The Iceland Travel Journal, week 1
(These journal entries were put into digital form using iPhone speech-to-text, so if there are any errors I have not spotted, let me know)
Have now resolved all the packing issues. The train leaves tomorrow at 6:14. Months of work are about to pay off. I am nervous.
Train to Hamburg, 26.04
Last night, I felt a rather strange rushing sensation in my sleep. The full moon had cast a penetrating silver shine through my windows onto the wall, perhaps that was the cause of my unrest. I remember quite clearly appreciating the softness of the bed, as it would be my last such sensation for considerable time period. No pinkish tides like in Cambridge, but a similar feeling. I sit in a train of the newest type now, the very front carriage of an ICE to Hamburg. Hopefully these days of travel will not pass as quickly as I think they will.
Schleswig & Flensburg 26.04
Chinstrap bearded conductor threw me out. Cycling now.
Aarhus coach morning Saturday 27.04
After stirring out of a considerably deep sleep in the padded seat of a FlixBus, I wake up to a foggy morning in Aarhus. I continue onto Aalborg, but I do have a free seat next to me now which is rather opposed to the nature of its previous occupant, a very much nicotine addicted man with an impressive nose.
The ferry sets of this afternoon, and now there is very little to stop me from being aboard then. Last evening I crossed the Danish border and put up my tent, took a couple hours rest, knowing that in order to make my connection I would have to wake up at 2 am. Not bothering to set an alarm, as I somehow knew I would sleep the correct duration, I promptly woke at 2:07 and decided there was enough time to remain lying until 2:30. At 3:45, I’d managed to reassemble all my equipment in the light of the full moon, then froze my ass off at the Flensburg train station until 5:50.
Hirtshals/Smyril Line Sat 27.04
After an arduous journey involving an unexpected overnight stay in Flensburg, I boarded the Smyril Line ship. Francesco, a 32-year-old Italian on an 11+ month cycle tour across all of Europe, is a new friend of mine. He gave me a pack of digestives, I will buy him a beer later to return the favour. We met in lane 20 of the ferry port, waiting to board the Norröna, a large auto ferry with many facilities, including multiple Cafes and a gym and swimming pool. I spent most of my stay so far, sitting in the cafeteria looking out the window at the beautifully dark blue waters of the Atlantic ocean, watching patches of spray construct and collapse themselves in the wake of the ship. The sky is lined thinly with condensation, each cloud base parallel to its neighbours like a bed of asparagus viewed from below. In odour, however, much unlike asparagus, the air is clear and free, with only a small note of internal combustion engine. The sea scraper continues its journey onwards to the Faroe Islands. I shall keep myself busy with math puzzles and then get drunk with some Italians. The sea is so beautiful that I could cry.
First morning on ferry. Sun 28.04
This morning I had to pick the sleep from my beard as I washed my face in the shared bathrooms on deck 2. Not realising that my watch was set an hour early, I took a walk on the open deck shortly after, only to find, upon returning, that it was still six, and not seven, o’clock, and that there would be no methylxanthines as a reward for my discipline until much later. My waist bears a small red mark. Whilst taking a shower last night, I discovered a small, black protrusion in its place. The little bastard must have hitched a ride on me from the forest outside Flensburg all the way to the ferry. I removed this tick with my fingernails, although I think the head remains lodged in my side. Will need to keep an eye out for the symptoms of Lyme disease, or for an infection of the scratch, and seek help if I get problems. With all the books in the world, I begin to think that perhaps I use computers too much in my childhood.
These waters seem to possess a limitless supply of curvature. Waves exist on the small, large, and planetary scales, not even to mention the fundamental 2-spheredness of this integral curve I trace with this ship. If we have a God, it must be our planet. We humans, in our innately exploratory ways, seem to possess as much species arrogance as the ocean does curvature. We really think that we can hold the entire world in our hand, and ourselves in the other. Not only do we believe that a God would be made in our image physically, no, we also believe that they are aligned with us, i.e.: likes the people we like, hates the people who we hate, when in reality we are the ones that war with mother nature. You aren’t going to find God under a rock unless you have a powerful microscope, and don’t require all your beliefs to be scientifically verifiable. You may, however, find other people in the world.
Torshavn, rain on the Faroe islands. Mon 29.04
Beinah das Einlaufen verpennt. Wir trafen um 7:30 Uhr im öligen Hafen der Hauptstadt der Färöer Inselgruppe rein. Meteorgraue Berge sind von einem gelbgrünen Gras, und vieler Reihen von kleinen, putzigen und wärmebescheidenen Häusern umgeben. Erdgeschosse in grober, weißer Farbe, die oberen zwei oder drei mit senkrechten, schwarzen oder roten Brettern versehen, und die Dächer von Gras bedeckt. Die kleinen, sechszelligen Fenster sehen aus wie aufgeklebt. Die Stadt Torshavn sitzt in mitten der Fjorde wie eine Art eckige Flüssigkeit, eine eingefrorene Mischmenge aus Pastellfarben und den verschiedensten Grautönen. In der ferneren Hafenanlage ragt ein antennenähnlicher Schornstein weit über den eckigen Frachthallen heraus, ferner noch sind in entgegengesetzter Richtung Windräder bei der Arbeit zu sehen. Die Mündung der Fjorde, ein förmliches Hufeisen der Wirtschaft.
Der Hafen ist stetig von einem zwerghaften Leuchtturm vor der Angelegenheit einer Schiffbrüchigkeit beschützt, rot und weiß gestreift, wie ein Bild einer Postkarte steht er auf einem grasigen Felsen, die Vorderseite dieser Basisebene ist mit gen Ferne gerichteten Kanonen bestückt; je nach Freundlichkeitserscheinung wurden einst Schiffe entweder mit einem Lichtkegel, oder mit Blei begrüßt.
Etwa 2 Stunden später verlasse ich unser Schiff. Es regnet, die Insel umhüllt von dichter Regenwolle. Das Café Brell, auf einer anliegenden Straße der Altstadt, ist mir dagegen warm und freundlich. Ein starker Kaffeegeruch steigt mir in die Nase, natürlich zucke ich sofort mit der Geldkarte, der neuen, und darf mich prompt setzen. 10:10 Uhr.
Afternoon and evening Mon 29.04
Watching rows of cars and buses tail each other into the ferry from the aft window. We are set to depart Torshavn in less than 10 minutes. I went on an exceedingly long walk through some of the roads in the old town, getting a closer look at the design of houses described previously. The red boarded house complex is the city court, in fact, in a most precarious position upon a land bridge. As I toured the town, the swaying of the ship I grew accustomed to was remnant in my vestibular system; chairs I knew were connected strongly to the ground continue to feel as if they swayed in a slow and steady rhythm. Must be the tick-borne encephalitis taking hold.
After saying my goodbyes to Francesco, I made my way back to the ferry, but not before a brief visit to a local supermarket. I’ve now stowed away a small amount of food for the first set of nights, although naturally the camping gas is still missing. The seas become choppy. The lo-fi beats that come relayed on the speakers in deck 10, the nicest view aboard, seem a perverse contrast to the violence of the open seas. Like field excitations, large enough crests bear decorations of foam, the positions utterly random. Gulls fly near the peaks and troughs, their wingtips nearly gracing the water, like swords through butter. For many centuries they have accompanied human vessels, and I wonder if they can tell that our methods of transportation are much different now than then. We are so far north now that the night scarcely blackens, the huge sky above and below us remains not more than a uniform, steel-coloured dusk. I attentively watch the waves, hoping that, by some thermodynamic miracle, her face or its likeness may pop out at me for but a brief instance, but it really is all just monochrome noise out there. How any of us murder-monkeys are ever able to attain a planetary perspective is astonishing in itself .
First night in the Icelandic landscape. Tue 30.04
An early morning in the ferry. Dieter, a kindly bavarian man of my father‘s age, joined me at my table for breakfast. We had met over a beer and some fish and chips in an Irish pub in Torshavn. The conversation was varied, most of it to do with the state of affairs in the world, climate change and such. He is touring Iceland with his nieces, who flew in while he ferried. He managed to catch me on my way from Seyðisfjörður to Egilstaðir, a 27 km cycle of snowy mountain road, total climb 650 m. As he stopped for a moment to wait for me, I took shelter from the wind behind his campervan, and put on my rainproof gaiters. We exchanged phone numbers and parted ways.
After descending again, my brakes threatening to give out, I found my way to a supermarket in Egilstaðir, where I bought some small staples, oats, bread, etc. I had arrived. My limbs were aching, and I was ready to lose my strength completely in the quest for an open campsite, when I happened upon to a nearby hot Springs facility, sat in an icy lake, which I spent two hours and roughly €60, which restored my strength and spirits. I shall no longer be falling for any tourist traps though; I found myself once again surrounded by social-media-savvy people my age, whom I am now, in my tent in a field near a rock, happy to be away from.
First open tent night and Reykjavík. Wed 01.05
Yesterday upon my ascent, as I forgot to mention, I encountered two cyclists headed for the port. Yelling at me through the storm:
“Yeah, brother!“,
And hand-signalling the devil’s horns. My brothers, apparently. Crazy fuckers. Love ‘em.
I made it to Reykjavík today, and upon exiting a most breathtaking flight, I put together the rest of my gear, i.e. spare gas canisters from cooking. I am now able to spend a night anywhere I am hidden. Hardly hidden here, only disconnected from prying eyes by river; I hope the Icelandic spirit is not one which will readily inform law enforcement of benign behaviour. I cycled out of town to get here, north towards Mossfellsbær. I exited the highway one and crossed under a bridge, where horses are routinely lead; apparently horseback riding is a considerable sport here. Pitching my tent upon some mossy lichen-covered area of loose, basaltic rocks. Will need to wait for the various jockeys to return home before I can take a shit.
Tomorrow I will need to buy a bike pump, and a fresh set of brake pads. I was lucky enough to obtain that which I have, with labour day and all. After a quick swim tomorrow, I will have a nice coffee and split for Þingvellir, hopefully managing to stay out of sight too.
Plans versus reality. Thursday 02.05
It is looking like I will have to spend some more time at this mire, because I am being rained on like no tomorrow. The rule is one day of vagrancy per location; I found a nice, wind-sheltered area 100 m away from here if I am kicked off, but to move at all will require nicer conditions. It is becoming clear that before becoming able to attempt Kjölur, that I will need a week of clear weather, and even then it will be a backbreaking ordeal.
But this is what I came here to do.
Hveragerði, hopefully Selfoss. Fri 03.05
After obtaining a bike pump and spare brake pads yesterday, which really drove me near my limit due to this requiring over 10 km of backtracking, I made for the western limb of Reykjavík, whose section of the ring road snakes through the rolling hills towards Selfoss like an outstretched tendril. The office blocks, supermarkets, and what I assumed to be fitness centres, teetered out into basaltic rubble and orange-yellow-green moss. A fairly large, American style park with wood huts, rangers, and signs, led me about the perimeter of a very still, flat, shallow lake, criss-crossing paths with the gravel tracks intended for the horses. This place is so blue and orange, it expands my sense of colour into a previously unknown dimension.
Some distance further, I find a nice, mossy clearing beneath some power lines, which seemed remarkably suitable for the construction of my tent, which I have been steadily improving at. Almost as if on queue, the moment I lie down to rest in my den, it begins to rain upon it, and I am stuck sitting there more or less until noon today. After doing the various rites associated with keeping myself disease free and odour minimal, I am finally able to begin moving through the inclemence. Having taken care to choose a wind-sheltered area for my tent the night before, I greatly underestimated the wind strength along the ring road. The conditions reduced me to a crawl. After crossing a bridge with the bike in hand, I take a sanity break at the crest of a small side road to the highway, when suddenly a man in a large, 90s-era pick up truck pulls up alongside me and offers to take me to Hveragerði. Duli was his name, a tour guide whose passion for his country and nature is clearly visible. We spoke of the weather, and eventually landed on the topic of youth, housing, migration, electromagnetism. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a café listening to the Spice Girls at my destination.
Above Reykjadalur, Sat 04.05
on Iceland’s blue-green mountains.
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