I can hardly believe that it has been more than 6 months since my last blog post. Unfortunately, I didn't finish the tale of my visit to the battlefields of the Franco-Prussian War, and my observations on the field Gravelotte-St Privat, plus the journey back to England via Belgium and the Netherlands, will have to wait until another time.
The latter part of 2011 was a busy time for me, mainly spent hunting for and eventually buying a house of my own. It is a comfortable, well-maintained terrace house in the north of England. Not too big - just a living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and Ásatrú temple - but quite adequate for my needs.
As the transaction was not completed until the beginning of November, I postponed further travel until after Yule, but on 16 January I was finally flying back to Iceland. The journey itself went well enough in that there were no delays or mishaps, but I dislike the rush and regimentation of air travel. Had I the time and money to have taken the Smyril Line ferry, I would have done, but after all the expense associated with furnishing the new house it was a luxury that I could not afford. And since the line does not operate in the winter months, the question was academic in any case!
For most of the past two weeks I have been staying at the guest house (now renamed Finna Hotel) in Hólmavík, in my old room overlooking the harbour and Steinngrimsfjörður. It's pretty empty at this time of year and the owners, whom I now consider friends, more or less allow me the run of the place. I have seen some of my friends in Reykjavík in the course of a beery evening on the day of my arrival and now I regularly see all my fellow Hólmavikings.
The main purpose of my visit is to carry on learning Icelandic, and I was pleasantly surprised at how much I could still remember. Somehow, there on the back burner, this language stew has been maturing and acquiring new strength and flavour. Some bits have to be stirred from the bottom of the pot, of course - words, phrases and expressions that I know I have learned before - but they are still all there, even if some of them of them nearly got burned to the pot. My best tutors now are Bjössi and Signý, the wonderful people who befriended me on MS Norröna over 3 years ago and brought me to Hólmavík. They speak English (especially Bjössi), but are still sufficiently uncomfortable with it as to prefer me to speak Icelandic if possible, with the occasional explanation in English where necessary. For detailed explanation I can go to their daughter Igga or her husband Sverrir, but they speak such good English that we end up chatting in my mother tongue and not theirs. For a real challenge, there remains a conversation with Saevar, who speaks no English or anything else but very rapid and very colloquial Icelandic. To his credit, he has now realised that my initial inability to understand him was not down to deafness on my part and he does his best to speak at a measured pace, using simple words and expressions. He is keen to learn English, so I may be able to give him some tuition now that we can meet halfway!
The latter part of 2011 was a busy time for me, mainly spent hunting for and eventually buying a house of my own. It is a comfortable, well-maintained terrace house in the north of England. Not too big - just a living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and Ásatrú temple - but quite adequate for my needs.
As the transaction was not completed until the beginning of November, I postponed further travel until after Yule, but on 16 January I was finally flying back to Iceland. The journey itself went well enough in that there were no delays or mishaps, but I dislike the rush and regimentation of air travel. Had I the time and money to have taken the Smyril Line ferry, I would have done, but after all the expense associated with furnishing the new house it was a luxury that I could not afford. And since the line does not operate in the winter months, the question was academic in any case!
For most of the past two weeks I have been staying at the guest house (now renamed Finna Hotel) in Hólmavík, in my old room overlooking the harbour and Steinngrimsfjörður. It's pretty empty at this time of year and the owners, whom I now consider friends, more or less allow me the run of the place. I have seen some of my friends in Reykjavík in the course of a beery evening on the day of my arrival and now I regularly see all my fellow Hólmavikings.
The main purpose of my visit is to carry on learning Icelandic, and I was pleasantly surprised at how much I could still remember. Somehow, there on the back burner, this language stew has been maturing and acquiring new strength and flavour. Some bits have to be stirred from the bottom of the pot, of course - words, phrases and expressions that I know I have learned before - but they are still all there, even if some of them of them nearly got burned to the pot. My best tutors now are Bjössi and Signý, the wonderful people who befriended me on MS Norröna over 3 years ago and brought me to Hólmavík. They speak English (especially Bjössi), but are still sufficiently uncomfortable with it as to prefer me to speak Icelandic if possible, with the occasional explanation in English where necessary. For detailed explanation I can go to their daughter Igga or her husband Sverrir, but they speak such good English that we end up chatting in my mother tongue and not theirs. For a real challenge, there remains a conversation with Saevar, who speaks no English or anything else but very rapid and very colloquial Icelandic. To his credit, he has now realised that my initial inability to understand him was not down to deafness on my part and he does his best to speak at a measured pace, using simple words and expressions. He is keen to learn English, so I may be able to give him some tuition now that we can meet halfway!
Of course, it's not all work and learning. One of the great pleasures of being in Iceland at this time of year is the opportunity to witness the Northern Lights or Aurora Borealis. Those of you who read my previous posts will have shared the delight of this beautiful and ethereal display in the sub-Arctic sky. At the beginning of last week there were reports of a solar storm that would result in sightings of the lights as far south as Northumbria in England. I do hope that some of my readers got the chance to see them. Here, regrettably, the sky was mainly overcast, but I did manage to take a couple of photos. This was perhaps the best of them, with the lights hanging over the (must still say it) vastly over-illuminated town of Hólmavík.
For my part, my daily work that keeps me in bread, wine and travel funds consists of sitting at a desk and translating documents from Dutch into English. It wouldn't suit everyone, but I am happy to have discovered a talent that gives me indoor work with no heavy lifting, and it certainly pays better than many other jobs I have done in my time. On the other hand, I like variety and take great interest in what others do; when possible, I'm even willing to take part as a volunteer, just for the experience (I get this from my dad, I think). Bjössi and his family now have two fishing boats based here in Hólmavík, and last week it looked as though there might be the opportunity to put the newer one through its paces. I was going to come with them, but the weather took a distinct turn for the worse and the trip was cancelled. Instead, Bjössi and his wife Signý would be cutting and packing hákarl - fermented shark - ready for shipment to Keflavík and children from the local lower school would be coming to hear about the business of hákarl production. At 09.30 last Wednesday morning, in the twilight of the day, the children turned up accompanied by the teachers and ventured into the ammonia-permeated hut where this strange delicacy is prepared. Most of them, like me, didn't like the taste, but some of them couldn't get enough of it. Signy did most of the explaining about how the sharks are caught and how the meat is prepared.
But of course, Bjössi handed out the samples of hákarl to the assembled youngsters.
He even insisted on giving it to a crusty old Englishman who should have known better (having tried and failed to like the stuff many times before).
Even as the children visited, early in the morning, the weather was growing colder and snow was falling. Throughout the day the wind rose from the north, until by the late afternoon it was a howling gale, driving the snow with storm force against the buildings and along the streets of Hólmavík. Part of my routine here is to trek the three-mile round trip to the Vínbúð when it opens from 5 pm to 6 pm, to shake out the bodily creases and collect my daily bottle of wine. On this day, however, it was simply impossible. I ventured out into the street, just as far as the nearest junction. It was alright with the wind and snow at my back, but as soon as I turned around, it was an effort to make any headway against the wind and I was quite blinded by the driving snow. As I trudged back to the warmth and safety of the guest house, I could feel my face freezing in the wind. No wine this night then; the one can of beer in the fridge would have to suffice. It was no good even asking for a lift, for the roads had already become virtually impassable. (Even around midday, Bjössi and Signý had offered to drive me home but the four-wheel-drive Suzuki had failed on the slope.)
No photos can adequately describe the fury of the storm that enveloped the north of Iceland that night. It was something completely beyond my experience. Like a raging giant, the north wind clawed at every door and window, shaking buildings and mercilessly dumping thousands of tons of snow on the landscape. I was reminded of the over-exuberant Wintersmith from Pratchett's eponymous novel, seeking to still and snuff out every form of life under that freezing blanket. "Yes, but they will only die once." I heard that the ladies who had gone to rehearse their performance for the coming Thorrablót feast at the community centre had to be rescued and brought home by the mountain rescue team in a tracked vehicle, even though the journey home could not have amounted to more than 2 miles at most.
By morning, the storm had abated, and Hólmavík set to digging itself out. I had stayed awake for much of the night, fascinated, and was awoken by the sound of the front door of the guest house opening after Saevar had dug through the snow drift.
No photos can adequately describe the fury of the storm that enveloped the north of Iceland that night. It was something completely beyond my experience. Like a raging giant, the north wind clawed at every door and window, shaking buildings and mercilessly dumping thousands of tons of snow on the landscape. I was reminded of the over-exuberant Wintersmith from Pratchett's eponymous novel, seeking to still and snuff out every form of life under that freezing blanket. "Yes, but they will only die once." I heard that the ladies who had gone to rehearse their performance for the coming Thorrablót feast at the community centre had to be rescued and brought home by the mountain rescue team in a tracked vehicle, even though the journey home could not have amounted to more than 2 miles at most.
By morning, the storm had abated, and Hólmavík set to digging itself out. I had stayed awake for much of the night, fascinated, and was awoken by the sound of the front door of the guest house opening after Saevar had dug through the snow drift.