Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.07.2013, Page 47

Now, I’d like to point out the poo-pulling and
impaling my lower-limbs on sharp objects
are not something I make a habit of, but
these were exceptional circumstances: it was
my first day working on a farm in the north of
Iceland. The farm Grýtubakki, better known
in the tourist world as Pólar Hestar, is located
in the idyllic north about 30km from Akurey-
ri, near the sleepy fjord-town Grenivík. Sur-
rounded by snow-capped mountains, breath
taking fjords and enchanted elf valleys, the
farm is run by the lovely couple Juliane and
her husband Stefán with help from their son
Símon, a handful of cats, dogs and a never-
ending supply of cake.
Pólar Hestar offers the smiling tourist the
unique opportunity to see Iceland’s north-
ernmost natural beauty from horseback.
With riding tours varying from one hour to
one week, both horses and workers are con-
stantly kept on their feet. Of course, to the
average tourist, an Icelandic horse is a bit
like a shiny new car. The tourist—let’s call
him Tim, from Texas—finds his horse already
tacked up and ready to go—it’s just a case of
sitting back, relaxing and enjoying the view.
What Tim from Texas doesn’t realise is that,
whilst he is happily posting pictures to Face-
book of himself perched perilously close to
an icy-fjord drop whilst grinning atop his no-
ble steed is that, back at headquarters, there
is a helluvalotta stuff going on behind the
scenes.
It’s a working farm
Life on an Icelandic farm entails working
long days, and there is no room for idleness
or dithering. There are always sheep to feed,
fences to fix, floors to mop and riding tours
to lead. When not running around knee-deep
in mud, there is also the job of eating copi-
ous amounts of cake every day at four o’clock
sharp (thanks to Juliane’s handiwork with a
whisk and a bit of baking soda, my plans to
‘get ridiculously skinny’ whilst working on a
farm have been somewhat thwarted. My mis-
sion to find a beautiful Viking farmer, how-
ever, remains open).
As I arrived smack-bang in the middle
of lambing season (hence aforementioned
lamb-poo pulling), I got stuck in from the
word go. By my second day, I’d had my hand
in unseemly places and delivered my first
lamb. I’d enjoyed a farm-themed grammar
lesson where I learnt the difference between
the negatives ‘engin’ and ‘ekkert’ (both
meaning ‘none’) via the ever-useful terms
‘engin blaðra’ but ‘ekkert slím’ (meaning ‘no
weird bulbous blood-sack coming out of the
sheep’s backside’ and ‘no gunky birth-slime,’
respectively). By my third and fourth day,
I’d helped mark the new-born lambs, used
a screw-driver for the first time in my life
(shocking, I know), and chased six naughty
horses down a mountainside, bridling them
at break-neck speed before leading my first
riding tour through the winding rocky moun-
tain-side, past tumble-down farm cottages
and into the Icelandic wilderness.
Tardis times in Iceland
Despite its funky matching Pólar Hestar jack-
ets and flashy website, the farm is itself rath-
er like a time capsule. What it offers, other
than non-stop cake eating and gallivanting
around the countryside on horseback, is a
real glimpse at traditional Icelandic heritage
and rural farming culture. It is the Iceland
that I’ve read about in books; it is the Iceland
depicted in the Old Icelandic Sagas about
Viking settlers and their rural society. It is
the Iceland of Halldór Laxness’ ‘Independent
People,’ the world of the staunch and stoic
traditional farmer Bjartur of Summerhouses.
Just like Bjartur and his mad obsession with
sheep, our four-legged fleecy friends are
crucial to farm-life here. During winter they
are kept inside until they lamb (‘að bera’) in
spring, after which they are allowed to roam
high up in the mountains until the ‘göngur’
in autumn, an exciting event involving lo-
cal farmers who gallop about madly, round-
ing their sheep up again in time for winter.
This age-old custom of sheep husbandry
has been enjoyed in Iceland since it was first
settled, with numerous references in the sa-
gas and, in true Viking spirit, often involves
traditional songs and strong alcohol.
It is this refreshingly rural, refreshingly
real side to Iceland that Pólar Hestar does
best. Here at the farm and its surrounding
countryside, rural traditions and farming
customs from the past are still going strong.
Old songs, sayings and stories are still popu-
lar and very much alive. I was surprised that,
when jokingly asking the local farriers to sing
a traditional song for me, I was serenaded
with beer-lined tones of “Á Sprengisandi”
(if you’ve not heard this then YouTube it im-
mediately! It is musical gold). I’ve also had
Icelandic “rímur” (old chanting ballads with
roots as far back as the 13th century) sung
to me from inside a 100-year-old turf-roofed
‘fjárhús’ (“sheep shed”). The romantic, book-
worm geek inside me felt like one of Lax-
ness’s literary creations, standing there with
Bjartur of Summerhouses, listening to him
chant old poems whilst watching over his be-
loved sheep.
Back to the future
Of course, the wonderful folk at Pólar Hes-
tar certainly do not walk around in britches,
chewing straw and mumbling Old Icelandic
proverbs to themselves whilst cursing the in-
vention of the motorcar (or whatever these
darned modernists call it nowadays). Pólar
Hestar is not set in its ways; in fact, it is quite
the opposite. Juliane and Stefán are both
conscious of the environment, ensuring all
waste is properly recycled or else gobbled
up by the brood of hungry chickens, and they
are remarkably hospitable to the strange
and very rare breed of vegetarians such as
myself. The farm has friends all around the
world, and the live webcam on their website
allows everyone to watch yard-happenings
and daily life from the comfort of their own
home.
It’s a perfect fusion of the old and the new,
the authentic and the innovative. If you want
a real taste of Iceland, not one dominated by
oversized glasses, alarming eyebrows and
dodgy Friday nights in downtown Reykjavík,
working on a farm such as Pólar Hestar is the
best thing you can do. Of course, if yours is
a fleeting visit to Iceland then it is at least
worth the venture up north to explore the
magical countryside via Iceland’s old-skool
transport (a.k.a. the horse). You can meet the
new lambs, catch sight of a few whales and
swoon over the farm’s latest addition, the
wobbly-legged fuzzball of a foal. I can prom-
ise you a truly wonderful, authentic Icelandic
experience with amazing people and cake.
Lots of cake.
*I am of course referring to Bjartur in Lax-
ness’ famous novel ‘Independent People.’ If
you didn’t get that reference, then hang your
head in shame.
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47 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 9 — 2013
I don’t remember Bjartur of Summerhouses pulling wedged-in
poo out of a lamb’s bottom whilst a nail perforated his welly-
boots and lodged itself snugly into his foot. I know that dear
old Bjartur faced many challenges on his small Icelandic farm,
but lamb poo and rusty nails is a detail that Halldor Laxness
seems to have forgotten.*
“I know that
dear old Bjar-
tur faced many
challenges on
his small Ice-
landic farm, but
lamb poo and
rusty nails is a
detail that Hall-
dor Laxness
seems to have
forgotten.”