Reykjavík Grapevine - 11.10.2013, Blaðsíða 29

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drop to the right—quite alarming as we
crunch over snow and ice, descending
into town in darkness. After a warm
welcome from Eva and Ásbjörn, we go
to bed like it's Christmas Eve, eager to
see the glorious Westfjords outside of
the curtains in the morning.
Exploring the coastline,
taking a dip
When morning comes, the view is
not as desolate as imagined—a line
of ten or so hotel guests are tour-
ing Iceland on a photography-related
trip, and they line the rocky shore in
bright all-weather gear. As the sun
rises, luminous orange and pink hues
catch the clouds and reflect from the
snowy mountains below, and they
shiver, huddle, and snap pictures of the
dynamic, ever-changing view.
One hearty breakfast later, it's time
to venture further north. The road
winds just a few more kilometres up
the meandering Strandir coastline past
a series of farms and sparse summer
houses, mostly unoccupied as the
bitterly cold autumn sets in. Gjögur is
an empty wind-whipped hamlet with
rusting, tumbledown boathouses and a
lonely crane ("Made In Italy") creaking
on the wooden pier. We pass a tiny
airfield, its windsock a rare spot of
red amongst the graduating tones of
the autumn foliage and icy cliffs. It's a
breathtaking drive.
At the end of the trail lies Kros-
sneslaug, a tiny swimming pool with
heated changing rooms and show-
ers—essential for the sub-zero winter
months—and a steaming hotpot, all
looking out over the choppy sea. The
pool has a vivid aquamarine bottom
that gives it a feeling of unreality set
against the crashing surf and black
shoreline. Geometrically odd mountains
peek out of the sea in mist, and sea
birds screech close overhead. It's a
rare and striking place, and a perfect
day trip for visitors even in the dead of
winter.
Touring the old Herring
Factory, home to art
Back at the hotel we dig into a hot din-
ner and watch the sun silhouette the
mountains, before an inky blackness
sets in. We sit in front of the hotel for
a cigarette, gazing outwards, far away
from any streetlights or settlements.
All that's visible from the steps of Hotel
Djúpavík are the crests of breaking
waves, just twenty metres away, the
ocean sound adding to the feeling of
deep peace and seclusion that per-
vades this unique place.
On the final morning, we go into the
Herring Factory for a short-guided tour
and to snap some pictures. The hall
where Sigur Rós played now houses
a collection of vintage cars and con-
struction vehicles. The large coal oven
that used to fire the plant's machinery
is still, and there's a lonely beauty in
the vast, rusting metal cones, flapping
hatches and rickety stairways. We wan-
der through the silently deteriorating
bones of the factory, now an immersive
natural art installation.
There's an open round hatch allow-
ing access into one of the oil tanks.
Clambering through is like entering a
film set, too perfect to be true—a spiral
pipe leads to the centre of the round
room, and a high single window lets
in a beam of pale light. Every footstep
creates a deep, sonorous echo that
goes on for ages. There's an affecting
holy atmosphere in this most unlikely
of places.
Even after two days, leaving is a
wrench. Eva and Ásbjörn have made
new something new of this empty vil-
lage, and staying at the hotel is like be-
ing a guest in someone's home. It may
feel like the very edge of the world, but
the lights are still on in Djúpavík.
Claus Sterneck
“As luck would have it,
this was the moment
Iceland's most famous
band decided to come
to town.”
Distance from Reykjavík: 340km