When I first went to Iceland nine years ago, the Icelanders told stories of how they lived on a new land, in the process of being made. You can see how that works, here in Njardvik, where with each storm the fjord grows smaller. It’s quite the problem, really, if you’re on one of the two farms in the fjord.
Now, Icelanders tell stories of how climate change caused Vikings (not Icelanders but Vikings yet [who were Icelanders!]) to cut down all the trees, and continues to victimize Iceland, making it pay for industrial decisions taken elsewhere. I miss the old story of hope, of rolling up the sleeves, doing something, and getting on with it. After all…
… either way, you still have to fix your fence. Might as well give your neighbour, the sea, a piece of your mind while you’re at it.
It is, after all, not a new story.
Here’s a beach warning sign I found at Dritvik on June 21.
Note the life ring.
Go at low tide.
Just a thought.
Iceland is a country best explored slowly, and on foot.
When it is called “a beautiful country,” it means that every step is beautiful. Easy does it.
It comes to life as you walk through it, changes you, and remains within you.
Héraðsandur. It’s for the birds.
Can you imagine any other country that would set a beach like this aside for the real people, instead of giving it to humans? There are many countries smaller than this beach.
It is the voice of water.
You read it instantly
Words are another thing.
Often you don’t need them.
And World again.
What ends here begins.
What begins here does not end.
This is the language.
This is the shore.
This is the bound.
This is the bond.
This is Iceland.