Turf house, new house, church, old house ruins, old house tun, old farm church ruins, trolls on the hill, first generation national trees, new subsidized tree planting, government subsidized drained and fertilized field, flagpole, power line between Akureyri and Skagafjörður, and rhubarb blooming.
This graveyard in a part of Iceland rarely visited fills me with joy. The church, like so many, is an imported thing, steeped in nationalism, colonialism and paternity, but the graveyard, ah, that is 1100 years living all at once.
And in a way that has no words, at least not yet. To date, it exceeds the capacity of the literary writers of Reykjavik, far to the southwest, but I like to think that some kid, alone here just below the Arctic Circle, is living the moments right now that in a decade or two will give it voice. What a day to look forward to!
When you live on the beach, well, that’s nice.
But if you have a church on the beach, you build a wall. That’s nice, too.
A bit dark, though. So it is. But not half so dark as the church!
Kind of a repetition of the motif of the cliff, really, but, heck, in this place, even the sea is a cliff wall.