A Weekend Away, May 2015
Gamla Guesthouse; Grundafjordur
I am lying on my bed after a shower, snatching some moments on my own to write about the events of the day before I sink into a deep and much needed sleep. The view outside my window is astonishing – the iconic Kirkjufell mountain is in full view from the first floor of the guesthouse. Now it is a dark, lumpy silhouette and its pinnacle is wreathed in blue-grey mist just wafted in from the sea. The long sunsets which Iceland is famous for at this time of year have not failed me this evening. The line where the Atlantic Ocean meets the sea at this northerly altitude is a smudge of rose pink and lemon yellow – a platter of Turkish delight veiled by reams of inky blue cumulus.
The Kirkjufell mountain is one of the most recognisable landmarks on the Snaefellsness peninsula. It has a stumpy trapezoid shape that reminds me a bit of a Roman sandal, yet it is also lined with a fine horizontal strata of snow. Its striking form and size is reminiscent of a volcano, yet its situation is oddly domestic, occupying the innermost part of the fjord like a manor house. The flat land which surrounds this pretty fjord allows the eye to travel easily across the small town of Grundafjordur, whose lights (now that it is almost dark) glimmer from the other side of the bay. Occasionally the star-white lights of incoming road vehicles dazzle, but this is not frequent as Snaefellsness is not exactly central London. In fact, though its proximity to Reykjavik means that it is probably one of the most easily accessible destinations from the capital, it is still one of the harshest and most barren peninsulas in Iceland. Certainly in winter, the rugged mountainous terrain and savage weather beat off the madding crowds.
Kirkjufell at Sunset
It is good to be out again — that is, out of the city. I am once again touring in a Nissan and my companions on the road, Louis and Kala, were both part of my last Photo Marathon camp. Today, despite bright sunshine in the capital, the sky above Snaefellsness was distinctly clouded over with the sort of dense white canopy that normally presages an immanent snow shower. The thermostat on the road showed readings of -3—5, a conservative estimate that does not take into account wind chill. So while the rest of Eurasia and even Canada – so my Quebequoise informed me – enjoyed Spring temperatures of around thirty degrees centigrade, myself, Louis and Kala were wrapped in shawls, wind-proof jackets, hats and gloves. Though we did not have time to make the detour to the waterfalls at Reykadalur, we still explored as much as we were able to and Louis’ camera lens prompted.
I have seen countries through the eyes of poets, artists, musicians and cyclists, but never from the point of view of a photographer. I am enjoying discovering how Louis’ passion is guiding his experience of Snaefellsness and place more generally. He seems to always see through the lens, his priorities are always photographic ones. I sometimes question whether he knows where his real eyes end and the camera lens begins. Is his retinal screen like the photographic screen? Does he see through a complex aesthetically-determined matrix of geometry and scale? But Louis is not a compulsive collector: he uses a lot of discretion when he selects pictures to keep. Out of a harvest of perhaps hundreds of photographs, he normally saves only two or three. While I was chasing after him through meadow and marsh, trespassing across wire fences and climbing up narrow passes to the heads of basalt columns, I suddenly felt very grateful to photography. In this case the photograph, the need to create the definitive synopsis of a place, was leading Louis and thus I, much further than we would ever go on our own. It was more than just aesthetic – it was experiential.
Photography is giving Louis more. I have watched him many times now, watching places. I have seen him in his characteristic green mac and walking boots hunched over a tripod among the gold fringes of a meadow, above a rocky outcropping or looking up at the base of basalt columns towards the sky. Photography is giving him the imagination to see and to explore. It is a catalyst, a fuel as effective as the diesel we pump into our car. So photography, I am afraid of you — afraid of how you strip and pare away at the word, but in this respect, I admire you.
After leaving Borganes and the omnipresent Route No. 1, we turned off the main road and headed on Route 54 bearing west into Snaefellsness. Gales of Atlantic wind undeterred by any obstacles in their way, pounded our vehicle making the steering noticeably difficult. How can I describe in just a few sentences the coastal landscape of south-westerly Iceland to those who are unfamiliar with this country? Can you imagine narrow roads, spanning vast beach strands and isthmuses, crossing lava fields studded with nuggets of volcanic debris, driving through endless stretches of flat steppe, and waving plateaus of rolling, sun-drenched grass? How blue the sky, how blue the sea. Seal-blue, duck egg, teal. I will find the word eventually, to describe the quality of blue that abounds in Iceland.
Basalt Columns: Gerduberg
Steering passed the puzzle-piece of aforementioned basalt columns at Gerduberg and passed the incongruous, sudden bowl-like crater of Elborg, we headed towards Stykkisholmur on the north coast via the inland Route 56. I was not particularly enthusiastic about that town but foraged some insightful tips about local flora and fauna from a placard in the town harbour. Teasing us in the distance beyond Flatey and the other small islands that dot the Breidafjordur archipelago, we could see the impressive, mysterious peaks of the Westfjords. I was interested to learn that Iceland’s first library was erected on one of these islands – a very unlikely location due to their remoteness – and also acted as the resting place of one of Iceland’s oldest sagas. This region was apparently one of the first to be properly settled in Iceland and is dense with history and saga lore. It is a place steeped in stories. This might explain why the American artist chose to name her art installation piece in the harbour town The Library of Water. As well as books and medieval manuscripts, colonies of puffin, shale-black shag, arctic tern and white-tailed eagle also come a cropper in these parts. Among the splinted and jagged niches of island rock I also saw some Silverweed. Sightings of new flowers are always an important event when travelling in Iceland, due to their scarcity. As the director of the Reykjavik Botanical Garden told me when I worked there, though Iceland can claim a very rich biodiversity of mosses and lichens – on the flower front it falls far behind the rest of Europe.
To bed I go after having a quick look at The Antarctic — an apt place to do so, after all.
833 words a day 