‘Beside the old herring factory, Djupavik’ by Nigel Johnson
But of course we hadn’t booked. We didn’t want to be that kind of traveller, we wanted to be spontaneous, free, a real if unconventional band of road-trippers. The waitress’s face was a contortion of apology. I’m sorry she said, just as the rain really bucketed down outside, but this evening we are fully booked! It was the iron men; because of a competition in the nearby area they had swamped the hotel.
In the end we were rescued by a kindly elderly couple who lived in a house next door, behind the old herring factory. They put us up for the night. Though in my bravura I had initially suggested camping out in the derelict factory, with the blasting winds and thunderous rains, Alverro and I eventually thought better of it and co-opted my father’s twin room. In the end we all managed to squeeze in, sharing two beds between us, top-to-tailing like sardines.
The next morning we devoted ourselves to discovering what the Lonely Planet describes as the ‘strangely seductive town of Djupavik’. The LP was right: there was something both seductive and surprising about this tiny town – though town doesn’t seem quite right either, more like a cluster of houses. Other than Hotel Djupavik with its hearty portions and old-world atmosphere, the town’s real asset is the vast, derelict herring factory which dwarves everything else surrounding it on the edge of the fjord. When we passed Drangsnes and I told them we were going to Djupavik, one of the old men I spoke to shook his head: plenty of ghosts there, I tell you! I thought nothing more of the comment until we started circumnavigating the vast factory complex. It had clearly been abandoned, perhaps the waters had been overfished, but soot deposits and scarring to the building told another story. It seemed there had been a fire here. Whether the fire began in the main building or one of the enormous drums that they used to farm and store the fish, was impossible to say. We saw a sign that read ‘Contemporary Photography Exhibition’ and dutifully followed the path. I couldn’t believe it. Here, in the middle of nowhere, almost at the edge of the world, at the most westerly point of Iceland where very soon the road just stops, pointing out the closest that anyone can get to Hornstrandir by car, here they were hosting a photography expo.
‘Like a Berlin expo’ by Nigel Johnson
We clambered inside and walked about in amazement eyeing up needle-sharp nature photography and some conceptual art projects. In the eerie, semi-haunted atmosphere of the deserted factory, with slanting lights and echoes everywhere, you would be forgiven for thinking that you were in Berlin. It was so cosmopolitan. I wondered who was behind it. I inspected a pamphlet and found out: it was a young German man who worked at Hotel Djupavik. I was astounded, it must have taken him years to put together a gallery like this.
As my father and Alverro left, I quickly popped into one of the old empty herring drums to try out its acoustics, I had heard that the hotel even hosted musical evenings in the drums.The cavernous space, the piping that circled like a a whorl or spiral in the ground, made me feel like I was walking about an industrial labyrinth. So I walked about singing the old English folk song “Black, black, black” to my heart’s content.
When we returned to the hotel we made ready for our first real adventure of the day: finding the Krossnesfjall hotpot. This was Iceland’s most remote natural hotpot and just before the iconic end of the road. I had always wanted to go there. Just before we left, the friendly apologetic face of one of the hotel staff appeared before me. She had liquid-blue eyes and wore a red beanie hat.
– Hey I heard you guys are going to Krossness? She was American. Can me and my friend get a ride off you?
– Err, sure, I said, and we all clambered inside the car. Dad was driving.
‘A waterfall on the way’ by Nigel Johnson
As we made our way slowly along the muddy, riveted road to Krossnesfjall I could not help but draw parallels with coastal landscapes that I had seen in Scotland and England. It was very misty and raining hard, precipitous cliffs soared up on our left, about them in beautiful wafting circles the gulls and fulmars ranged. It was like Scotland crossed with Jurassic Park. I think we had Graceland on so the time flew by, even though the driving on the steep muddy track was not easy.
Eventually we reached our destination, and I couldn’t believe how many people I saw accumulating there. We had not seen a soul for over an hour and yet now the swimming pool was thronged. It didn’t matter, in fact it added to the convivial feel of the whole affair, we had all made it, made it to surely one of the most desolate and dramatic bathing spots in the world.
‘Krossnessfjall’ by Nigel Johnson
The naturally heated geothermal waters pumped down from the hills and filled a basin-like swimming pool that looked out over raging waves and a crunchy black-sand beach. It was heavenly. Erin and her friend were good company and full of interesting stories about America and Madrid, where they had both worked as teachers. After a good soaking and some meetings with other tourists, we clambered back into the car, discovered a CD of Cabaret the musical, and sang along with Liza Minnelli all the way back to Djupavik.
‘The end of the road’ by Nigel Johnson
833 words a day 