On Tuesday we piled in the car around eight and drove to the bakery up the street for a couple of croissants. It was cloudy and the weather forecast said it would be partly cloudy with a chance of rain and possible clearing, hedging their bets so that, technically, they'd be right no matter what the weather.
Our apartment's location made getting out of town very easy, and within minutes we were passing the commuters on their way to work as we headed north towards Snaefellsjoekull National Park on the Snæfellsnes peninsula.
Don't ask me how to pronounce that. This language... man, it's a bear to get my hands around.
The roads in Iceland have been mostly uncrowded, even around major tourist areas. Maybe it's because there are so many places to visit per-capita. Maybe people are on tours on the notorious F roads, where only off-road vehicles are allowed. Maybe we were there at the tail end of the season.
Either way, we had the roads mostly to ourselves, which was good because I was busy ogling the landscape. From sea level the landscape swept up dramatically, more green than Ireland. It is a landscape out of Tolkien. When the vikings came upon that island, no wonder they fell in love with it's juxtaposed hard lines with soft colors. It took me less than a day to reach the conclusion that I could live there, if not permanently, then at least for awhile, just to prove I could stand in front of such beauty and survive.
North we went, following route 54 as it turned to the west. We stopped at budakirkja, the black church. It is an improbably place to build such a building. Set in the middle of a vast lava field, in the shadow of the glacier-capped Snæfellsjökull volcano. It wasn't a popular church, and maybe only exists so we tourists can imagine the harsh life that might drive parishioners to such a church, when in reality none ever came because nobody lives nearby. Still, it is beautiful, and regardless of why or when it was built, everyone should stop and see this church and walk among the lava field, imagining the trolls and demons that lie within the nooks and crannies.
On we went on a road Google Maps calls "Útnesvegur" (not surprising, Google has no problems pronouncing road names in Iceland, though the pronunciations don't always jibe with the spelling, from my American perspective; I have a strong desire, now, to learn Icelandic). Rain never achieved anything more ambitious than a heavy drizzle, but it was persistent, just enough to require the wipers. I had no destination; this was my son's trip, my wife's, not mine. All I wanted was to not be at work, to relax and simplify my life ever so slightly through an escape to a foreign country.
Around the peninsula, nibbling on snacks because there weren't many places to stop and get food. But there were so many places to stop. So many things to see in that landscape equally meant for sun and rain. Gradually the rain ceased as we turned back to the east along the north shore of that finger of land. Not that the sun came out, not truly. We gradually entered civilization again and got a hotdog in Hellisandur. It was as good as anything in Reykjiavik, maybe a bit more so because we were starving.
One thing that's interesting about Iceland: on that drive we encountered very few cars. Yet every place we stopped there were people. Not a lot, not always. And some came by tour bus. How could the roads be so lonely, so empty, yet the destinations so populated?
Our final official destination is just east of the town of Ólafsvík. The town is fairly large and we were tempted to stop, but we were tired; had we planned things differently, a stay in that town would have been a good idea.
Bæjarfoss waterfall is a few miles east of Olafsvik. It is billed as a major destination. A legend about the waterfall is that long ago some boys drowned there while fishing, and their mother put a curse on the river that nobody else would ever drown there and no fish would live. Or something like that. More impressive than the waterfall is nearby Kirkjufell (or Church) mountain. It is accessible from the same area as the waterfall. It's called the most photographed mountain in Iceland, which might be because it's right there and is beautiful.
That's Iceland, though. That one stop is all you need to know about Iceland. Pretty waterfall, that pales in any other country would be the prettiest around, but in Iceland is only par. Across the road, a dramatic, scantily-clad hill that belongs in a fairy tale. Beyond... the ocean, wild and harsh, where the human body would quickly shut down in waters barely warmer than the freezing point. It's all so much that it can really be too much, yet still not enough at the same time. That's something difficult to grasp until you see it.
As with pretty much any calm body of water we've come across, my son and I skipped rocks. It's gentle competition between us, but there are no lack of compliments.
We drive on towards home and run across another waterfall.
Actually, we came across a large open valley where a tour bus had stopped, and one thing you learn as a traveler is that tour buses often mean a place is worth seeing. Not always; and they certainly don't stop in all the cool places. But it generally holds true, and we stopped to find the Sheep's Waterfall.
Something about that cascade made a firm impression on me. It was not the waterfall or the resultant stream, except perhaps that such a small amount of water made such a powerful torrent that had eroded the landscape so harshly; that's life, if you want to think of it that way. No matter how weak we might seem, there is a power in us that just needs the proper landscape to bring it out.
It was everything else that fascinated me. The verdant landscape. The lake. The fog shrouding the distant hills. To say it was like a painting seems a bit trite, but it's accurate not for the beauty but the composition of all that was on the tapestry.
More than maybe any place that day, we wandered around and explored. Then we got in the car and drove home, stopping at a grocery store to get some salmon to cook for supper, some milk, and other snacks. It was a longer drive home because I didn't want to go back to civilization. I hadn't worked on my vacation at all; checked email a time or two, but that was all. The city, though, was an ever-so-subtle reminder that I was a person inexorably tied to the modern world, completely unable to escape the drudgery of a job that sees me as a means to an end I have no control over.
At home we ate the salmon and enjoyed each other's company.
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