07.06.2015
The Cliffs of Latraberg: One of Icleand’s Unmissable Sights
Yesterday we went on a day trip to Latraberg. I wasn’t sure what to expect as Guthni was driving us, and as good-natured as the man is, it is never easy to predict what will happen in the company of Guthni. As it turned out, he had a number of surprises lined up for us, and what I half-imagined would be a brief trip of one or two hours, turned out to be a whole day-long excursion.
In fact, one of the highlights of the trip was getting to know a little more about Guthni himself. What was revealed between the bleated enunciation of words and syllables, multiple nods and ‘yahs’ and many valiant mutual attempts at communication was a kind of autobiography: a life story strung out between car stops and sights, between skerries, bays and fjord tips.
Now that I think of it, Guthni must be one of the most ‘authentic’ Icelanders I have yet met in this country. I knew that he grew up in this region and that he lived for a year in Reykjavik before turning his back on it and returning to the homeland, even more resolved against the migration away from the countryside that was eroding the life he knew and had always known. He came back. He didn’t like it there. Of course, the moment Guthni told me about his brief sojourn to Reykjavik, two iconic characters from Icelandic films I had recently watched sprang to mind — firstly the ‘grump’ and secondly the wayward elderly pair who play the stars of Friðrik Þór Friðriksson’s Icelandic classic Börn Náttúrunnar [Children of Nature]. These strange and fantastical films, more composed of dream sequences and dark strains of satire than linearly directed or plausible narrative, are both about return. In both cases the lost prodigal children return to the Icelandic heartland — its wilderness — and renounce modern life as symbolised by Reykjavik’s culture of superficial yuppiedom. Reykjavik: a place where anarchist-comedian maverick Jon Gnarr served as major for four years beginning 2010! It’s ludicrous and brilliant. Where else but Reykjavik could this happen? A place where what is kooky, weird and even perverse has taken roots and flourishes. But not in the Westfjords. The Westfjords is Texas — Texas with the Alps. Here people are still trying to hold onto something, some Icelandic essence. Not all of them are, most of them have already given up, but men like Guthni keep the flag flying.
Guthni is like a hero from a Steinbeck novel. Staring at his enormous hands on the steering wheel of the 4×4 pickup vehicle that he is constantly driving, I realised that these paw-like hands were at least three times bigger than mine. The man himself is tall and strong, with close-shaved hair and eyes that never seem to focus directly on you but probably see more than you know. He is old, but not old for an Icelandic grandfather – they have children here very young. But he must be in his late fifties or early sixties. Unlike most Icelandic people he cannot really speak English and when I first met him, because of his evasive body language I thought he was a shy man. Now I realise that I was wrong. On Sunday he was very eager to make conversation and I gradually unravelled, with the help of pointing and a car-piloted game of I-Spy, the story of Guthni’s life.
Breidavik
Guthni was born in the Westfjords in a very beautiful hidden beach at the foot of the Latraberg escarpment, not far from Breidavik, which, for those who don’t know it is a glorious crescent shaped bay of unusually golden sand, highly unique for Iceland. His father was the first in the family to come to the Westfjords and built himself a house there, right on the beach. Next he built himself a barn, then he built his sister a house. He was the light-housekeeper for the small lighthouse built on the cliff promontory and kept sheep.
The room where Guthni was born: upper storey of the house
Guthni’s father was clearly a very determined and strong man. In order to build a settlement large enough for his family on this very remote and forbidding stretch of coastline, he personally trucked over tree trunks bought from timber merchants, then sawed, lathed and set them. And all in one Icelandic summer. His workshop — the kind that would make any workman jealous — was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of handy-man treasure, studded with a mind-boggling assortments of tools and machinery. The vast teeth-edged saw bands used for bisecting the enormous trunks were still hanging high in the ceiling of the cavernous barn-turned-workshop. They looked like oversized film reels. So that’s how the old house on the mossy beach that Guthni was born in came into being: it was built from the foundations up by one man.
Guthnis’ fathers workshop
Everyone comes from somewhere, everyone was born somewhere. Yet Guthni comes from Talknafjordur in the Westfjords in a way that few people can claim for themselves. He is a real ‘child of nature’, a mineral person, hewn from the same sable rock as the hills. He works as an odd-jobs man for the local mayor – that’s how he came to be looking after us — but his real trade is building houses. As we drove along to Latraberg on the small dirt road, he pointed out house after house to me that he had built himself. My son , he said, gesturing at one little house clad in corrugated iron. My mother, he said, pointing at another. Did you build them all? I asked wonderingly. He nodded and turned back to watch the road. So Guthni is a titanic man by anyone’s standards, what the Icelanders would call ‘an iron man’. I would not trust anyone so much as Guthni to get me out of a tricky spot, head a rescue operation, fix anything or drive a four by four along stretches of rocky beach or along icy roads. The extremities and difficult conditions assailing those who live on this remote peninsula-land every single winter, demand people like this to live here. They are survivors.
I want to leave you with an image. By late afternoon we had finally arrived at Latraberg — a cliff made famous by the guidebooks for the vast assortment of migratory and native bird species, especially puffins, that nest here. Heading out of the car and approaching a nearby spot at the cliff edge where a handful of other tourists and birdwatchers were already gathered, I crouched down. My vision darted beyond a fist of spongy moss and some small purple flowers, there nestling in one of the crannies of the cliff was a delightful, fluffy little puffin.
Lundi
I almost couldn’t believe my eyes, I wanted to squeak or laugh but I remained silent, with my chest pressed up against the dewey turf. I watched the puffin for about five minutes, it was so close! And so deliciously strange: its zesty, orange beak, its cross-eyes, its sweet domed little head. I wanted to snatch it up and cuddle it.
Lundi: detail
Eventually I tore myself away to continue wandering along the cliffs and catch sight of the myriad other bird species that have a special preference for the austere, sheer and dramatic cliffs of Latraberg, especially nesting fulmars and guillemots. Just as I stood up I turned back to look behind me. There I saw, of all people, Guthni, grinning like a child, flat on his belly, observing the puffin. There was something amusing about seeing this beast of a man so clearly tickled and mollified by the sight of a creature that must be as familiar to him as pigeons are to us. Then I saw his slowly raise his hand and draw towards it. I am perhaps over-romanticising the moment: yet the power of this gesture struck me with particular force that day. I was like the spirit of old Iceland reaching out towards something, grasping into the mysteries of nature and the air itself. What was he reaching out towards? Was his inheritance there? Precious, unguarded, just within his grasp…
Later the symbol was explained. I was in the passenger seat and suddenly looked down at the gear stick beside Guthni who was driving. There I saw five or six large, mint-blue speckled eggs. I couldn’t believe it! Lundi? I asked, still full of astonishment. His eyes were merry and he cackled naughtily. Puffin eggs for tea!
833 words a day 