This is a sheep pasture.
Starmyri on the Selá.
This is a sheep pasture.
Starmyri on the Selá.
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.
Once there were fuel stations for travellers. They were built on farms and were the modern equivalent of a service economy that had sustained wealthy farms for many hundreds of years. Some even had garage and tire services and predated the Ring Road of Dutch Camper Company fame. Many of the country hotels in Iceland still follow this old model of serving travellers on farms. The fuel stations are gone now as working centres, though. The more remote of them have been replaced with a lone pump, an automatic card reader, a light, and the bright sign of a national chain in a corner of a field. Not at Starmyri, though!
This translation of a bustling service centre on a rich farm is a bitter story. Once on the gravel road north along the East Coast from Höfn, with valuable shore rights at the mouth of the Seal River…
… and a good, sheltered landing, it was isolated by the sea by black sand drifting south by rivers re-engineered in the North during the diversion to create the hydroelectric power for the aluminum smelter in Reyðarfjörður.
The result was a new East Coast built from lagoons and long, black sand beaches…
…beloved of tourists and useless for farms that live in 1100 years of time, not the continually re-occurring present and fictional pasts and futures of 21st century time.
Still, as you can see…
… the whale bones of an older past keep it company now, as if they were the busts of roman senators on their plinths. This is beautiful art-making. You can see 1100 years of life at once.
Whatever Siberian forest this tree grew in before washing west and south and landing on the Starymyri shore, I bet it never expected to achieve eternity like this! And, yes, at Starmyri, where the sheep pastures have eroded away in the wind…
… the shore is blocked by industrial sand, shore rights are extinguished and the road has been moved away from the farmyard, the farm still manages to draw sustenance from travellers.
Each cabin offers an ideal Iceland, framed as a work of art.
Like many important things in Iceland, you have to find the history yourself, on the principle that you only need to know what you need to know and if you find something else, then you know and don’t need to be told, in this country that dresses up as pristine nature, her newest artistic dress.
An old farmer built this artwork in his retirement. The family keeps it in his memory. What a clever man!
Iceland’s great mountain is not on the Ring Road, which is an arrangement of highways across the width and breadth of the main chunks of Iceland that allow tourists to flow through the country on “road trips” and, with luck, meet only professional tourism operators. This allows the country to get along with things and to pay for its roads. When you’re off the Ring Road, though, you have to be clever. The people of Snæfellsnes have hit on a couple of solid ideas. They won’t tell people that the name of the town that hosts their tourism marketing staff, Hellissandur, means The Sandbar from Hell, and they promote the daylights out of the idea of day trips from Reykjavik to view the sites. No overnight stays necessary. Clever.
Welcome to the Centre of the Earth
It makes a lot of sense. If people come for longer, they won’t leave, and if they don’t leave, they won’t need a tour bus, and if they don’t need a tour bus, what then? These are the big questions. The mountain and its snow spirits (I mean, look at them up there!) do not need to answer. It is an inspiring purity of presence.
Well, now we know what happened to all the hiking trail markers in Iceland.
It is good to remember that a waterfall, such as the great Dynjandi, is just a fall. That’s to say, it’s a space where the lifting and holding energy of solid ground becomes its opposite, the energy called a fjall. A fall here is not a verb. It is a space, which creates the verb. To get a handle on this energy, its good to stand at the top of a waterfall, and feel oneself falling with it. The earth falls from beneath one’s feet with vertigo.
Now you are in Iceland. It does for you what it doesn’t do for water: it catches you and holds you. It is that moment when the keel of a boat rises and stops swaying in the sea, the landing when it is held. Don’t fight it. It only becomes your story when you don’t fight it.
Quartz Outcropping in Eyrarhlið (Skutulsfjörður)
Don’t say you weren’t warned.
If you’re going to descend to the centre of the Earth, it’s apparently a thing.
It looks to me like before the fishers walked away, they made a mound, put in a headstone, and then dragged the boat on top. Too small to be a collapsed boat house. A grave, perhaps?