“The Northern Lights are starting up again, so I’m going out to watch...” So I said at the end of my last entry, and so I did. Siggi must have either read the entry very quickly after I posted it, or read my mind, because he texted me in a jiffy with ‘Fallegt norðurljos’ (Beautiful northern lights) and we quickly met up, beers in hands, to seek a spot where we could get a good view unhindered by the lights from the village. This is easier said than done. I can only speculate as to the reason, but Iceland has some of the most brightly lit towns and villages that I have ever seen and Hólmavík is no exception. This tiny settlement (as I mentioned earlier, it has about 400 inhabitants) tries in winter to compete with Las Vegas. The streets – at least, many of them – may be unsurfaced, muddy and potholed, but they are all superabundantly illuminated. In addition to which, many of the houses outside the old centre have private lights of the type that in England would be called ‘security lighting’. These are left on all night, shining on small gardens and driveways, heaven alone knows why. Crime is virtually non-existent here. (Adapting to local custom, I don’t even bother locking the car anymore.) Perhaps they are worried that someone might visit them at 3 am and not find quite enough light from the street lights to find the front door. And then there are the floodlights illuminating the harbour, and even more street lights in the (otherwise uninhabited) area of the church, just in case someone might lose their way crawling in search of spiritual salvation in the middle of the night. Heck, there is even a lamp post on the hillside some distance behind the church. The purpose of that one completely escapes me. I spoke about the matter with a friend, Ingibjörg. To my surprise, she felt that the village was far too dark! Maybe it all stems from some atavistic desire to drive away the darkness that increasingly envelops the land from the autumn equinox onward, bathing the village in artificial light that turns night into day. This is strange. After all, many Icelanders had to make do with oil lamps and candles on their farms, only sixty or so years ago.
All this light, of course, doesn’t only strike down where it is needed, but also up onto the weathered rocks and boulders of the hills behind Hólmavík with searchlight brilliance, so Siggi and I made our way ever higher into the hills, trying to find somewhere free of the light nuisance. Eventually we found a spot that was sufficiently shadowed by large rock outcrops, drank our beer and waited. And waited. There was still some activity in the night sky, the occasional band of light emanating from the horizon and the ‘distant searchlight’ phenomenon that I have come to recognise as an indication that something interesting is about to happen, but on the whole it was a damp squib. Whatever solar particles had initiated the display had done toying with earth’s magnetic field and were heading out to carry on the party with Jupiter.
Cold and somewhat disappointed, we checked our watches. It was 30 minutes past midnight, so we decided to trudge back home. “I know a quick way down”, said Siggi and, trusting to his local knowledge, I stumbled after him through the rocks and a tangle of bilberry bushes, more then once plunging headlong as my feet and legs found hidden watercourses. It would actually have been easier if the bright lights from the village hadn’t been there to blind us. Many years ago, as a young army officer, I had learned to let my eyes get used to the dark; it is astounding what you can see, even by starlight. Eventually we emerged in what was effectively somebody’s back garden and scrambled down the last part of the slope onto the road, not very far from the guest house where I am staying. Having consumed the last of our beer, we wished each other good night and went to our respective beds.
I awoke the next day with the first symptoms of a heavy cold bordering on ‘flu. Maybe it was the chilled beer in the hills, perhaps a virus picked up from a visitor to the museum, or perhaps I was elf-shot, having broken my taboo and enjoyed a cigarette while waiting for the northern lights to get going. Whatever the cause, I had a fairly miserable week of coughing, sneezing and sleeping a lot, barely raising the energy to carry on with my daily translation work and having none for more interesting activities. Avoiding the company of friends (and especially their children) insofar as possible, I confined myself to the guest house and occasionally the museum – when not sleeping.
Sunday, 17 October dawned and, miraculously, I felt a lot better. An excellent birthday present! Already awake at 7.30 in the steel-grey light of an overcast dawn, I showered, performed my daily rites and then tackled the backlog of translation work as the pale sun did its best to shine on the waters of the fjord outside. Around midday, a knock on the door drew me from my work. Who could it be? It was unlikely that Sævar or Ella, the guest house owners, would be calling on a Sunday. I opened the door and looked straight into the lens of a large, professional-standard video camera as Siggi shouted “Happy Birthday!” He had baked a birthday cake for me and brought it, complete with candles. Fortunately, he had not bedecked it with a candle for every year of my age or we might have set the house on fire (unless he collapsed under the weight of it first). With his video camera he filmed, edited and produced a special “Mr Wednesday’s Birthday Video” which was subsequently published on Facebook. It was a very touching tribute from a good friend. I also received many other birthday greetings, in person, by email, by text message, via Facebook and even in the form of an old-fashioned card. All in all, I had a very good day.
Sunday, 17 October dawned and, miraculously, I felt a lot better. An excellent birthday present! Already awake at 7.30 in the steel-grey light of an overcast dawn, I showered, performed my daily rites and then tackled the backlog of translation work as the pale sun did its best to shine on the waters of the fjord outside. Around midday, a knock on the door drew me from my work. Who could it be? It was unlikely that Sævar or Ella, the guest house owners, would be calling on a Sunday. I opened the door and looked straight into the lens of a large, professional-standard video camera as Siggi shouted “Happy Birthday!” He had baked a birthday cake for me and brought it, complete with candles. Fortunately, he had not bedecked it with a candle for every year of my age or we might have set the house on fire (unless he collapsed under the weight of it first). With his video camera he filmed, edited and produced a special “Mr Wednesday’s Birthday Video” which was subsequently published on Facebook. It was a very touching tribute from a good friend. I also received many other birthday greetings, in person, by email, by text message, via Facebook and even in the form of an old-fashioned card. All in all, I had a very good day.