Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.08.2005, Qupperneq 51

After our hike, we set out for
Kvíabryggja again but got side-
tracked at Grundarfjörður. There
we came upon a mass of yellow
houses, yards, and even cars. Signs
everywhere welcomed us to Gulibær,
or yellow town. A few blocks in, we
found blue town, and green town.
“They do this every year,” a visitor
from Skagaströnd, who was sitting
at a gas station looking at the yellow
flags, told us. “And it’s just for
themselves. Just for something to do.
Just one weekend every year.”
“Makes perfect sense. And do
you do this in Skagaströnd?” I asked,
at which point the visitor smiled
politely and looked away as though
he was expecting someone.
We returned to Stykkishólmur
and caught the 1:50 ferry, spending
1850 ISK per roundtrip ticket
to Flatey on the Sæferður ferry
company. Our two-hour journey
allowed us to scope out a half a
dozen of the more attractive small
islands in Breiðafjörður before
descending below deck to watch
Finding Nemo on DVD. Travelling
on the ferry with a great deal of
local island dwellers, the experience
was not dissimilar to riding the
commuter rail from New York
to Connecticut. Most people on
the train were in their mid 30s,
and many had market and grocery
items with them. The experience of
arriving in Flatey was also similar to
arriving in a commuter town. There
are no shops or restaurants waiting
for you, just a few families waiting to
pick up whoever went to town. The
half dozen tourists on the boat with
us set off in different directions to try
to use our four hours on the island
well.
For our tourist adventure, we set
about trying to count every house on
the island, (there seemed to be about
27, though dive-bombing Artic
Terns distracted us). The church of
Flatey was a draw, with a remarkable
painting on its walls and ceiling by
Baltasar of Katalonia, the celebrated
artist whose son, Baltasar Kormakar,
is one of Iceland’s most celebrated
directors.
Beyond the church and a small
monument to Sigvaldi Kaldalóns,
the man who composed the national
anthem and who made a home
in Flatey for 3 years, the main
attraction was a small coffee shop
which didn’t really need a name, as
it was the only coffee shop in town,
and a pair of unruly sheep.
In hours one and two, my
travelling partner and I marvelled at
how quaint Flatey was. Hours three
and four consisted of making sure
we were in place when the ferry got
there, as we were terrified of being
left on the island overnight.
Riding back on the ferry, I
reflected on my ancestry loudly:
mine are a potato-picking people,
not a people meant to be on a ferry
in moderate seas after two days of
nothing but cheese and yoghurt.
“I don’t get sea sick,” my Icelandic
companion told me, though she did
accompany me to the deck, where we
were surrounded by many Icelanders
who would classify themselves as
more in the shepherd than master
fisherman category.
“Just think of the dead seagulls,
then,” I told her.
And she grimaced and seemed to
be enjoying the stomach-churning
sensation that in many cultures is
taken as a sign of love. Yes, it ends as
a love story, a lamer than Cameron
Crowe love story.
By Bart Cameron
After our Snæfellsnes hike, we
set out for the most celebrated
Icelanders-only camping spot
in Southern Iceland, the small
patch of grass at the end of the
Berserkerhraun lava field.
To get to the Berserkerhraun lava
field, simply follow the signs off of
highway 56. One reason few tourists
go to the lava field is that the road
doesn’t look easy to handle, and it
definitely isn’t. Our sedan bottomed
out repeatedly, and we had to
employ our jack during one strangely
humiliating experience. But on
following the small old road through
the lava field, we came to a peaceful
stretch of grass that was, indeed,
packed with Icelanders. Frolicking,
jeep-owning Icelanders. We easily
found our own lava shaded cove,
and camped out for the evening,
waking up only intermittently to ask
ourselves why, exactly they named
the lava field after Berserkers, and
to contemplate whether we hadn’t
been over-reacting about the notion
of climate change—near the glacier,
even on the hottest day of the year,
and even when the sun stays up
all night, it gets cold enough that
a good sleeping bag and tent are
necessary.
The next morning, we set out for
the quaint north side of Snæfellsnes,
hoping to catch a ferry out to the
island of Flatey, the largest of the
many islands in Breiðafjorður bay.
We set out as early as we can, but we
still don’t make it to Stykkishólmur
in time for the 9 am ferry. Missing
the ferry… by three hours, gives us
time to properly explore the north
end of the peninsula.
While we were in a rush to get to
Kvíabryggja, Iceland’s nicest prison,
we couldn’t pass Kellingarfjall, or
Old Hag Mountain, located just
off of the old highway 56, and
not stop. Kellingarfjall, named so
because of a story of an old woman
troll being caught in the sunlight,
has a lighter shade, rougher
texture, and more surreal patterns
than any other mountain on the
peninsula—set among the lush green
land of the area, the large sand-
toned monument valley mountain
looks cut-and-pasted. A brief
hike demonstrated that the whole
mountain has the biting traction of
shark skin.
51