The past week has been fairly quiet and uneventful, apart from the nightly spectacle of the Aurora Borealis. The gale abated after three days with little apparent effect on the late blossoms of the hardy Icelandic flowers, but the breeze continues from the north and summer has definitely packed her bags and gone now. The time has come to break out the thermal underwear and exchange my broad-brimmed hat for one that can cover my ears. I have rescheduled my return flight to 15 December instead of 1 November, and I intend to come back to Hólmavik with the new year. It will be interesting to see how I cope with the cold and the 18 hours per day of darkness.
The only fly in the ointment during my stay so far came in the form of a damaged tooth. I had only been in the country for about a week when a hefty chunk of molar decided to declare independence; exactly the kind of development I didn’t need on an extended stay in an unfamiliar location. Foolishly, I entertained the hope that the truncated tooth would hold out without any trouble until I returned to England, but after five weeks the inevitable twinges manifested themselves and I was forced to familiarise myself with the Icelandic dental service. I was quite impressed with the results. Hólmavik (population 381, or 382 including me) may be a tiny place, but it has its own medical centre that caters pretty much for the entire county. The visiting dentist comes along once per month. As his next visit was not due until 28 September and he had a rather long list of patients then, I was advised to go down to the clinic at Búðardalur, about an hour’s drive away.
The only fly in the ointment during my stay so far came in the form of a damaged tooth. I had only been in the country for about a week when a hefty chunk of molar decided to declare independence; exactly the kind of development I didn’t need on an extended stay in an unfamiliar location. Foolishly, I entertained the hope that the truncated tooth would hold out without any trouble until I returned to England, but after five weeks the inevitable twinges manifested themselves and I was forced to familiarise myself with the Icelandic dental service. I was quite impressed with the results. Hólmavik (population 381, or 382 including me) may be a tiny place, but it has its own medical centre that caters pretty much for the entire county. The visiting dentist comes along once per month. As his next visit was not due until 28 September and he had a rather long list of patients then, I was advised to go down to the clinic at Búðardalur, about an hour’s drive away.
The journey was hardly an imposition as it takes you through some marvellous scenery – broad dales stretching between towering, near-vertical cliffs that remind me of the ‘kranse’ of the Magaliesberg in South Africa, with the added benefit of having the sea to one side for long stretches. The day was also clear and sunny, but even with the scenic distraction I couldn’t help wondering what facilities could be offered by a part-time, provincial dental practice in a place even smaller than Hólmavik. Could they take X-rays? Did the dentist use an antiquated, pedal-operated drill? Did they actually give an anaesthetic? Heck, was the dentist some kind of bumbling reject who couldn’t compete in the big city? Peace, my Icelandic friends who are reading this now, no offence meant. They were just the fevered imaginings of a nervous foreigner. The surgery, housed in the local health centre, was as well-equipped as one could wish. Erlingur, the highly competent dentist (who moreover had a very good chairside manner), numbed my jaw until it felt like part of a distant galaxy and then did an excellent job of rebuilding the decrepit molar. The cost, financially, was perhaps somewhat more than I would have paid in the UK, but it was still a fraction of what it would have cost me to fly back for treatment. It turned out that Erlingur has his main practice in another, larger town and also visits both Búðardalur and Hólmavik. Worth knowing, and worth making appointments for regular check-ups from now on since I intend to stay here.
As I have said before (see my entry ‘Galdrasýning á Ströndum’ of 20 August), there is a great sense of community in the more remote parts of Iceland. The entire West Fjords province – very nearly an island as it is connected to the rest of Iceland only by a 7 kilometre-wide isthmus – is very sparsely populated with only about 7,500 inhabitants, linked by meandering roads that mainly follow the indented coastline. In big towns and cities, to which I am more accustomed, it may be possible to plough one’s own lonely furrow, but here you can hardly get by without calling in help from your neighbours at some point. And giving it in return, of course. Hólmavik may be a fishing village, but sheep are perhaps an even more important element in the local economy. What is more, the fish simply swim around in the fjords but sheep need to be tended and herded, which on occasions requires considerable manpower and hence brings the community together. Autumn, in warmer climes, is a fairly comfortable concept: a gradual descent towards winter, with days that can still hold a lot of golden sunshine even if the days start to get chillier. Here in Iceland, the end of the summer can mean immediate winter and so, this weekend, the réttir or round-up took place to bring all the sheep in from the hills. It is a festive event in which just about everyone, young and old, takes part. After a hearty breakfast, the volunteer drivers head for the upland pastures at about 7.30 am. It helps if the day is cool, as then there is less chance that the sheep will become overheated in their thick, winter fleeces and they are inclined to move faster.
By about 4 pm they are brought down to folds, with men, women and children forming long, whooping chains to guide them in and prevent them straying. After being penned in the main fold, the business of separating the sheep by ownership begins. The sheep crowd together in the pen, so close that it would hard seem possible to fit a hand between them, their odd eyes with horizontal pupils rolling as they bray forlornly. Into this thronging, ovine mass the fittest members of the community wade. Ear tags are inspected – everyone seems to know how to identify to whom each creature belongs – and then the sheep are straddled, seized by their horns or by the fleece and steered, bucking and resisting, into one of the sub-folds. It is a joyous, good-humoured revel in which wiry older farmers skilfully catch and wrestle even the most recalcitrant animals, while children as young as 11 or 12 plunge in seriously to gain experience. It seems to be a sort of rite of passage hereabouts to take part in separating the sheep and I felt distinctly uninitiated!
A city boy, I made the occasional ineffectual grab at sheep that had got back into the central fold after most of the sorting was done, but I wasn’t in the same league as the locals.
Now that the sheep have been brought down from the hills and mountains, they will be kept indoors all winter. The lambs, I am told, are born in April or May, rather than in February as is fairly normal in Yorkshire. That is another big event in the calendar and I look forward to witnessing it.
Now that the sheep have been brought down from the hills and mountains, they will be kept indoors all winter. The lambs, I am told, are born in April or May, rather than in February as is fairly normal in Yorkshire. That is another big event in the calendar and I look forward to witnessing it.