Heimskringla - 30.10.1940, Blaðsíða 3

WINNIPEG, 30. OKT. 1940
HEIMSKRINGLA
3. SÍÐA
GLIMPSES OF A GAY
TRIP
(Delivered at Young Iceland-
ers' Social Meeting, April
29, 1940, by Hólmfríður
Daníelson)
I confess that when I accept-
ed the invitation to address
The Young Icelanders’ Club I
was in a quandary; it was of
course specified that my talk
should be a travelogue about
Iceland; but what part of my
trip to take and what aspect,
that was the trouble. I racked
öiy brain. Then I remembered
the story of Thorgeir Ljósvetn-
ingagoði when he had to de-
cide the momentous question
of whether chistianity should
be introduced into Iceland by
law, in the year 1000. So he
wrapped himself up in a roBe
and communed with his soul
for three days; and that did
the trick! So metaphorically
speaking, I wrapped my head
in an oxhide, and so came to a
decision, and this was it: Not
to attempt to sprinkle any
doses of statistical information
into a short talk, because the
Young Icelanders are studying
about Iceland methodically,
and because talks of that na-
ture are usually dry; and sec-
ondly, not to try to cover too
niuch ground. So with old
Thorgeir leading the way, I
threw a big sackful of these
idols, so dear to the heart of
speech-makers, into the foam-
ing waters of Goðafoss!
I decided that, suitable for
this gathering of Young Ice-
landic people, would be some-
thing gay, lighthearted, main-
ly for entertainment. And so,
what I have to offer you is just
a few intimate glimpses of Ice-
vísa bygð á heilbrigðri dóm-
greind.
Einn þó gangi illan veg
augum fyrir mínum,
máske han stríði meir en eg
móti brestum sínum.
Innihald þessarar vísu ier
efnisrík og djúp innsæisgáfa,
sem því miður fáum er gefin.
Hallgerði þeir hnýta að
af heimskulegum vana,
lesari góður þú veist það,
þekkirðu ekki hana?
í þessari vísu er spurning
sem hvorki þú eða eg getum
svarað játandi. Vér þekkjum
ekki sjálfa oss né vora samtíð
«1 hlitar.
Lastmælanna langan foss
leiðist henni að bera,
þó að nokkuð eins og oss
áfátt kynni að vera.
Þessi vísa eins og raunar öll
rtman ber vitni um gott inn-
raeti -— næmá réttlætistilfinn-
ingu.
Sigurður Breiðfjörð er tví-
mmlalaust eitt af hugmynda-
auðugustu skáldum vorrar
þjóðar. 1 þessu sambandi er
fróðlegt að athuga hvernig góð-
skáldunum tveimur falla orð í
garð Breiðfjörðs. Einar Bene-
^iktsson segir svo:
Anda kraftinn hverri hrygð
Hallgríms kveði sálmar,
landa aftur beri bygð
Ereiðfjörð eða Hjálmar.
Og Þorsteinn Erlingsson segir
Svo:
Mörg sú neyð sem örgust er
°g eg kveið í hljóði,
síðast leið við söng hjá þér
Sigurður Breiðfjörð góði.
Já, andi skynjar anda, og
þeir einir sem eru skáld sjálfir
geta skilið skáldskap til hlítar.
M. Ingimarsson
land, which you will not find
in books, but which I hope
may add a little fuel to the
flame of affection you have al-
ready kindled for the Hoary
Gray Mother in the North.
June 10. The delightful rain-
bow bridge which formed such
a pleasant bond between the
passengers and their friends on
the dock, had broken; the
multi-colored streamers trailed
pathetically in the murky wat-
ers as the big white liner
steamed slowly down the St.
Lawrence River. I was aware
of a slight sinking feeling at
the pit of my stomach, and it
became more acute later when
we presented our passports at
the ofifce and I noticed several
people receiving letters and
telegrams from friends. Here
was I, utterly cut off from all
my folks; they might take sick,
have an accident, they might
die, even! Why, oh why, did I
do this crazy stunt? Too bad
they could not even send me
a message to the boat! I wond-
ered forlornly to my cabin and
behold, there, perching on the
corner of my trunk was a be-
flowered envelope, a night let-
ter from Hjálmur, and this is
what it said:
Everything is hunky-dory
With me and Baldur, dont you
worry!
Our hearts are glad when you
are happy,
So have some fun and make it
snappy.
While you roam in lands of
learning
We will keep the home-fires
burning.
An now the trip once more
took on the aspect of a gay
adventure.
My first glimpse of Iceland
was on a cold, gray, foggy
night. The cold damp air pres-
sed against me as I stood on
deck and gazed into the gloom.
Gradually grim uncompromis-
ing rock walls rose perpen-
dicular out of a gray, measure-
less ocean, to loom darkly
against a gray measureless
sky. Those massive basalt pil-
lars gripped my imagination
and bore it back to bygohe
days. Was it these giant rocks,
standing guard on the outer-
most rim of civilization which
first met the eye of Inólfur
Arnarson as he neared the
shores of Iceland? Warning
him, forbidding him to ap-
proach further? Ha! Then
he cast out his high pillars
and shouted, Forward Ye
Norse Vikings, forward to seek
the gifts of the Gods, hidden
perhaps beyond these mighty
stone fortresses.
The next day, June 21, when
we sailed into Reykjavík har-
bor the fog had disappeared,
the sun shone warm and
bright, and—
Charming and fair was the
land
And snow-white the peaks of
the Jökuls.
Cloudless and blue was the sky,
The ocean was shimmering
bright.
July 27. I had been galli-
vanting all over the North
Country: To Húsavík, shroud-
ed in mist, while just beyond
the rim of the first slope the
sun shone delightfully bright.
From Húsavík by car across
the barren stretch of Reykja-
heiði,—in my estimation the
longest, the ugliest ,the most
drab of all of Iceland’s many
moors. Eastward to Ásbyrgi;
you remember when the great
god óðin rode across the uni-
verse on his magic charger
Sleipnir. The steed took such
long strides that he only step-
ped once on our little island,
and left behind him one of the
famous showplaces of Iceland:
namely Ásbyrgi. This storied
imprint of his hoof is more
than six miles around and sunk
so deep that its sheer perpen-
dicular rock walls drop 200 feet
deep at the inner end. There
in the shadow dreams a little
rock-bound pool, fed by crystal
clear water that oozes perpetu-
ally out of the dark granite
wall, and trickles down its wet
gleaming face; in the fore-
ground a pleasant growth of
shrubbery, protected by a
fence which reaches from wall
to wall. That is Ásbyrgi! And
it was teeming with life, two
buses full of Reykjavík holi-
dayers on an 8-day tour; every-
one admriing and shouting and
taking pictures; the walls
echoing and re-echoing the
sound.
Next, a rollicking explora-
tion of Reykjahverfi in Þing-
eyjarsýsla, two days of steady
horseback riding, over moor-
land and meadow; fording
streams whose cool waters
leaped over beds of smooth
stones; along age-old bridle
paths, so deeply worn I almost
lost sight of my little pony and
my feet dragged along the
bumpy hummock edges of the
path. After this exhilarating
outing all my friends noticed
that I was prone to ease my-
self with extreme care into
the softest seat in the Stofa.
A visit with Alla Johnson to
Mývatn. Dimmuborgir! Strange
and beautiful lava formations
fashioned by the Lord of
Hosts, long, long ago from the
burning molten rock as it flow-
ed over the land in its frenzy
of destruction. Hosts of dark
lava shapes, some almost hu-
man, etched against the sunset
sky. In one place an almost
perfect Gothic Cathedral En-
trance, “Kirkjan í Dimmuborg-
um.” Sitting on the rugged
cliffs at the edge of this
strangely gripping scene, Alla
and I shared our little lunch,
made for two, with a carload
of young people from Reykja-
vík and Akureyri. The chauf-
feur crawled far down into a
cave at the bottom of which
was a pool fed by underground
water, and brought up a tin
full of the ice-cold nectar for
us to drink with our lunch.
Then we all hied to Reykjahlíð
where Alla and I were staying,
and ate dinner of the most de-
licious fried trout, caught in
Mývatn; nothing is quite so
good as Mývatn trout, to my
taste, not even the King of
Fish, the Icelandic Salmon.
That evening we rowed to
Slútnes, the little wooded is-
land in lake Mývatn, of which
they are so proud! Accom-
panying us that time were four >
young men from Reykjavík
who were touring in a car with
their own camping outfit, and
one Dutch lad. There was
much merriment and argument
in the boat as the four oarsmen
jerked it this way and that.
The Hollander seemed to be
the only one who knew any-
thing about rowing. “Heigh,
boys,” shouted Alla, “shall I
stand in the stern and beat
time?” “Better not, you’d
tumble overboard.” Arrived at
Slútnes, we all explored and
admired the pretty birch woods
and shrubbery, and idyllic set-
ting. “Oh, what a darling,
perfectly round pool,” I breath-
ed ecstatically, and innocently,
not realizing what a deluge of
scorn I would bring down on
my poor head, “is it man-
made?” Quick as a shot came
the retort from Viðar, one of
the Reykjavík boys. “Har, har,
man-made! Say, I have been
bursting with admiration for
your perfect Icelandic, and
now I find that you are a Typ-
iskur Americani after all. Man
made indeed! Ha, ha, yes and
look, these little powder-puff
ducklings are decoys, I sup-
pose.” Good gracious did I ever
feel properly put in my place
for my outlandish ignorance!
Of course this was all good
natured banter, you under-
stand, but not so long ago Ice-
landers used to sneer at us
Vestur-lslendingar, and our
opinion, and I am afraid that
is how the term “Typiskur
Americani” originated.
Then back to Reykjahlíð. It
had turned bitterly cold in the'
evening. The Hollander, who
was touring Iceland on his bi-
cycle camped outside the
house. He carried all his
equipment on the bike; now he
put up his tiny tent, made to
fit exactly around the bicycle,
which he used as a prop. He
unrolled his sleeping bag and
crawled in through the zipper-
ed opening. Alla and I hovered
around him in the cool dusk
like two mother hens with one
chick; we were so sorry for
him, dressed in short scout
pants, with bare knees, and
sandals on his feet, if you
please! Imagine sandals on
the jagged rocks and wet
moorland, of course his feet
were always wet and cold; he
would surely get pneumonia,
and waste away, we thought,
poor boy! And he perhaps a
future Van Loon or Van Pas-
sen! But he said he was fine.
Oh no, not cold at all, but he
kindly permitted us to wash
his wet stockings and make
up a little lunch for him
for next day. He was bent on
going up to Dettifoss direct
from Reykjahlíð on horseback,
but no one would lend him a
horse, it is too dangerous a
journey for a stranger without
a guide. So next morning Alla
phoned around until she got
him a ride on a car with some
surveyors who were going al-
most as far as Dettifoss.
Later he came to see me in
Reykjavík and he was in sev-
enth heaven over his trips
around the country. After he
got home he wrote me a long
letter full of clever remarks
about Iceland and Europe and
humanity in general. (I might
remark here that he was study-
ing for the ministry; but where
is he now poor lad?) He says
in his letter among other
things, in his rather quaint
English: “Sometime there is
hopeless .(meaning hopeless-
ness) in the ícelandic scenery;
no trees, no flowers, no birds,
no grass, no water even, only
lava, lava, lava; hraun, hraun,
hraun; but it is very extra-
ordinary, very interesting”. —
Later he says: “I like the Ice-
landic landscape but more than
that I love the Icelandic
people. — Just as the land
they are hard, hard for them-
selves (he means stern in their
mode of living), “but still good
and full of heart for others,
brother and stranger alike,
(that’s me and Alla washing
his stockings, you know). —
“They are fond of living, they
understand the art of living
(meaning that they enjoy
heartily the good things of
life.) “In Europe we can only
die, we are already dead! (How
very true). Yes, I have learn-
ed much about, but still more
from your people. And later
he says: “They (the Iceland-
ers) are themselves. In Eu-
rope they have lost them-
selves—and so I am in Holland
now but my heart is still in
Iceland. I am thinking of my
last trip, my travel through
Iceland. It has been the most
difficult, but also the most
beautiful and interesting one.
Then sometime one or another
day comes into my mind, yes
I am thankful then and want
to speak to someone, but that
is impossible so I must do it
on paper . . . .” It is evident
from all this that the memory
of Iceland remained a sweet
nostalgia in his mind.
After all these jolly travels I
was back at Akureyri, simply
purring with happiness and
contentment; and now I must
forsooth don my best bib and
tucker, for was I not gracious-
ly invited to the banquet for
the Crown Prince of Denmark?
Such excitement; real royalty,
sherry, champaigne, burgundy,
madeira! A toast to the prince
and princess, skál! A toast to
Denmark, and to Iceland, Skál,
Skál! At dinner I sat between
two delightful youngish offici-
als, Mr. A. and Mr. B., whose
duty it was naturally to keep
me entertained. They called
me ‘Ameriska Frökenin’ and
praised me for my excellent
use of the Icelandic language,
not a trace of accent, they said.
Later while we were having
coffee in the drawing room,
who should saunter up but Mr.
A’s wife! Said Mr. B. with a
mischievous twinkle in his eye:
“Madam, your entrance is most
ill-timed, your husband here
has been trying to pass him-
self off to this young American
lady as a single man! Dear
me, dear me! Was there a
slight strained silence or did I
just imagine it? But I swiftly
came to Mr. A’s rescue with my
usual ‘sang froid’ (you can
imagine!) and said in my most
charming manner and my most
perfect Icelandic diction: —
(translated into our fluent and
colorful American lingo it
would sound like this) — It’s
O. K. by me, brother, you aint
got nothing on me, I’m married
too! You can picture tHe dis-
appointment all around. But
even this sad blow was not
enough to dampen the joy of
this gala evening, it isn’t every
day that Iceland has such dist-
inguished visitors as the Crown
Prince and Princess of Den-
mark, and a Vestur-lslending-
ur to boot!
Saturday, August 13. Such
a delightful surprise to have a
chance to go on this week-end
trip, organized by the tourist
sqciety, from Reykjavík to
Gullfoss, Hvítárvatn and Kerl-
ingafjöll. I was told, “you
must wear warm clothing, and
take enough lunch for two
days and bedding, as we sleep
in a little ‘Sæluhús’ built up
there recently. It is just this
summer that it has become pos-
sible to get through all the way
Þér sem notið—
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KAUPIÐ AF
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in a car, so you are perhaps
the first Vestur-íslendingur to
take this trip.” Oh, what a
lark! Came Saturday, I rolled
up my bedding, dressed in my
woollen slacks, sweater and
windbreaker, and heavy climb-
ing boots, stuck in my pocket a
tooth brush and a powder puff,
thinking that a girl must have
her small vanities even on a
mountain climb. Thus equip-
ped I galloped to the bus sta-
tion. The two 18-passenger
buses were soon full of jolly
young folk, mostly Icelanders,
dressed as I was excepting
they all wore ski pants, which
they call ‘pokabuxur’. The
bedding etc., was piled in the
back compartments, and sev-
eral pairs of skis tied on top
of the buses, imagine skiing in
August!
It was a glorious day; as the
buses left Reykjavík the wide
magnificent circle of moun-
tains came into view; smiling,
fiendly mountains, glowing
and welcoming, because the
sun was shining. — I gazed
in rapt wonder at the play of
opalescent color which shim-
mered along the mountain
faces, yet seemed somehow de-
tached from them, as if cry-
stalized in mid-air. No wonder
the Icelander loves the sun,
which changes his mountains
from grey, drab, hulking
shapes hovering in the back-
ground like a dreaded doom, to
this evanescent display of
richly glowing yet subdued
mosaic color pattern. No won-
der the poets sing and the pain-
ters paint; no wonder that
among the sons of Iceland are
found vivid contrasts of sombre
melancholy and delightful
abandonment to the joy of liv-
ing; and no wonder I was
thrilled and exhilarated and
carried away!
We sped along at a good clip,
the road being good as roads
go in Iceland. We stopped at
Gullfoss and ate a little lunch;
then passed Hvítárvatn stop-
ping only to pick up a few
extra mattresses from the little
chalet there then on, on into
Framh. á 7. bls.
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