The Reykjanes Peninsula

‘A ewe on the road’ by Nigel Johnson

Before embarking on my last work camp with SEEDS, I managed to book a week off to enjoy a round-the-island road trip with a friend from Belgium, Alverro, and my father, along the  route number 1.

Although many exciting things happened to us on the trip and we managed to spend some time in the north and north-east – the only part of Iceland that was entirely unknown to me at that point – I want to write about our experiences in the Westfjords and especially on the Drangsnes Peninsula.

Unlike other parts of Iceland, where driving in the summer along mainly empty roads allows you to make quick progress even if you do obey the strict 90 km/h speed limit, in Westfjords the going is always slow. This is mainly because long stretches of the coastal road are unasphalted gravel tracks but also because the coastal road keeps faithfully to the waving fringes of the jagged land mass (a shape the Lonely Planet describes as a ‘lobster’s claw’), torturously bending & weaving around the deep fjords.

I was already familiar with the stretch from the Flokulundar hot-pot to Isafjörður as I have driven it with Marina only a few weeks before. After the 6 km single-lane tunnel that acts as the formidable rite-of-passage-way to Isafjörður, the road was quite new to me. My guidebook ranked the Reykjanes Peninsula route north of Isafjörður as one of the most attractive stretches of driving in Iceland – and I was not disappointed. This was one of the least inhabited parts of the Westfjords and that is already one of the most remote regions of Iceland.

Our four-by-four Toyota scooted along merrily under bridges carved through rock, along a road elevated just above sea level, so that the Atlantic ocean was always to our left: glittering, pensive, elephant-grey. North of us, and every moment drawing nearer, was the fabled Hornstrandir Peninsula, an outstretched arm of the Westfjords that is now entirely uninhabited and has no roads at all. The only human beings that ever cross that peninsula go by foot and intrepid and courageous they are as even in summer very deep snow lies in that desolate, blasted peninsula and there are no shelters or places to buy provisions.

For weeks now, my mind had been enchanted by the magical name of the Hornstrandir; I wanted desperately to go there, especially when I discovered that they have an arctic fox research centre where volunteers and hardened scientists rub shoulders together in a brave crusade to  track the movements of the twitchy little mammals. However, at that point it wasn’t practicable, especially as the only means of transport there and back was a ferry from Isafjörður which was very expensive (about £70 each way).

Yet, winding about the highly picturesque comb-like undulations of the Reykjanes peninsula, I could enjoy Hornstrandir from afar. All I could really make out were the misty silhouettes of vast, snow-covered mountains. Nearby, there was that continual glittering disc of water, fields of ceramic blue lupins and a moody overcast sky. It leant the whole landscape a romantic, dramatic appearance; I was reminded of Exmoor, all that rooty soil, rock and silence. At one point Alverro made a call to stop. Go back, he cried, you won’t regret it!

So back we went and jumped out of the car. As we approached the edge of the road, I saw what had caught his attention. Lying there, flopped out on a rock perhaps ten metres out into the fjord was a silver, blubbery seal. His coat was slicked with sea water, so looked especially glossy. His face (or hers) was fixed into a smile of permanent contentment. It was quite amazing to watch this wild seal lying lazily on the plinth-like rock. When she first spotted us, she seemed distressed and floundered as if to jump off the rock. But then seeing us stand still, she thought better of it and continued snoozing, occasionally rolling about or flapping a fin-like paw. They really are the dogs of the sea, aren’t they? With their adorable whiskers and round, button-black eyes. After an ice-cream van bizarrely stopped behind us and  offered us some light refreshment we decided to return to our car and carry on.

It did not become less but more beautiful. By that point, unfortunately, I had a no camera policy, experience-only. These views were far too precious and magic to pollute with a lens (for the sake of this blog entry my father has sent me some of his own photographs). I remember thinking quite vividly to myself: I don’t want to forget these things, not ever, not the bowl-like mountains, the lavender sea, the glitter and flash of fjord and one of the last few genuine wildernesses left in Europe in the background… it was a moment of deep appreciation, in the stillness of that rugged place. But it was taking longer than I thought and the sky was darkening with black cloud.

The destination for the day was Hotel Djupavik on the Drangsness peninsula, a hostelry that couldn’t have a warmer write-up in the Lonely Planet. It was reckoned to be forty kilometres from Drangsnes itself. Though light isn’t really a problem at this time of year thanks to the midnight sun, myself and my father were both very tired even though we had been alternating drivers. I wanted to find somewhere to rest quite soon and as it was already eight o’ clock, so definitely dinner time. Though the Drangsnes peninsula was also very beautiful, though slightly less epic and more pastoral in feel than the Reykjaness peninsula, I found myself egging on the car. I forgot that you can’t rush in the westfjords. I hoped it would take half an hour to reach Hotel Djupavik, in the end it was closer to an hour and a half. However when we eventually got there, the almost-full car park, the large white inn, were already the tell-tale signs that we had reached our destination. As we pushed open the heavy wooden doors, I thought that a more pleasing and welcome sight to my driving-weary eyes would be difficult to imagine.

The interior of the low-ceilinged inn was unpretentious and warm in feel with a series of large wooden tables and benches set out for diners. Rings of laughed welled from each table; a comforting sound to the wayfarer. Plates of generously portioned food gleamed invitingly from dimity tablecloths. At a table just behind the one we decided to plonk down on were a group of four, epically strong men. They were genuine iron men! All, without exception, drinking coca cola. I ordered three bottles of fine malty beer, one for each of us, at that moment price was irrelevant. Before too long we had tucked into a hearty stew of locally caught fish and fluffy boiled potatoes. I knew as we gulped down beer and wolfed down our food, that we would be spending the evening at Hotel Djupavik that night.