The weather has been very fine for the past month; so fine, in fact, that there is a real danger of drought and there have been extensive heath and forest fires in some parts of England. We therefore find ourselves in the unusual position of actually wishing rain would come, a wish that has been answered with some showers in the past couple days. Yesterday was just such a mixture of sunshine and showers when my friend John and I went to view the site of the Battle of Towton (1461). We share a passion for military history and this was to be John’s introduction to the pleasure of reconnoitring an historic battlefield.
As its name implies, the Battle of Towton was fought just south of the village of Towton (North Yorkshire) in the dynastic struggle known as the Wars of the Roses. On a cold and snowy Palm Sunday on 29 March, 1461, the Yorkist and Lancastrian armies faced each other across the open fields between Towton and Saxton. With about 50,000 men on each side, the two armies were about evenly matched and most of the battle (except for an attempted ambush by the Lancastrians) consisted of a brutal, head-on confrontation fought with longbows, edged weapons and a few rather unreliable handguns. Towards the end of the day, fresh Yorkist reinforcements arrived on the field, causing the exhausted Lancastrians to lose heart. They broke and fled, both into the valley to the west and northwards in the direction of Tadcaster. In both directions, however, they were hindered in their flight by the swollen stream known as Cock Beck. Thronging to cross by ford or bridge, they were drowned, trampled or slaughtered in their thousands by pursuing Yorkist cavalry. Even those taken prisoner were mutilated and then hacked or bludgeoned to death, as confirmed by recent archaeological finds. Towton was therefore the bloodiest battle ever fought on English soil. (Battle map from Wikipedia Commons.)
I had visited the battlefield once before, some ten years ago, but I was to see some new and enjoyable developments as well as having a companion with whom to exchange thoughts. Furthermore, I had toured the area by motorbike, thereby probably missing some features; this time our tour was to be on foot, a walk of about 8 miles. We started at All Saints’ Church in Saxton, in the vicinity of which the Yorkist army camped on the night before the battle. The church and its surrounding yard are full of history.
Close to the east end of the church is the grave of Ranulf, Lord Dacre, who was killed by an arrow in the battle. There is a legend that Lord Dacre was buried upright on the back of his horse. This seems improbable, but excavations in the mid-nineteenth century confirmed the presence of a horse’s bones, so he may well have been buried with his horse.
Next to Dacre’s grave is a stone memorial to the dead of the battle, recently erected by Towton Battlefield Society (TBS).
The inside of the church is also replete with history, from a fragment of a stone cross, ancient monuments to the dead and a memorial to men of the village who died in World War 1, to a colourful collage created by the local children.
From the church we walked about half a mile to the ‘Crooked Billet’ pub, where it is said the Yorkist leaders may have found accommodation (not in the modern building of course!) As it was already time for lunch, we had a pint of Black Sheep ale there while viewing framed prints depicting the battle.
Continuing on our way, we made a slight detour to visit Lead Chapel, a small but ancient chapel standing in the middle of a field. Although it is no longer used for regular worship, it is still maintained in good condition and a stained glass piece depicting a boar (the personal device of Richard III) was added to the small window panes in 1982.
For much of our route, we had to walk at the side of the main road, walking along the grass verges where possible and keeping a wary eye out for traffic whenever we had to leave the verges. Soon, however, John spotted an information board in a field to our right, the first of many that we were to come across. These are new additions, installed by the TBS and the Royal Armouries. This is the new development of which I spoke, for they were not there on my first trip, and they greatly enhance the visitor’s enjoyment and appreciation of this historic site. Footpaths have also been created, thanks to the cooperation of the local landowners, so that some of the tour, at least, can be taken away from the danger and inconvenience of road traffic. From various vantage points, with the aid of these boards, we were able to gain a better understanding of the ground to tell us why, 550 years ago, the armies had chosen to fight on this spot and what advantages and disadvantages the terrain held.
We crossed the main road again to view (as well as the new information boards) the stone cross erected in 1928 to commemorate the battle, before the footpath took us to the edge of the Cock Beck valley. The latter was a view that I had not seen previously, as I had been with the motorbike and unsure whether I would be venturing onto private land. Looking down, we could see the meandering course of the beck, the possible crossing points and ‘Bloody Meadow’ where so many of the fleeing Lancastrians were slaughtered. The beck didn’t look very much of an obstacle on the day of our tour; it looked as if one could leap across it easily, and we fell to discussing this matter. We soon realised the factors that would have made it more formidable. First of all, the beck is now diminished by lack of rain but it may have been swollen considerably on the day of the battle. Secondly, the routing soldiers would be weighed down by their armour. I know from re-enactment experience that it takes some time and effort to get armour on or off. Thirdly, the refugees would be already exhausted by the day’s fighting and the hectic flight from the plateau to the dale. A contemporary account states that the beck was so choked with corpses that the living could cross dry-shod and that blood stained the water as far as the River Wharfe, into which Cock Beck issues.
This part of the walk was the most pleasant, being well away from the road, and we were well able to take in the pleasant sounds and sights of the countryside, including a number of fine horses grazing in a field.
Having passed through Towton village, however, at the apex of this triangular battlefield, our route took us back to Saxton along a very busy road. Consulting our guide book, John estimated that we had about 2.5 miles to walk. “That’s alright”, I said, “If we don’t dawdle, we can be back in Saxton in less than an hour.” And so we set off again. John is much taller than me and has a longer stride, but he sets an easy pace that I can match without difficulty. There was a footpath of sorts at the side of the road, but it was overgrown with grass in places and strewn with rubbish and the occasional dead animal. Cars and motorbikes constantly whizzed past us in both directions, making conversation almost impossible, so that I retreated into my own thoughts and observations, noting how the ground to the left of the road was considerably lower and that on the right (the scene of the battle) considerably higher. I don’t know whether I began to tire or whether John began to quicken his pace, but I found it a little harder to keep up with him. Perhaps it was a combination of both, for as we came to the junction where could turn right onto a much quieter road back into Saxton we needed to consult the map again. John confessed that he had rather lost his sense of distance and that it seemed we had been on ‘that bloody road’ for an eternity. I agreed with him, although my watch showed that we had covered this stretch in only 40 minutes.
Soon we were back at the car, at our starting point next to Saxton’s church. A few more swigs from our water bottles helped to rehydrate us and then we drove back to Harrogate. It had been a highly enjoyable day of healthy exercise, appreciation of history and military tactics, and comradeship. We are already planning our next trip to Marston Moor, the scene of a key battle (1644) in the English Civil War.
If you would like to know more about the Battle of Towton and the arms and armour of the period, I can recommend the following websites. Wikipedia entry on the battle: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Towton Towton Battlefield Society: http://www.towton.org.uk/ Royal Armouries (Leeds): http://www.royalarmouries.org/visit-us/leeds
Ginnungagap. The magically charged void that is empty and yet filled with infinite potential. That is where I find myself now and, in fact, it is where all of us find ourselves at the start of every new day. In every infinitesimal moment, even. If we don’t realise that and make a conscious and wilful decision to take and shape the material that is at hand, the void will become populated anyway by shapes, beings and forces that we do not consciously evoke. These take on a life of their own and often entice us into playing their game, pursuing a lazy fantasy. If we are unwise, we can even allow these entities and forces to control us, labouring under the illusion that this is reality and that we are powerless to fight against it or take another course. Oðinn and his brothers, Vili and Vé, were the first to realise this even before time came into being. They were born into a universe (for want of a better word) populated by the primaeval and chaotic race of giants, but they slew the progenitor of the race of giants and used his substance to create the Nine Worlds according to their own design. Later, they created the race of mankind, sowed their own divine seed in that race, told their story, imparted many Runes and gave us the ability to seek after the Great Rune.
For better or worse, most of humankind have forgotten their divinity and are now in thrall to the basest aspects of the World-forces and of the Runes, forgetting (if they ever realised it) the prime example of Oðinn. People grumble but they do not seek, and when their bellies get too empty, they lash out with Thurs-like force, blindly, against the first perceived source of their woes.
Better it is to be aware, to make the best of the opportunities of the moment (without getting entirely caught up in the illusion) and to plan - carefully, quietly and decisively.
As I said, I find myself in a magically charged void of infinite potential and that means making many decisions and exerting will in order to shape. That takes a little time for a mere mortal, so for now I have been treading water and attending to some things that matter to me in the reality that I have created. Most of them involve the past roots that I struck and the acorns that this old oak has planted.
I have been in England for nearly a month now. A month of very happy days, it must be said. To begin with, the weather has been extraordinarily fine, with sunny days and temperatures of up to 22C. I bought myself a pair of shorts and on my daily ramble through the parks, woods and fields of Harrogate I have even started to get a tan. Rather than enjoying a halting, hesitant approach to spring in Iceland, I find myself catapulted into summer. It probably will not last, of course – English weather is notoriously fickle – but it makes a very refreshing change. It has also been good to renew and refresh my acquaintance with family and friends. I arrived on the birthday of my son, Ranulph. And not just any birthday, but his eighteenth! My son is now officially a man, and we went to one of Harrogate’s better pubs together to share a few pints in the family tradition.
My daughter, Ingrid, is also growing fast and is now nearly as tall as me. She seems to have inherited my love of walking and thinks nothing of it to walk several miles in order to visit friends. Last week she accompanied me on my walk to Birk Crag and back, pointing out from a high vantage point where her friends lived and the field tracks she used to reach them.
Towards the end of the walk, we stopped for a drink at the Harrogate Arms, my favourite watering place. This country inn is a real piece of Old England where you can enjoy a quiet pint in idyllic surroundings; in the open in summer or by a roaring log fire in winter. You can enjoy good, wholesome food from the menu and if you feel inclined to stay you can do so in the accommodation on the top floor as I have done on a couple of occasions. It is adjacent to a beautiful woodland walk and Tommy will be happy, for a small fee, to let you put on a falconer's glove and take the hawks out for some exercise.
We were warmly greeted there by the owners, Tommy and Nicole, and we viewed the collection of birds of prey that Tommy uses, in cooperation with ferrets, for eco-friendly pest control (they mainly hunt rabbits and pigeons where they are becoming a nuisance). The picture shows Gracie the Golden Eagle, who mainly hunts the wild moorlands.
Harrogate is a very fine place to live. I doubt that its natives (among whom my children, who have never lived anywhere else) appreciate how lucky they are to live here. Not large by English standards, it nestles amid the countryside of North Yorkshire; a drive to any destination, such as York or Leeds, inevitably takes you through green, undulating fields and woods. The town itself is compact but interspersed with many verdant zones such as the Stray and the Valley Gardens. Via the latter, you can walk from the town centre to the Lake District, 80 miles away, using only rural footpaths. The town itself has abundant Victorian architecture and only two high-rise buildings, the Conference Centre and the notorious Copthall Tower House. Copthall Tower House is typical of the monstrous spawn of ‘sixties urban planning, a hideous stack of office space. Fortunately, the local authority has completely changed its policy since then and all new developments have to be executed in a style that complements the town’s Victorian heritage. I believe the wretched tower building stands now only because it accommodates a bristling array of hi-tech communications equipment on its flat roof.
In addition to the generally pleasant architecture and green space, Harrogate has an extensive array of shops and restaurants – both up-market and down-market – and cultural facilities such as a multiplex cinema and a theatre. The end result is that you feel you are living in an overgrown country village with the advantages of the big city.
As you might expect, given my inclination to travel, I have not confined myself to staying in Harrogate alone and it was a pleasure to spend a few days in Pelsall, in what used to be Staffordshire but since 1974 has formed part of the new West Midlands county. It is a 125-mile jaunt along hellishly busy roads from Harrogate to Pelsall and I am always glad to pull into the driveway, turn the engine off and spend some time with my father. He is still going strong at the age of 82, albeit with his share of aches and pains. He didn’t retire until he was 69 and even then went on to gain an Open University degree in humanities. These days he bakes his own bread most days (experimenting with different recipes), takes pleasure in watching the wide variety of birds visiting the garden, and shoots any grey squirrel that dares try to tear apart his carefully placed array of bird feeders. When I read the Hávamál, Oðinn‘s words in the Edda, I hear my father’s voice. No commands of “Thou shalt not...”, simply good advice in the sense of “Son, I’ve been there, seen it, burnt the T-shirt; here is my rede; take it or leave it.” I can remember the glow in my father’s eyes as he spoke of our Germanic heritage and the deeds of Harold Godwineson and Hereward the Wake when I was about 10 years old, his pleasure when I recounted what I had read of Njal’s saga later. Whether he realises it or not, he had a major part to play in my switch from the standard, one-size-fits-all, Anglican Christianity to an individual choice for Ásatrú.
Pelsall is quite a contrast to Harrogate, with few of its amenities. Lying at the edge of what used to be England’s industrial ‘Black Country’, it is certainly quite an ancient village, being able to trace its origin at least as far back as a charter of 994. Part of the old Anglian kingdom of Mercia, it must have witnessed the invasions of the Danes before it was laid waste by William the Bastard in his devastation following the uprising of 1069. It took many centuries to recover, eventually finding some prosperity as a centre of coal mining and iron production. The local landscape suffered accordingly of course, as did all the surrounding area, but one feature that Pelsall shares with Harrogate is the preservation of large areas of common land, known simply as the North and South Commons. Although the South Common remained fairly untouched, the North Common was an ugly wasteland of coal tips and declining industry when I first knew it. Today, the coal tips have been levelled, the derelict buildings removed, and the entire area has been replanted and converted into a nature reserve. Local pride is increasing and the village has a flourishing historical society. It is one place in England that I can definitely say has improved in my lifetime. Whenever I am there, I often spend a few quiet moments at sunset by the oak tree in my father’s garden, listening to the caw of the rooks and thinking about the centuries of history behind this place that few people have heard of.
This is my last night in Hólmavík for a while. I feel a little sad to be leaving, and the passive side of me would gladly have settled down here; but that is not to be. Circumstances call me to move on, and I think that these circumstances are called into being by my Higher Self – the Self that is becoming ever stronger and knows that I must keep moving in order to meet the Odian challenge. So be it. With a jaunty tune in my head, I have packed my bags and I am pretty much ready to get on the bus south to Reykjavik tomorrow. There is an event on in Hólmavík this weekend and it has drawn people not only from the county but also from much further afield. It is called ‘Húmorþingið’: literally, ‘the parliament of humour’. And a very fine event it is too. I went for a couple of hours this evening and said my (hopefully) temporary goodbyes to everyone. The jokes were thick and fast, too fast for me to understand completely, but it was a pleasure to be able to understand the more measured conversations with people on a face-to-face basis. At one point, I went out for a cigarette, to be greeted by a stunning display of Northern Lights; they lasted but for about 10 minutes and it was if they, too, were saying “goodbye and farewell, see you soon”. The day has been warm and sunny, but there was a light snowfall this morning and, as I made my way home from the humour festival, the ice crunched underfoot in the frost. Strangely enough, it didn’t feel cold, but that reminded me how inured I have become to the climate here.
Time to reflect on what I have accomplished in my time here, and what I have left undone. I have not travelled as far or experienced so many things as I might have done. I realise now that I should have undertaken more journeys in August, September and October, when the roads were clear of snow. On the other hand, I was very much engaged in working with the Icelandic Museum of Sorcery & Witchcraft in that period and helped to keep it open in a two-week period when it would otherwise have been closed. I have learned the basics of Icelandic to the level where I was able to give a little ‘goodbye’ speech this evening without planning or assistance. I have produced a decent piece of research on Icelandic magic – decent enough to deserve the award of Fellowship in my Gild – with the prospect of further research in the future. I have seen, and revelled in, great blizzards of snow and mighty gales, howling the name of High One in invocation as I stood, ice-crusted, on the hillside. I have hunted the elusive ptarmigan in the frost at 1,000 feet above sea level as the light declined in November. I have seen a Merlin chase and take a Snow Bunting, and glimpsed whales in the fjord while out walking and even from my window. I have seen the awe-inspiring Northern Lights on many occasions, thereby fulfilling a life ambition. Last, but not least, I have made many new acquaintances and forged or renewed some lasting bonds of friendship. Maðr er manns gaman. Now I look ahead with joy to an uncertain future. If you were wondering about the jaunty tune that has been in my head, you can find it via this link. It sums up my mood and I find the words at the beginning appropriate: “The bird is flightless... it’s not going anywhere”. Iceland will still be here for me. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZVN5Y6dtOk
Now that the days are rapidly getting longer and the warmth of the sun increases, winter finally seems to be in retreat. The daytime temperature is above freezing for the first time in weeks and most of the snow has melted. Yesterday I took a walk in the hills and found, after an initial stiff climb, that I could dispense with the sweater, hat and gloves. It was still only +5C, but it felt almost tropical after a month of frost. The marked path was still covered in snow in many places but it was no trouble to find the cairn at the summit; just a matter of carrying on heading upward! Having got there, I poured offerings of wine and beer for the Aesir, the Vanir and the wights of the land. If you think I look hardy in my T-shirt, you should have seen a couple of children in the village somewhat earlier. They had been playing among the snow and meltwater in bare feet and wearing only light clothing!
The school in Hólmavík celebrates its 100th anniversary this year. Last Friday evening, the present teachers and pupils put on a show at the community centre to celebrate. The show illustrated, with acts and songs, the development of the school, its pupils and staff over the past century. A canvas backdrop showed Hólmavík as it looked around the time when the first schoolhouse was built. Iceland´s first education act was passed in 1907, when the village was still very young and Iceland was still a province of Denmark (although the country had gained Home Rule in 1904). The 1904 Act obliged children to attend school from the age of 10 to 14. Full-time education is compulsory from 6 years to 16 these days.
Most of my readers in the northern hemisphere will definitely be seeing improvements in the weather by now as spring comes on. Here at nearly 66°N, the winter predictably lasts much longer; even as I write, there is still snow on the ground and it is -5°C outside. My Icelandic friends tell me that it has not been such a harsh winter, with less snow than usual. By this they mean that we haven’t had any situations where we actually had to dig ourselves out of the house. Despite that, I have seen more snow and windy weather in the past 3 months than in the past 20 years put together. Particularly impressive were the raging gales that swept even this sheltered haven, making the entire house shake and producing odd, trumpet-like sounds as the wind forced its way through the seals around the double-glazed windows. I survived a severe fall in January from slipping on packed snow. It bruised my back badly (fell with my camera under my spine) and I couldn’t sleep lying down for 10 days. Since that incident, I have worn ice grips on my boots and can walk without any problem on the slippiest surface. Well worth the twenty quid.
Eventually, one becomes adapted to the cold, like my favourite local bird the Snow Bunting. These cheerful little birds –somewhat bigger than a sparrow but smaller than a starling – zoom in large flocks around the village whenever there is snow and vanish again when it thaws. They are very wary, which makes it hard to photograph them, and after seeing a Merlin falcon seize one in mid-flight just a couple of days ago I can understand why they are so alert.
The Merlin - Smyrill in Icelandic - that preys on the Snow Bunting and other small creatures. This female was in the fir tree just outside my window, taking a rest from the gale when it was -6C outside. She flew off when a flock of Snow Buntings (read: lunch) flew by.
In my last entry I covered the period up to 15 December. I spent the Yuletide period in England, visiting family and friends, and celebrated the Winter Solstice together with members of my Gild. It was an enjoyable break, but I noticed that I had changed since my departure and that England does not feel like my home anymore. I have lived abroad before in the Netherlands and Italy, but felt inclined – eventually – to move back. This time my break with the homeland has a feeling of finality about it.
You might imagine that there is nothing to do during the winter in this snow-bound outpost of the northern world, but that is far from true. In January I attended a photography course delivered by a Danish professional photographer, Brian Berg. It came just in time, for I had recently purchased my first decent camera, a Panasonic Lumix FZ-100, during my Yuletide visit to England. The course was well attended by about a dozen ‘Holmavikings’; some of them I already knew, but it gave me the opportunity to make new friends as well as familiarising myself with good photographic techniques and the numerous settings on the FZ-100. There were also presentations of modern film, photography and music in the ‘Shell’, a centre for artists.
The social highlights, however, were the traditional festivals of Þorrablót (22 January) and Góa (5 March). These have their roots deep in Icelandic history (Þorrablót, for example, is the ‘Sacrifice to Thor’; the roots of Góa are obscure), but now they are an occasion to meet, eat, drink and dance, to the accompaniment of a humorous cabaret act. At Þorrablót, the food is of the pickled and preserved type, and very traditional – fermented shark, whale blubber, horsemeat, lamb’s heads, rams testicles and so on. The ladies provide the entertainment on stage with a series of humorous scenarios depicting life in the village. At Góa, the food is (to my taste) more palatable, but no less Icelandic as it included puffin, goose and locally caught fish and prawns. The men then provide the entertainment, with acts that are perhaps a little more risqué! Everything was conducted in rapid Icelandic, of course, and I understood little of it, but I had a good time nevertheless, spoke in more measured Icelandic with my neighbours outside while having a smoke ( was complimented on my progress in learning the language) and was even asked to dance by a pretty young woman!
This winter season of long sub-Arctic nights naturally provided the best opportunity to view and photograph the Northern Lights and I was really glad that I had invested in a good camera and a tripod. On clear nights, warmly wrapped in many layers against the freezing wind, I made my way on foot beyond the reach of Hólmavík’s excessive lighting to capture this extraordinary phenomenon both for my own lasting memory and in order to convey it to my friends and family. By varying the ISO, aperture and shutter speed settings as I had been taught in the photography class, I learned how to get the best results and reproduce this glorious spectacle as closely as possible to one’s perception with the naked eye until, eventually, my hands were too numb and cold to make further adjustments and I had to retire indoors once more. I have to say that the most spectacular sights, when the aurora manifested itself in many bright and intense colours, were so brief that I had no opportunity to capture them on camera. They must remain the preserve of my memory alone.
Aside from the formal feasts, there were many happy evenings spent with my friends in their homes (which gave me more opportunities to improve my Icelandic), organised walks led by Jón Jónsson in which he informed us of many facets of the history of Hólmavík and its surroundings, and solitary walks in the hills and along the coast road. On a few occasions, to take a break from my rural surroundings, I took the bus down to Reykjavik and enjoyed the companionship of my young friends there. We have had some wonderful times, drunk a lot of beer, had great conversations and sometimes laughed ourselves silly. When you get to late middle age, it is positively rejuvenating to mix with people who are still in their teens or twenties; good to be treated affectionately as a somewhat disreputable ‘uncle’, and good to know that people can remain positive about the future, albeit with a more realistic and cynical attitude than I had when I was in my twenties.
My time in Iceland is nearly at an end for the time being. Various developments are pressing me to move on and discover new places and new things. I hope to come back soon, but home is always under the brim of my hat.
It has been a long while since I last posted anything and there is a lot of catching up to be done. First I need to go back nearly 3 months!
Towards the end of November, I finally got the chance to accompany Bjössi and Sverrir on one of their forays into the hills to shoot ptarmigan. It was a fine, Friday afternoon with the temperature holding at around zero and plenty of snow still on the hills. The days were already very short, so we were anxious to get started, especially as Sverrir didn’t finish his work until 2 pm. Having parked by a lake to the south of Hólmavík, we shouldered our rucksacks and the 2 shotguns as Gordon, Bjössi‘s pointer, already ran wildly around in his bright yellow coat. The walk began with a steep ascent to around 300 metres above sea level. Panting, I doggedly followed my companions as they strode ahead, regretting my sedentary work and lifestyle, and not least my smoking habit. I could accept not being as fit as Sverrir who, after all, is about twenty years younger than me, but Bjössi and I share the same birth year and he was decidedly fitter than I was. By the time we reached the top of the hill I was already glad that this was not one of their all-day shoots, as they can cover up to 25 km up hill and down dale!
We decided to split up, Sverrir taking one valley while Bjössi and I searched another. I soon found that the sport in hunting ptarmigan lies entirely in being prepared to walk long distances while keeping one‘s eyes open for these elusive, pidgeon-size birds. In their white winter plumage, ptarmigan are almost invisible against the snow and their instinct is to stay absolutely motionless when danger threatens. Bjössi forged ahead, his boots sinking through the soft snow, sometimes crushing the over-ripe berries that lay beneath and staining the snow red as if we had already made a kill. Before very long, Gordon spotted a brace of birds about 100 metres ahead of us and stood quivering as he pointed with his entire body. At first, I could not see the ptarmigan at all, but Bjössi gave me an indication and took aim. I had been expecting him to wait until the birds flew, as we do in England, but this was a pointless exercise. Ptarmigan instinctively simply lie still; you can literally throw stones at them and they won‘t move. So, aiming at the static target, he fired and got the first kill of the afternoon. Finally startled, other ptarmigan flew away low across the rocky landscape.
However, we had a good idea where the birds had flown to and it didn‘t take long for Gordon to find them again. This time, Bjössi lined them up nicely and killed two with one shot. Gordon excitedly ran forward to retrieve them, performing a ritual ‘lap of honour’ with one of the dead ptarmigan before we eventually managed to call him back.
Encouraged by this success, we continued uphill in search of more prey. I found that my initial fatigue from the steep climb had been forgotten now that the adrenaline kicked in and I was caught up in the thrill of the hunt. We entered a shallow gill and Bjössi suggested that we should scout along opposite sides of it because the ptarmigan were most likely among the rocks on either side. As I walked on, I noticed one of the snow holes that these birds create to shelter from the frost and icy wind at night. The entrance was fairly large – big enough for me to insert my head for a closer inspection – and led off sideways to left and right with two tunnels long enough to accommodate several ptarmigan. I don’t know whether they cluster together for warmth, but it would seem the logical and instinctive course to take. Resuming my scan of the landscape, it occurred to me that our prey could well be lying quietly in the middle of the gill and laughing at us as we passed by on either side. I remembered my military training from long ago - scan carefully, looking for any unusual shapes - and was rewarded by the sight of one bird’s head reverse-silhouetted in white against a darker rock about thirty metres away.
Alerted by a low whistle from me, Bjössi joined me, making a wide semicircle as I pointed. Our target must have been aware of our presence, but still trusted absolutely in the virtues of stillness and camouflage and so made no move to escape. Shouldering the shotgun, Bjössi squeezed the trigger and shot the bird cleanly. The carcase was stowed with the others in a rucksack and we continued on our way with Gordon in the lead.
I was amazed by Gordon’s speed and vitality. He would range far from us, sometimes so far away that it would be difficult to spot him but for the orange coat he was wearing. We would see him loping in the distance and then, before we had trudged many paces through the snow, he would race right past us to try his luck in another quarter. On one occasion we saw him a long way off, pointing, but when we arrived at the spot there were no birds to be seen. Laughing, we speculated that he had realised we were making our way back and didn’t want the day’s sport to end yet. However, the sun had long set; the light was fading and we really did have to get back to the car. Going downhill can often be harder work than the reverse (even if it does not leave you as breathless) and the more so when hampered by poor light, but we were able to cross some stretches quickly by sliding on our bottoms down expanses of frozen snow. We came across more ptarmigan on the way, and these were duly added to the bag.
Eventually, at last light, we got back to the car. We had bagged eight birds in all; not a particularly impressive day’s shooting but, as another shooter had said to me, “It’s not about the bag; it is about the fun of looking for the ptarmigan and having a good day’s walk in the snow.” I felt mildly exhilarated and very tired, and I remember that I slept very soundly that night.
By way of an epilogue, I later asked when the ptarmigan would be eaten. This was important to me: apart from wanting to find out what they taste like, I would not willingly participate in killing something unless I wanted to eat it. By eating the prey, you give thanks for its life and death and give it the chance to live on as part of yourself. Bjössi and Signý told me that it is customary in Iceland to eat rjúpa on New Year‘s Eve, but because I would then be in England they would lay on a special meal for me before my departure. And so, on the 11th of December, my last Friday in Iceland before the Yuletide break, we gathered for dinner at Bjössi and Signý‘s. There were 10 of us at the table and the best meat from 15 birds was served, accompanied by sauces and a variety of other dishes, washed down with full-bodied red wine. It was an enjoyable and fitting conclusion to my first four and a half months of living in Iceland.
It has been fairly fine recently, but it is just a little less than a month to the winter solstice. The sun gets up very late now, shuffles in her slippers and dressing gown to the doorstep to collect the milk and newspaper, casts a few elongated rays on the landscape and then goes back to bed. The local children go to school in the dark and come home at twilight. Icelandic time is the same as Greenwich Mean Time - all year round - but there is actually a time difference of about 1 hour and 30 minutes, so 'true' noon is at 1.30 pm.
November began in truly wild form with a 60-hour blizzard. An icy, northerly gale drove fine snow horizontally night and day, starting (appropriately) at Hallowe’en. Sometime during the first day (1 November) I walked the mile to the general store to get a few groceries. The automatic, sliding doors were closed and covered with snow and ice, but the side door was open. Trailing puddles of meltwater, I stocked up on bread, milk and other necessities, paid and ventured out again for the trek back to my lodgings. This time, the wind was full in my face so that snow gathered on my beard and my breath and snot froze in icicles from my moustache. The pavements were covered in snow and sometimes blocked by drifts, so I walked along the road instead. My main concern then was that I might get run over by a car, for I could not easily see where I was going and doubted that I was very visible to drivers. Nevertheless, I was soon back in the warmth of the guest house, feeling a tiny bit heroic but resolving not to go out again until the gale subsided.
But it went on... and on. Every time I looked out of the window, it was the same scene of snowflakes flying horizontally, hour after hour until the window eventually became too covered to see out at all. The psychological effect surprised me. I was overcome by an unaccustomed lethargy and apathy, unable even to get on with my translation jobs properly. Despite being indoors and warm, the very sight and sound of the blizzard seemed to pummel and numb the mind as much as if one had been physically battling the teeth of the gale. It occurred to me that I might have to give up on the whole adventure if this was what winter held in store; after all, I have to make a living. Finally, however, the wind died down, the snow thinned to occasional flakes and I walked thankfully down to the museum, where I met Siggi and Jón Jónsson (see picture). We drank coffee together and I mentioned the peculiar lethargy that I had experienced; they reassured me that this was common with the first snowstorm of the year. It affects Icelanders just as much, for they too feel inclined to huddle under a duvet and do nothing. After the first one, they told me, it gets easier and everyone goes about their business as near normally as possible. And that has indeed proved to be the case.
To help combat the stale feeling that the season brings on, Jón Jónsson has also started organising one-hour fun walks every Tuesday starting at 12.00 from some local meeting point. I have gone on two so far (missed the last one as I was away) and we were blessed with good weather: clear, calm and freezing (-3C on the first). As we walk the local minor roads - once the main highways, despite being no more than rutted cart tracks - Jón points out features such as the ‘Walrus Rock’ or ‘Eagle Cliff’ and tells us stories associated with them. My favourite story is of a farmer who was conveying a large tub of sheep’s blood back to his farm from the slaughterhouse.Somehow he managed to drive his Landrover off the road and turn it over completely. Unhurt but covered in sheep’s blood from head to toe, he made his way on foot back into Hólmavík. Understandably, there was not a little consternation when people saw this gory apparition coming down the road!
It was on one of these walks that I saw a whale in the fjord for the first time. Yesterday I even spotted one from the window of my lodgings as I was writing this blog. It is, of course, a highly controversial issue that Iceland has resumed commercial whaling. The species that is hunted is the Minke whale, and this was probably what I saw in the fjord. The meat is widely available in Iceland and although I would prefer to see an end to all whaling, I decided to try a whale steak – just for once - to see what all the fuss is about. The meat is quite similar to beef in texture and in flavour. I wish I could have brought you a photo of the whale in the fjord, but it was a fleeting glimpse and at some distance. May it remain so for its hunters.
The opportunity to eat whale (in a restaurant, as opposed to hiring a boat and faring forth across the fjord like Captain Ahab) came with the arrival of a long-awaited conference in Reykjavik on 12 and 13 November. “Gods and goddesses on the edge: myth and liminality in the north” – it sounded like a dream come true for a magician in the northern tradition, so I had booked my place in September and now the time had come to make my way back to Iceland’s capital. As ever here, travel plans have to bow to the weather so I opted to go down early, taking a lift with my friend Ingibjörg. There were three reasons for this decision. Firstly, I don’t like driving. Secondly, Ingibjörg’s car has winter tires with spikes on. Thirdly, Bjössi had taken back the Vitara for his own use (can’t say I blame him, I didn’t need it often) but then had a slight mishap involving a collision with thick ice when fording a stream. Ice giants 1, Vitara nil. The broken front bumper was repairable, the punctured petrol tank less so.
Thus I arrived in the evening of Wednesday, 10 November at my friend Sam’s apartment in the heart of Reykjavik. It seemed strange to be amid the bustle of a city again. When I went out, I actually had to wait for a gap between the cars in order to cross the street. Not that I had to wait long: Icelandic drivers are remarkably considerate towards pedestrians in comparison with their West European counterparts. If they see you trying to cross, they will slow up and give you the chance. Twice I walked down the middle of the road in Bankastraeti (Bank Street) thinking that it was a pedestrian area, eventually becoming aware that a car driver was patiently waiting for this ignorant foreigner to get out of the way; no honking of horns, no loud revving, no shouting... I simply stepped aside with a wave of apology and wished that everywhere in the world could be like this when vehicles and footgoers have to mix. There weren’t all that many pedestrians on the street anyway, for the most part. Wind chill factor included, the temperature was about -10C, so Reykjavik’s denizens scurried about their business and spent as little time as possible outdoors. Sam didn’t have an internet connection at home, but with his help I found that there are many small, cosy cafés where, for the price of a coffee (including as many refills as you want) you can sit comfortably and check for email messages on your laptop.
One afternoon, while reading and enjoying a quiet pint at the ‘English Pub’, I noticed that a small demonstration was taking place outside the Icelandic Parliament building opposite. On enquiring, I discovered that they were protesting against the closure of hospitals outside of Reykjavik. The parliament building is a modest affair situated in the heart of the city and the protesters were right outside the main entrance. There was only a minimal police presence. Eventually, the minister in question came out to the front steps to give his personal reassurance that nothing had yet been decided and the issue was still being debated. I hasten to add that not all demonstrations outside the Alþingi have been so small or good natured. In these difficult economic times for Iceland, some of them have involved thousands of people banging for hour after hour on drums (or anything to hand), lighting bonfires and generally making their unhappiness known to the politicians. Of course – as anywhere in the world – the ‘rent a mob’ element was also there and the police were deployed in full riot gear on those occasions.
The conference was interesting and very well attended, although there weren’t as many references to Nordic magic as I had hoped. Despite that, it was an excellent opportunity for networking, meeting friends again and generally talking with other people who have a similar line of interest. For those who wanted to attend, there was a 3-course dinner after the conference. At ISK 5,500 (about £30) per person, I thought it was extremely pricey for what we got (wine was not included), but it gave me more opportunity to talk in depth with other participants. After the dinner, many of us went on to enjoy relatively cheap beer at a bar in the centre of Reykjavik and, as I wove my way back to Sam’s place at 4 am, I saw the streets full of people for once despite the cold. Presumably they, like me, were too full of liquid anti-freeze to care.
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.
“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.
At the time of my last entry, 3 weeks ago, I was convinced that summer had definitely ended and winter would assert its grip on the land with every new day. I could be forgiven for thinking that, for a bitter wind was blowing and the first snow appeared on the hilltops shortly afterwards. Now I am not so sure. The fickle weather reminds me of a young woman who, knowing full well that she will eventually have to wear something sober and sensible for the evening’s events, still tries on every possible combination of her entire wardrobe in front of the mirror.
Another northerly gale stripped the yellowing leaves from deciduous trees and virtually demolished the brittle remnants of an Angelica bush that I had intended sketching. Blue skies, racing clouds and rain showers followed each other in rapid succession. At one point it got so cold that I fully expected snow, but after four days the wind changed and blew gently from the south, bringing a day so warm that we basked in t-shirts in the mellow sunshine.
I never tire of watching the sky here; there is always some new and interesting configuration to watch and, perhaps, to photograph. Today I awoke to a clear, blue sky and golden sunshine, so I took advantage of the conditions to walk for about 5 miles in the hills. In the meantime, a fog bank arose far out to sea and rolled up the fjord. Now, late in the afternoon, I can't even see the harbour. So far at least, we have been spared the kind of uniform, grey blanket from horizon to horizon that so often dogs England at any time of year.
The landscape also exhibits fascinating changes in colour. Due to the harshness of the climate, thin soil and grazing by sheep, Iceland is almost bereft of trees. The native birch trees are no more than shrubs and the extensive planting program of the Skógræktarfélag (Forestry Association) concentrates mainly on evergreens that will repay the effort. This means that you don’t get the multi-hued woodland walks that are the delight of England’s autumn, but nature paints with a broader brush here. In one of the capricious changes of weather, I awoke on a sunny morning to see that the vegetation on the hillsides had turned almost overnight to a bright russet colour, running in bands that alternated and contrasted with the light grey-green of the stony outcrops. It was a startling and beautiful transformation, the more to be treasured for its ephemeral character, for the russet dulled within days to a darker brown.
The ptarmigan are also putting on their winter suits, exchanging their brown summer clothes for white ones that will help them blend against the snow. Remarkably tame birds, they gather in small flocks even in the centre of the village. Even when you can’t see them, you can often hear their deep, rattling call.
Despite the best efforts of Iceland’s inhabitants to shut down and prepare for hibernation, the tourists still keep coming. The policy of the Sorcery Museum is to stay open all year round, and this is proving to be justified. When it is fairly quiet, we have an ‘open on demand’ policy whereby unexpected visitors can use the call system mounted on the door and one of us goes down to welcome them within a few minutes. Siggi had to go to Brussels recently to collect a ‘European Destination of Excellence’ award on behalf of the Westfjords Tourist Association, combining the trip with a well deserved break in Denmark. He didn’t want the museum to close completely, so I volunteered to respond whenever guests arrived. As things turned out, it was easier to simply take my laptop, do my usual translation work from there and keep the place open from 10 am to 6 pm. We had at least two visitors each day, usually more, and on one afternoon 13 people turned up. Most of the visitors were from abroad and it would certainly have been a shame if they had found the museum closed.
Apart from the tourists, I had few people to talk to for a few days at the end of September. Not only was Siggi away, but also Bjössi, Signý, Sverrir and Ingibjörg. Being in no great hurry to return to the guest house, I would spend my evenings at the museum too with only the skeleton, the invisible boy and the ‘necropants’ for company as I studied the Runes and drank a few beers. My office there seemed to hold a special attraction for the many houseflies that entered in search of warmth, so I developed considerable skill in killing these pests whenever they stopped for a rest. They always came one at a time, and no sooner had I made it abundantly clear to one of them that the party was over than another one took its place. For a while I grew paranoid, imagining that this strange museum had an additional and unannounced exhibit: the reincarnating messenger of Beelzebub.
My own party started on the 6th, when all my friends were back in Hólmavík. That evening, I ate traditional Icelandic food with Bjössi and Signý: haddock with fried tripes (sheep’s stomach lining), followed by blood soup. Both were quite delicious. The blood soup is cooked with raisins, giving it a rather sweet flavour. Cinnamon is often added. I'm actually looking forward to þorrablót, when all kinds of traditional Icelandic fare is eaten; I might even try hákarl again (if I drink enough beer beforehand).
The party continued in earnest the next day with the arrival of three artists (respectively from Canada, France and Germany) as Siggi’s special guests. We ate together in our ad hoc ‘pub’, the Upplókrá, gave performances of fairly avant-garde art, got more than a little drunk and finally watched the Northern Lights at 1 in the morning. I also had other reasons to celebrate: firstly, it was the second anniversary of my first visit to Iceland in 2008; secondly, with the return of Bjössi and Signý from their month-long holiday in Germany, I had become aware of a major transformation in my own abilities. This had happened almost stealthily, adding a word or a phrase at a time, but my own efforts and Sverrir’s patient tuition were starting to pay off. I was now able to speak and understand some Icelandic. Not just single words, but whole sentences, albeit simple ones. Orð mér af orði orðs leitaði...
It took me a couple of days to recover from the festivities, but two vigorous walks helped. Never let it be said that nothing ever happens here. As I returned from my walk today, I saw the Icelandic fisheries protection vessel 'Tyr' come right into the fjord and as close to the harbour as it could safely get. Then a helicopter arrived and landed on the harbour wall. On investigation, I found that they were changing the boat's crew. Pretty soon, the men who had dismounted from the chopper were ferried out by a fast launch to the 'Tyr' and the previous crew of the vessel returned with the launch. It was all quite exciting and especially picturesque against the background of the incoming mist.
That’s all for now. The Northern Lights are starting up again, so I’m going out to watch.