I have been here for over four weeks now, so perhaps I should write something about daily life in the north of Iceland. Sorry to disappoint you, but whatever impression you may have gleaned from the ‘Inspired by Iceland’ video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npawmHVaf-E), my days are not routinely spent bathing in hot tubs with lissome beauties, white water rafting or watching the famous Geysir spew steam and hot water into the air. On the contrary, I lead a life that some might consider tedious in its lack of sensory stimulation. Despite that, I find it fascinating and fulfilling in many ways. The main challenge is to adapt to an entirely different way and pace of life. It’s not as if I were living in some kind of hostile environment, for I have really good friends here who are more than willing to help this strange and blundering foreigner make his home in the community. Nevertheless, I am learning not to take anything for granted.
Take a week last Saturday, for example. Bjössi and Signý had invited me for dinner. Not wishing to arrive at the feast empty-handed, I checked that the alarm on my mobile ‘phone was still set for 5 pm in order to buy a bottle of wine. Not so strange, you may be thinking, but why not 4 pm, 7 pm or some other time? The reason is that I had started to become aware that the Vinbuðin, or government-regulated off-licence, is only open for very limited hours in Hólmavik. Did I say ‘hours’? Sorry, I meant hour. One hour precisely, from 5 pm until 6 pm: that’s your lot, except for Friday, when it opens at 4 pm. And so I had set my alarm daily for 5 pm to remind myself to replenish the stock of beer as necessary.
Except... this was a Saturday. Saturday, that joyous day when all the English boys and girls flock to their local off-licences to get a bottle of wine or a few cans for the party, safe in the knowledge that, if they don’t have too much of a hangover after the party, they can still buy some more on Sunday. Not so here in Iceland. Every government-regulated (and they are all government-regulated) Vinbuðin has a sign on the door on Saturday and Sunday. It is in Icelandic, of course, but easily translated. In English it means: “F*** off. Have a miserable weekend. Go to church and pray for redemption, you alkie bastard."
The aforesaid off-licence forms an annex of the main shop, a kind of mini-market rather than supermarket, with an astonishing paucity of goods on offer. I think that shops in the countries of the former Soviet bloc would be ashamed these days to have such a meagre selection. Colgate is the only brand of toothpaste available and Palmolive the only brand of soap. I looked in vain for some bacon for my breakfast, although they do have eggs – one size, one type and only in packs of 10. There is a token gesture toward provision of stationery, but I couldn’t find so much as an ordinary exercise book in which to make my notes on Icelandic grammar. Worse still, this very poor selection of wares is ridiculously overpriced, even by Icelandic standards.
And that, believe it or not, is the only general store in Hólmavik. It is at the other end of the village, close to the campsite (with which it enjoys a parasitic relationship) and the petrol station, and it takes me 15 minutes to walk there. I can take the car, if I wish (or if I intend to buy too much to carry back), but on the whole I prefer to use my legs. With a sedentary occupation I need all the exercise I can get.
During the tourist season, the village also has a café and a bar/restaurant, and the sorcery museum also runs a café that is frequented by local people as well as visitors. The prices at the restaurant, again, are quite high, but no more than one would expect in Iceland. A half-litre (a little less than a pint) of beer will set you back about £5, but that is the same price that you pay in Reykjavik, so - unlike the dreadful general store - there is no question of profiteering here. On the other hand, since I started drafting this entry, the restaurant has closed for the season (yes, tourists are deemed to stop coming to Iceland at the end of August). This might have left any late visitors with the prospect of a hungry evening, but Sigurður – the curator of the sorcery museum – has once again sprung into action to provide evening meals at a very reasonable price, at least until 15 September. After that I’m thinking of keeping a small stock of staple foods such as rice and pasta, plus some sauces, jam and crackers at the guesthouse so that I won’t be kept awake by the groans of famished fellow guests. A kind of Heathen Knight Hospitaller.
All this is quite a culture shock after living in a compact town in northern England, where just about anything was within easy walking distance. Need paper and art materials? They were virtually giving them away at ‘The Works’. New mobile ‘phone? Just visit the street of a thousand ‘phone shops. Supermarkets, restaurants, pubs, cinema, even a theatre... I had it all. Now, if I want anything more complicated than an overpriced pot of marmalade, I have to drive 240 km to Reykjavik.
Nevertheless, this is the life I choose. I am not really complaining (except about that horrible general store), just trying to give an impression of what it means to adapt. After all, the locals have to deal with exactly the same conditions. And you do get used to it after a while. 4 pm on Friday: stock up on booze for the weekend. Once a month: take a trip to Borgarnes (2 hours each way) or Reykjavik (3.5 hours each way) for major shopping. Use mail order. Share with friends. Show kindness to visitors who are making the same daft assumptions that you made yourself not long ago.
Furthermore, these piffling drawbacks are more than compensated by the benefits of living in Hólmavik. For a start, it is so wonderfully quiet. I can cross the main street - and back again - without having to take my life in my hands, even in the ‘rush hour’. From my room at the guest house I have a view of the bay and of the harbour, which is the main centre of activity. Yesterday a small, coastal freighter came to deliver its cargo of shrimps to the local processing factory and I actually went out to watch this exciting and unusual event. In the evening, after work, I stroll down to the harbour and the museum to enjoy a coffee while watching the terns wheel above the water and plunge to catch fish. When I don’t feel like doing that, I can take a 6-kilometre walk in the hills instead, picking and eating blueberries as I go. Secondly, there is none of the anonymity or sense of being lost in a crowd that you get in the city. That might suit some people, but I never liked it. Here everyone is known and more or less familiar. Because Icelanders share relatively few given names and surnames are patronymic, most people have a local nickname to define them. Some are complimentary, others maybe less so. Mine will probably be Englendingur – the Englishman – or possibly Útlendingur, the foreigner. I don’t mind as long as I am the foreigner. And at least, thanks to the talk of my friends’ children, the younger children already know who I am; they often wave and call out ‘Wednesday!’
Some of them think that I am an Elf, because someone who wears a broad-brimmed hat with a feather in it must be so.