Last week saw myself and Lady Helen heading for the beautiful Iceland (formerly known
as Snowland apparently, but that wasn't deemed tough enough for the original Norse
inhabitants).
Lady H asked why I'd chosen Iceland and I told her that I'd always wanted that "Fire
and Ice" tourist experience, volcanoes, lava, glaciers blah blah blah, but the truth
is that I was on a continuing quest to eat a puffin. I'd hoped to do that last year
when we were in western Scotland (Oban) but after a three hour boat trip on the choppiest
sick-making sea ever (not me you understand as I am actually Viking stock - it's the
genes you see) I realised that I was amongst a load of bird watchers rather than chefs,
so the inclusion of a portable barbecue and some sesame seed buns in the backpack
was a bit of a faux-pas. I thought this was an interesting show of principles from
the people of a town that has a bar that is actually called Shenanigans...
Anyhow, the population of Iceland have no such qualms, and it was only a two or three
hour flight. Leg or breast, leg or breast...
Amazingly, we arrived at Heathrow and in 10 minutes, we were checked in and through passport
control giving me plenty of time to wander around Dixons. Even more amazingly there
was no flight delay. With luck like that I expected that the wheel of fortune would
repay the favour by having the plane explode on take-off but it didn't (Fortune was
planning a much slower restoration of balance).
Reykjavik was the first stop for one night and then were off into the wilderness.
We arrived a little after dark, so after a quick splash of Old Spice (Lady H,
not me), we were off out into the night.
Impressively, Reykjavik only has a couple of streets, but a bazillion bars and restaurants.
My focus was on getting tanked pretty quickly, and a few pints of 'Viking' lager later,
I'd managed to complete that mission. Some fairly poor fast food later and we were
winging our way back to hotel for the night. Fortunately I was drunk enough not to
have noticed how much the beer and chips had cost. An omen for things to come.
Next day, after a rousing breakfast of cheese and ham (another omen), we picked up
our giant SUV and set off south towards the national park area. Within 10 minutes
I realised that our giant SUV was tiny compared to the hummers and Big Foot-style
monsters that the locals drive (2 gears - 'stop' and 'too fast'), and then another
10 minutes later I realised that actually no-one really lives in Iceland outside of
Reykjavik.
Getting down to Vik and then back up to Klaustur (our base for the night) took us
through some beautiful landscape, consisting of piles of rocks, and Green Spongy Weirdness.
We couldn't think what to do with the GSW, so Helen just had a little dance on it
instead.
The guidebooks raved about a little Folk Museum in Skogar. I wasn't too bothered -
didn't sound like there was a Puffin kebab truck there - but we stopped anyway if
only to see some people. The museum was devised and run by Pordur Thomasson - an 80-odd
year old bloke. The Lonely Planet said "if you're lucky enough" we might see this
local celebrity and listen to his stories and songs. Well, we were VERY lucky, as
of course he was there and spent a long time telling us a lot of stories - we'd only
really wanted to see if there was a cafeteria. He also wouldn't allow anyone to wander
around - he just herded us about the place spinning yarns (literally in one instance)
and then shouting "UNDERSTAND? UNDERSTAND?" to ensure comprehension at the end of
each story. (Lady H points out that it may be UNDERSTAND! UNDERSTAND! like a Dalek
rather than a question.)
Thomasson is an interesting man - he has spent his entire life from the age of 14
collecting treasures for his museum: it consists of old tools from the dairy industry
right through to old Miele washing machines and a bunch of retro snowmobiles. Fantastic
museum considering its remoteness, full of great objects. As one of his assistants
said though - "We have a lot of crap too". But the guy is undoubtedly dedicated and
rightly proud of the conservation of the culture of the country.
After a quick stop at the petrol station in Vik - hippest place in town - for some
food, we headed out across the plains to Klaustur surrounded by a lot more GSW.
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