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39 Travel The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 16 — 2013
I knew it was small, but this detail
puts the size of Vík into sharp per-
spective for me.
The manager of the information
centre in the heart of town, Eiríkur
probably knows Vík better than most,
and he brims with a youthful wonder-
ment at the almost supernatural
forces in the area.
To the north you have Katla, one
of Iceland’s most active volcanoes,
currently more than 50 years overdue
for an eruption. To the south, there’s
the Westman Islands, home to the
volcanoes Helgafell and Eldfell, the
latter of which erupted in 1973.
From day to day, Eiríkur’s time is
consumed by projects designed to sa-
vour the cultural history of the town,
although the enthusiasm with which
he discusses the projects makes them
seem deeply personal.
“In 1910, we had three shoemakers
here in Vík. At the time the population
was only about 100,” he pauses for ef-
fect, before continuing, “and yet, three
shoemakers! Nobody knows why,” he
says with giddy excitement.
High Vík vs. Low Vík
Vík experiences perhaps a bigger
contrast between high and low sea-
son populations than anywhere else
in Iceland. Over the winter months,
Vík’s 500 full-time residents are about
the only people you’ll find there. From
late May through October, however,
the town sees between 5,000 and
10,000 tourists passing through.
Approaching the incredibly warm
and lodge-like Nor!ur Vík Hostel, my
traveling partner and I are welcomed
by a sheet of paper jammed in the
gap between front door and frame.
Scrawled on the paper reads the
following: “Welcome visitors, please
make your way inside and find your
rooms upstairs with your names on
the door. But PLEASE take your boots
off before going upstairs!”
As contradictory as it seemed to
trust strangers with your business and
livelihood, but not with the cleanliness
of the carpet, we felt immediately at
home and pushed inside.
Visiting in low season, we were
one of only two groups visiting Nor!ur
Vík. The only others were a young
British accountant, his girlfriend and
her father.
A chat over a beer in the comfort-
able communal lounge room of the
hostel that night—complete with a
cosy, open wood fire—revealed them
to be pretty hardcore travellers. “Last
year we went on a tour of North Ko-
rea,” the boyfriend said, “so this year
we decided to do something where
we’d have a little more… freedom.”
Based on my first impressions,
they could not have chosen a better
place to visit.
Whilst blissfully remote, visiting in
low season does have its downsides:
primarily the fact that all but two
local restaurants are closed, severely
cleaving your options for good local
cuisine. Thankfully, Nor!ur Vík has
kitchen facilities available for use by
visitors. Although if you do plan on
using them, it is recommended that
you check the opening hours of Vík’s
only supermarket, as it doesn’t stay
open all day.
While activities for visitors are
similarly limited outside of peak
season, I cannot imagine a time of
year when the surroundings are any
more picturesque or carry a more
mysterious atmosphere. Plumes of fog
greeted us at every corner we turned
before dissolving before us as we
moved towards them.
Such visuals come at a price
though. For much of our visit we’re
bombarded by sleet, hail and rain.
We don’t walk but rather slide along
the footpaths, each coated with an
inch or so thick layer of ice. These
conditions make moving from place to
place a slow endeavour and limit our
time spent outdoors considerably. The
moments we are outside are spent
zigzagging from awning to awning
towards our destination. Wet weather
protection and shoes with decent
tread are essential items to bring.
For feather and wool lovers
A large illustrated chart documenting
the species of bird native to the area
hangs in Eiríkur’s office. He recalls
to me the bizarre and tragic story of
how the Snowy Owl became extinct
in Iceland.
“These hunters went out on a
hunting trip one day, and found a
group of ten Snowy Owls. And they
figured there were plenty more, so
they shot them, and it turned out they
were the last ones,” he says with more
than a hint of disappointment.
Thankfully, puffins, as well as
dozens of other unique species of
native bird, are still very much alive
and breeding. If you’re a bird watcher,
admirer or photographer, Vík is a one-
stop shop for all your birding delights.
Later that afternoon we stop by
Vík Wool, a production plant for the
region’s wool trade, and an on-
site shop selling their wares. After
browsing the merchandise for a few
minutes, we ask the lady at the desk
whether we can perhaps take a look
behind the scenes and she obliges
pleasantly.
We push through a curtain and
enter a long noisy room with about
ten desks parked parallel to one
another, each occupied by a lady in
a lopapeysa. The women are each
operating sewing machines effort-
lessly and chatting, or rather yelling,
amongst themselves over the rapid
fire of mechanic needles.
Gu!rún Ólafsdóttir, a seasoned
wool-maker, gives us a tour of the
facility. I ask how experienced one
has to be to land a job at Vík Wool.
“Anyone can do it,” she says. “If you
have an interest, it will take you four
to six months to be good.”
To give you an idea of the qual-
ity of wool we’re dealing with, the
region’s sheep have been known to
survive for up to 40 days in ava-
lanches while patiently waiting for
their farmers to locate them and airlift
them out. I consider buying a garment
as a survival tool should I ever be at
risk of an avalanche. While you’re get-
ting about as authentic a lopapeysa
as you’ll find anywhere in Iceland
here, expectantly, hand spun quality
wool doesn’t come cheap, at between
7,000 to 20,000 ISK a pop.
Beware the Atlantic rollers
Just as we’re about to depart for the
bus stop, Eiríkur turns to us and asks,
“You guys have seen the black sand
beach right?” We look at each other,
then back at him, shaking our heads.
“Oh man, you’ve got to,” he says.
“It’s not far out of the way.”
As Eiríkur’s dog playfully blackens
himself in the basalt sand, we admire
several gothic looking stacks of rock
named the Reynisdrangar, rising
empirically from the ocean off shore,
proudly resistant to the waves which
have destroyed their connection to
the mainland. Wind, surf, floodwater
and daily air raids of puffin crap have
bestowed upon them a weather-
beaten charm.
Given there is no landmass
between this point—the southern
most in Iceland—and Antarctica, the
coast daily plays victim to a particu-
larly ferocious set of winds called the
‘Atlantic rollers.’
Standing on the beach and hear-
ing Eiríkur rave about his hometown’s
history, gawk at its brazen beauty,
and wonder at its local fauna, it’s
not surprising he’s never left for the
city. I almost feel sorry for his five
classmates who did. I hope they know
what they’ve left behind.
Vík is said to have the highest levels of precipitation in Iceland. As a result,
Vík is also said to have the most vivid rainbows in the country.
Words
Thomas L. Moir
“There were only six people in my year at school,” says
Eiríkur Vilhelm Sigur!arson, who is possibly Vík’s most fa-
miliar face. “The other five have moved to Reykjavík. I’m the
last one here.”
“These hunters went
out on a hunting trip
one day, and found a
group of ten Snowy
Owls. And they figured
there were plenty more,
so they shot them, and
it turned out they were
the last ones.”