My comments about the excessive (to my mind) night-time illumination of the village were first drafted about 3 weeks ago. In that short time, the days have shortened by nearly three full hours and I am starting to realise why there is a need to turn night into day: it is because the nights are so long that many normal, 'daytime' activities have to be carried out before the sun has risen or after it has set. I received immediate feedback on the purpose of the lamp post on the hill behind the church; it illuminates a path that is used by children on their way to school and home again.
Even autumn seems to be definitely over now. The first frosts have arrived, turning water held in the sandy tracks into elongated polyhedrons of ice that crunch underfoot when I walk in the hills. The first snows have also fallen at sea level too, not very thickly yet, but enough to delight the children for a few days as they bring their sleds out and engage in snowball fights. For the most part it has been fairly tolerable with the temperature hovering around zero, and I am always warm enough indoors. Sometimes, however, the wind howls from the north and adds its chill factor. Then I make sure that I am wearing numerous layers – five in all on my upper body – whenever I venture outdoors. The days are a scant eight hours long and rapidly getting shorter. Soon there will only be 4 hours or less between sunrise and sunset.
Of course, this is bound to have an effect on one’s mental state. I wonder how Icelanders put up with it throughout their lives, because I am already finding it quite depressing. In England, autumn brings a gentle, mellow and protracted descent towards winter, extending over some three months. By the time England has only 7 or 8 hours of daylight left, we are celebrating Yuletide and can start looking forward to longer days (even if the worst of the weather is yet to come). In Iceland, so much darkness, arriving so quickly, induces a profound lethargy in me. I can see that I must find some means to deal with this state of mind or be driven prematurely southward. The key, I think, is to keep busy.
The people of Hólmavík certainly seem to be keeping busy. The month following the réttir (sheep round-up) was a strangely quiet one. It seemed that everyone in the village stayed indoors insofar as possible and I thought that was it for the whole of the winter. From 16 October, however, I started noticingpreparations for an event. Café Riis, one of only two pub/restaurants, was open one evening and I asked what the occasion was. I was told that videos of last year’s ‘karaoke competition’ were being shown and that this year’s competition was due to be held a week later. Karaoke... that sounded fairly ominous. Usually, I avoid it like the plague, having had too many evenings in pubs spoiled by tuneless no-hopers belting out ‘My Way’ at a volume that drowns all conversation. This event was a different kettle of fish. I could see from footage of the previous occasion that ‘karaoke’ was a misnomer. It was actually a well organised song contest, attended by most of the people in the village and also many from outside.
Here I faced a dilemma, as it had been my intention to attend the autumn blót of the Asatru Fellowship in Reykjavik on the same day as the song contest. Weighing the pros and cons, I decided that it was more important to be present at the local event. The decision was hardened further when I found out that one of my friends would also celebrate her birthday that Saturday. Siggi and I mooted the possibility of joining together in some outlandish duet, if only I could get rid of the cough and recover my voice in time. Unfortunately, another development scotched that idea: a Russian TV crew was to visit the museum and Siggi would be spending all his time explaining local legends and the intricacies of Icelandic sorcery before the camera. This caused some disappointment all round, as his ‘turn’ in the show is usually pretty funny, even if he doesn’t win any prizes. On the other hand, he felt it was important for me to make a showing. To cut a long story short, at his urging and with the cooperation of the contest management, it was decided that I would make a ‘guest appearance’ immediately after the interval. The evening arrived. After a very pleasant party to celebrate Ingibjörg’s birthday, I headed back to the guest house to polish up my vocal chords, then just down the hill to the concert hall. The latter is an interesting structure. Most of its length is formed by a WW2-vintage Nissen hut that was moved to Hólmavík from another Icelandic location after the war. With extensive improvement at each end (and insulation within) it was used as a community centre until about 1990.
The main hall was already packed and the bar in the foyer was dong a brisk trade. There was a separate room upstairs for the singers and I joined them for a while before going to watch the first half of the concert. It was a mixed show, but all very good, with a broad mixture of repertoire. Some entrants clearly performed just for the fun of it, with acts that had everyone in stitches; others sang to a standard that would have graced a professional show anywhere. It was only ‘karaoke’ in the sense that the backing track was pre-recorded (the budget would not have stretched to a live band). Everyone was clearly in a festive mood. At the interval, I joined a host of other smokers on the steps outside as the snow started to fall again. Perhaps the beer consumption helped, but few of them seemed to notice the cold very much even though they were lightly clad. For my part, the adrenaline started to kick in as I realised that it would soon be my turn to sing.
All the performers together on the stage. Photos of the song contest reproduced by kind permission of Jón Jónsson.
After begging a shot of ‘Dutch courage’ from on of the other performers, I took my place again in the main hall. The introduction was in Icelandic, but I got the gist of it, made my way to stage and gave a fairly decent rendition of ‘Mad World’. To judge by the applause and the comments afterwards, I think I made a good job of it. The rest of the show continued, each singer or duo doing their second number of the night before the appreciative crowd, and at the end everyone voted to pick the winner.
The contest was won by Barbara Guðbjartsdóttir, a teacher at the local school. The festivities then continued just around the corner at Café Riis until the early hours of the morning. What impressed me most about the whole event – apart from the high standard of the singing - was the sheer good-natured joy manifested by all and sundry. Although vast quantities of beer and other alcohol were consumed – there must have been some sore heads the next morning – there was none of the aggression or bad temperedness that this all too frequently produces in English people.
In the meantime, the ‘grouse season’ has started. Actually, not grouse but ptarmigan, known here as ‘rjúpa’. These game birds are quite abundant hereabouts, but the hunting season is restricted to 29 October to the middle of November. Unlike the annual grouse shoots on the moors of England, there are no organised bands of beaters driving the birds towards the guns. Instead, small parties of shooters head up into the hills to see what they can find. On a typical day, a party of 3 or 4 shooters might expect to bag about 18 birds. I was invited to join the hunt on Saturday, but the weather was particularly foul with a northerly gale driving sleet and snow horizontally, so I chose to stay warm indoors and get some translation work done instead. Maybe I will get another opportunity on a better day before the season ends.
I think you did a very good number with Mad world and in the competition you would have ended in the upper half of them all.
The hunting season for Rjúpa is from 29.october til 5.december. It is only allowed to hunt fridays, sat. and sundays.
Reply
Jon White
11/11/2010 04:40:17 am
Hi Mate, This is good stuff right up to teh bit about Mad World, that was frightening, bit like scaring kids!! LOL Glad you are well and it was similar in Norway and it was often so so cold. The wind is another thing. I suspect that s something you will experience and write about. Good luck and Im doing Remembrance at Cochester complete with a maroon beret! Jon