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 ....
No comments:
Post a Comment