I see a shipping palette.
Bustarfell in Hofsárdalur
An Icelander sees a window shutter. Either way, it journeyed a long way to get here, but then it stayed.
Most visitors to Iceland land at Keflavik Airport, just north of this beautiful landscape, and then race northwest to Reykjavik, missing out on the opportunity to hear the land speak.
The Icelanders have arranged it this way. Have you ever wondered why?
Reykjanes is calling!
This is the kind of thing that annoyed the Icelandic writer Gunnar Gunnarsson in 1928. This is Hadrian’s Villa, built in the year 134 near Tivoli, in what is now Italy. He thought it was too bright.He meant that this man and his politics were wrong for Scandinavia (which, to him, included Baltic Germany):
Mussolini Rejects Democratic Rule in 1928
He also meant that this version of Hadrian’s Tivoli villa was the wrong approach to art:
The Tivoli Gardens Amusement Park in Copenhagen
Gunnar didn’t see art as a populist entertainment. He was after something else. This is the architecture he liked:
Landhus Farm, Fljótsðalur
You could consider it a part of the landscape, he said. Almost all the houses of this type are ruins now, but not like Hadrian’s ruins:
In the 1950s onward, the Icelandic government gave away trees, as part of a nationalist program of rebuilding the eroded landscapes of the country. Out of the same impulse as Gunnar, people planted them on the sites of their former turf houses, leaving the hills, the intended recipients of the trees, bare. The government keeps a few turf houses as museums:
Farmhouse Window, Bustarfell
It is the same impulse that drove Gunnar from the Tivoli Gardens. He considered that mixing northern culture, an expression of northern land and climate, with a southern one would destroy it, such as the German Reich’s turn from a people’s culture, based on farm life, to an Imperial one, as documented in the image below.
For Gunnar, independence meant to have no masters at all, and the point of modernity was to refine old folk ways. He shared that with the Italians and Germans of his day. He was more clear than they were, however, on the price of Imperialism and power exercised as force. It’s too bad he didn’t speak more clearly about this, but at least we have the ruins…
… to speak…
… for him …
Reykjavik is Hadrian’s Villa.
The 101 district of Reykjavik is famous for being trendy. It is, admittedly, a great place to stare at the architecture that replaces a view, in generic spaces full of cars, dumpsters and starlings, all most familiar and comforting…
…but you could go to Frambuðír and have a view deep into the Atlantic and Iceland’s heart.
Easy to get to. Just fight your way out of the city, north on Highway 1, turn left at Borgarnes, and before dinner time, with the Snaefell glacier looming over you, turn left to the little church at Buðir. Park, and walk west on the path closest to the sea. Within an hour, you will be staring out of this old farmhouse. Because you won’t want to leave, there is, conveniently, a hotel right beside the church. You can shelter there.
When you come back to Reykjavik, if you come back, you might see it more directly.
Well, you can go to Gullfoss …
…with the crowds.
Or you can go to Gilsáfoss. It’s not so large, but it has spirit, and an ice troll, if you go in April.
Easy to get to, too. Drive east from the airport for 8 hours, turn left at Egilstadir, follow the lake through Hallomrstadir, and then, 30 minutes later, if you don’t stop to let the reindeer pass along the way, which is a fine reason to stop, for sure …
You’ll find it at the end of the lake, just upstream from the old bridge in the middle of this image. It’s the last stream before you cross the lake to the north side. Have a nice trip! The ice troll is waiting. Gulfoss will thank you.
Iceland has pioneered the control of Jökulhlaups, catastrophic glacial outflow rivers, in Skaftafell National Park, by being familiar with the land enough to copy its models.
In addition to the deflective butts of rock redirecting Bæjargil as it streams down from Svartifoss, the Black Falls, there’s a troll in the stream bed. There usually is. That’s the spirit of the rock, just as the water-deflecting dikes are in the distance. What? Did someone tell you that trolls are mythological? No, they are us.