose dandelioned-skirted fields we pause a while, contemplating time.

It streams away ....

Iceland - Gallery 2

The Icelandic Sagas - A Clearing in the Mist

Dear Chroniclers,

after a long absence, we open a new series of postings to capture a few, fleeting memories from our recent visit to Iceland. A place which is, quite simply, stunning.

Testing Times

Our journey begins with the outward flight to Keflavik - three hours and a following wind, then the clouds clear as we head down to land. The auspices are not good. On arrival the weather is misty, everyone appears to have gone home early for the day and we're seated on the transfer bus unsettlingly close to Miss Grumpy of Grumpyville, a middle-aged lady who positively oozes funereal doom from her every pore.

The road out of Keflavic proves equally unpromising. Several miles of bleak, flat land punctuated by the occasional lump of unyielding foundation-concrete that presages yet another featureless building in gestation.

Celebrations

As the wheels on the transfer bus go round and round, so we begin to question why we've just expended a sum not unadjacent to the Gross Domestic Product of a fledgling East European republic on the holiday of a lifetime. You see, electrofried(mr) is celebrating his half-century in style, accompanied by the good lady and young teenygoth.

My favourite top-hat and spats ensemble has been duly packed (together with the infamous electrofried thermals) and now it's eight days in the wilds of Iceland to look forward to.

A Turn for the Better

Our fortunes take a turn for the better as we change buses and join our tour party for the week ahead. I say a silent prayer of thanks as Miss Grumpy is ushered, still muttering under her breath, onto another coach, allowing us to settle down and savour the trip to our hotel. We are not to be disappointed. As we head out of Rekjavik the road narrows and we climb into cloud-skimmed heights.

And then the mist thins. There below us lies a small settlement, glinting in the early evening sun, our hotel just a mile or two down the road. We've arrived, and what adventures we're about to enjoy!

best regards,

electrofried(mr)

Iceland - Gallery 1