The Iceland Travel Journal, week 3
Taking my leave of Kjölur for good. Mon 13.05
Yesterday, on Mother’s Day, I returned to Gulfoss with a vigour harshly mismatched with reality. As I crested the 35 for the second time, I realised that the cover of snow had not shifted enough to do the tour of the Hveravellir/Kerlingarfjöll.
After talking to some people there, but hardly able to contain my disappointment, I cruise back down to a much nicer road leading to a pitifully under-equipped campsite in Laugarvatn. This campsite is complete garbage; seriously, anyone reading this who is considering a similar sort of trip, avoid Laugarvatn’s campsite at all costs. By far the most expensive, and also the most under-equipped, with a suspicious tax dodgy payment scheme. Dirty bathrooms, et cetera. Just forget it. At least the birds here have different names with which they call one another.
I have another long cycle stage today, but I am also gearing up for a substantially earlier in the day that has been customary so far; I typically don’t get moving until noon or early afternoon, but things are gearing up a bit faster this morning, probably because this campsite is so miserable. I would rather have spent the night just in the open instead.
It is difficult to remain miserable with the scenery that surrounds it, though. I had a long-ish conversation with a former classmate of mine, Who had many kind of things to say about my first set of published journal entries, and she made the excellent and very true point that perhaps a trip like this gives one too much time to ruminate, after all, the time scales of cycling are only superseded by those of walking.
I most certainly have had a lot to think about.
Þingvellir National Park, Sun, Windless. Tue 14.05
Struck from directly ahead by the morning sun as I write these lines. The Planckian density of states hits all of the important colours which my body is made of, and also a couple not so nice ones; better lather up in some SPF 30 before today’s exploits. The Þingvellir campsite is a large field near the info centre of the National park, the centrepiece of the island sociological and cultural development since its settlement in the late 10th century. This is the place many people point to, when asked to determine the boundary between the American and European Continental plate, although of course the ridge is far more than just one singular crack; many come in parallel, like stretch marks when new skin can’t be made quite quickly enough, so there is not exactly one place that is truly “between” them, very similar to how an ever expanding universe doesn’t require a “centre” from which to expand.
I managed to get here in just about three hours of cycling from Laugarvatn, which took me past some caves which had living residents in the last 100 or so years, as well as some breathtaking introductory reviews of the rift, with moss overlaying everything like some kind of oversize trichodermata. I took a nice outdoor cooking session: spaghetti with tuna! After devouring this, I set off again, still fighting extensively against the harsh wind, and made it to the info centre eventually, from which I spent the afternoon sending some postcards out to the world. I could feel the eyes of the old examining me while I partook in this mild anachronism.
After getting a camping permit and some directions for today’s hike/rest day, I had a dinner, which consisted of the rest of the first bag of oats (from Egilstaðir), two cups of camomile tea, and - to my shame - several spoonfuls of Nutella direct from the jar. No better sugar paste, other than possibly peanut butter, exists, to refill the glucose battery, especially when I can’t “buy a car”, as I was implored to by an American I encountered on the road here yesterday.
Return to Reykjvík, rest days. Wed 15.05
The cycle from the beautiful rift in the Þingvellir National Park, which was also inaugurated as a UNESCO World Heritage site, took me around two hours, not including all the stops taken along the way. A small church garnishes the centre of the divergent fault, where the Alþing came to be. The ravine is filled with freshwater from the lake, of a colour like I’ve only ever seen in a nuclear reactor. I suppose the furnaces that stoke the geological activity in Iceland are themselves also nuclear, so it fits; although those watery cracks do little to cool or contain the fires that burn beneath.
Just ahead of Mossfellsbær, I took a small break to visit the house of the famous Icelandic author Halldor Laxness. An inspiring journey into the private life and mind of a great thinker, one section which stood out to me was the guides description of the copiously stacked bookshelves as “windows to the world”, which do very well complement the literal windows near, showing the vast fjord, carved out by a glacier. His house is a prototype for what may constitute heaven for intellectual; homeliness and nature in close proximity to one another, clashing, making peace. A Steinway in the living room and a waterfall in the garden, which appears almost hand sculpted.
Not much later, I found myself again in the Krónan of Mossfellsbær, which was my first supply station in the west, almost 2 weeks ago. The days have passed with quite some speed, but not as quickly as I had initially worried they would. I returned to the beach and an abandoned engine block which I had initially apprehended when I first made myself some porridge near the golf course. The snow cover on the mountains in the distance had decreased noticeably, the grass was greener, the sun shone brighter. I checked into a central Reykjavík hostel for three nights, and I’m now wondering about town in search of activities to do during my rest week.
I have overcome my fear of the duration left.
Hump day at Hostel B47. Thu 16.05.
This is almost exactly the halfway mark! My morning consisted of the usual groggily concocted instant coffee alongside some Cheerios with the rest of the milk I had left, and two slices of toast with what was remaining of the butter. I have some small tasks to complete today, and they include a quick laundry run, and continued planning of my Snæfellsnes trip which the remaining two weeks are to be filled by.
The hostel was a good place to choose for the small celebratory break from the exhaustion of the golden circle. The business shares a building with another, nicer hostel branch, which occupies the top two floors while we the bottom. Almost every interior surface is covered in beautiful murals which remind me of my time in MIS, as the junior school library used to bear a painting of a very similar style. A particularly funny one in the bathroom near the main entrance of Sir Rowan Atkinson as Mr. Bean caught my attention: the facial expressions most exaggerated.
The only drawback of this place is in its relative lack of windows, and I am forced to use the kitchen out or the restaurant, or the creepy looking old entrance on the second floor if I want to do some Journal in natural light.
I have now eaten half of the six eggs, the other half of for tonight. I shall do all my resupplying in Akranes, which I will be travelling to by bus to avoid a 60 km detour around the field as the tunnel is closed to bicycles. I met with a travelling duo in the mid to late 20s who were very enthusiastic about this next, latter phase of my trip, who really primed me for what will undoubtedly be the most spectacular site of all.
One week in, regardless of where I am, I will turn around and make my way back to Reykjavík, where the closing days of the trip will allow me to rest and reflect, and engage further with more of the culture I have been given a taste of.
Thank God it’s. Fri 17.05
I have been scrutinising this blank page for sometime this morning, trying to determine what to fill it with, but not managing to find the thread of anything even slightly compelling. The clock on the wall in the hostel kitchen is almost comically large, none of us guests pay it the reverence which its size suggest it is deserving of. I am reminded of Laxness‘s clock, which, having a mouth, would have plenty to say, besides repeatedly uttering “eternity” through the whisperer of its ticking.
Checkout is in half an hour, but I doubt it will take that long to sort my bags out. I managed to do the laundry yesterday, after almost managing to convince myself not to. I am still undecided if I should take the bus or cycle to Akranes. The weather is good, I shall decide when I am well underway.
Journaling has, so far, been this trip’s biggest success. Without it, little would remain.
Emptiness at last. Sat 18.05
My legs ache from yesterday‘s journey to Akranes and beyond. I needed to hitch a ride with the line 57 to make use of the tunnel, which was a long tube filled with exhaust fumes. In Akranes, I gathered my bearings quickly and then made for the ring road again.
I passed my very first western campsite on the way to the bus, and got well beyond the long stretch of Ring Road by taking to the hills and traversing a closed construction site.
Having lost track of time completely since Akranes, I eventually made it to a Weather station of the foot of an impressive sander, where I spent the night. I made tea and meditated as intensely as I ever have, fully losing myself in the falls of my own brain; no lysergamides required!
I am beginning to formulate an alternate plan for the remaining time: Blönduós or bust, then take the bus back!
We shall see what happens. Onwards.
Losing the bike lock… Sat 18.05
I learnt an essential lesson today. Two kind men from the peninsula I am headed for let me hitch a ride with them. I am so distracted by the scenery that I forget my bike lock in their car. Another artefact from my time at Cambridge lost forever. At the visitor centre by the entrance to the Snæfellsnes peninsula, I gather my thoughts, drink some water. If the lock had been absolutely essential to the continuation of my journey, I would’ve remembered to bring it. The last thing I need is to lose my spirits this early into my second excursion. If I have learned anything today, it is to listen to a person when they give me a chance to really gather my belongings.
He even said: “Everything is important.”
I was too beside myself to really understand. I have now learned better. Simon and Thor. Good lads. My mistake. They will be going to explore cave in which bandits from the 1800s used to stow their spoils and live, terrorising the farmers down in the valley. They gave me some ready to eat meals, taco stew. A fair exchange. I don’t suspect my bike will be stolen here anyways.
As I wait for a strike of inspiration, a friendly group of Italians approaches me, their good mood infectious. I have made some good experiences with Italian thus far. Truly kind, and again, just as I am about to lose my spirits, I am thrown a double 6 by God. If such a thing exists. Maybe if I write another poem this day will make a little more sense.
Looking ahead, it seems as though I am in for a windy set of days in Snæfellsnes. The two recommended I take the ferry to look at the Westfields. Depending on how much money I have left by the time I get there, this may be my next spelling of good luck. This trip has taught me it’s first permanent lesson today. I knew the time was going to come.
Underneath the red trickles and blonde straw
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