In bilberry season!
I once asked a waitress in Reykjavik why Icelandic lamb was so superior. “It’s the berries,” she said.
Well, a lamb dinner in a nice restaurant in Reykjavik, like the Apotek …
… is going to cost CAD$65 for the main course alone, so, you know, $260 all-in for two. For this reason, there are bilberries, which are free for all who wish to marinate themselves in the rain and the wind. Highly recommended.
In winter, there are no bilberries. And no lambs. You’re on your own.
Here’s the old road to Gerduberg in winter. Bit of a trudge.
And here’s the new one leaving it and passing up into the hills. Bit of a muck fest.
Right, here’s an old track the way to Snaefellsjökull. Bit of a dodge, isn’t it.
And the new one?
It’s so nice, they’ve given it a go at blocking it off! The funny thing here is that the old tracks are human made and the new ones are made by machine. One gives access to humans, at a human pace, with arrival at a form of human identity, and the other gives access to humans riding in machines, at a machine pace, with arrival at a form of machine identity. Some things must, simply enough, be slow. Sometimes you just have to sit down for a half year, or a thousand years, and get the lay of the land on a human scale until you become it. In summer…
… when there’s nowhere to park, and in winter …
… you’ll find yourself on foot.
By car, you’re already thinking of moving on.
This old farm building below the famous basalt cliff Gerduberg is a good reminder of a changing climate, for even here, in a remote farming district, the wind is taking the soil away. Look at how it is staining the drifts on the hilltop brown.
It means there is no plant life holding it down. No-one needs a farm shelter here any more. Touring Iceland is often a trip through ruins. It’s like a winter trip itself: one freezes terribly in the wind, but can enjoy it because one will soon go in to a cozy room in Borgarnes, with all the lights blazing. It’s a romantic image, though. This is Iceland. Here you can’t go in.
One way to look at Iceland is to visit a popular tourist site. Gerðuberg, for instance, a half-kilometre-long chain of basalt blocks.
The government sees to its popularity. The project is to keep tourists moving, and to give them a stop or two now and then to refresh. It’s a technique learned over a thousand years of sheep herding. Humans aren’t sheep, of course, but we do have physical needs. Air, for instance. Light. Spiritual purpose. That kind of thing. For that, some places are better than others. Gerðuberg is a great one: the first place you’ll stop, two hours out of Reykjavik on your one-day-long and way-too-quick way around the Snaefellsnes Peninsula. You’re going to want to stretch your legs by that time. But don’t be fooled. By the time you get to Gerðuberg’s natural wonders, you’ve already passed the second way of seeing. It was on the road in.
You see, every natural wonder in Iceland is framed by a long history of human struggle. These post-war North American metal sheds are used as barns everywhere. It’s no longer the fashion, but hundreds are still in use, just as they are (for instance) on the Canadian Prairies. You can see Gerðuberg and its crater in the background. You are getting closer to Iceland now. Crater? Yes.
The Third way of seeing. Well, you passed it, too, probably wondering where you could stop to take a photo.
This is Eldborg, or Fire Mountain. There are numerous Eldborgs in Iceland. This is a fine one.
The answer is: off a little side road, and then along a 2.5 km trail across private land. Other than that, no-one has made a spot for you to stop, except for Gerðuberg. But there’s a trick to this third way. You will probably be lulled by Gerðuberg. You might just miss Eldborg, because you’re looking the other way. And that’s the secret to the third way of seeing in Iceland: turn around.
Gerðuberg (foreground), with Ytri-Rauðamelskulur in back.
Spirt takes many forms!
A Farm in Iceland 