Reykjavík Grapevine - 09.05.2014, Blaðsíða 37

“The upstairs restau-
rant and bar area is the
perfect place for a quick
lunch, though it's a bit
disconcerting eating
home raised beef stew
while the cows stare
up at me with their big
brown eyes from below.”
37 Travel The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 5 — 2014
Arriving in Laugarvatn, I turn down
the town's quaint main road and im-
mediately see the large green roof of
Heraðskólinn Hostel. I warm up with
some coffee in the giant cafeteria area
of the hostel with its managing director
Sverrir Stein Sverrisson. He tells me that
the seven-gabled building has been
Laugarvatn's most prominent landmark
since 1928. The building was designed
by Guðjón Samúelsson—Iceland's most
famous architect whose name I always
forget even though I should really re-
member the man who built Hallgrím-
skirka in Reykjavík—and Guðjón's en-
graved drawing desk is hidden away
behind the hostel reception area.
As the name Heraðskólinn sug-
gests to those somewhat familiar with
Icelandic, the building was a boarding
school for decades, and was one of the
largest and most successful learning
centres in Iceland before the educa-
tion world shifted towards Reykjavík
and big city life. Sverrir points out that
all of the chairs in the cafeteria were
handmade by the students that came to
study here, a rite of passage that each
student went through to study at the
school. Iceland's modern literary icon
Halldór Laxness was one of those stu-
dents and his typewriter with funky Ice-
landic characters remains on display.
Sverrir gives me a tour of the rest of
the building, showing me into my room
upstairs, the lounge area in the base-
ment and the giant gym room where
Heraðskólinn's resident yoga master
gives lessons and reminisces about
life in Cambodia and spending three
months without wearing shoes. After
a lovely dinner with Sverrir's family and
watching a football match with some
cold beer, I call it a night so that I can
rest up for tomorrow.
Into The Wilderness
I rise early the next morning and find
the sun shining brightly on the glit-
tering lake. Taking advantage of the
nice weather, I hike up Laugarvatns-
fjall mountain to get an aerial view of
the town. Passing by several wacky
workout signposts on the trail nearest
the road, I eventually make my way up
through the snow-covered trees (trees
in Iceland?! Gasp!) and onto the bare
side of the little mountain. It's a short,
if slightly steep, hike up to the summit
with amazing view over Laugarvatn and
the countryside surrounding it.
Reaching the bottom of the moun-
tain I hop back in the car for a quick
drive over to Efsti-Dalur, a family owned
dairy and cattle farm. The farm owns
about 50 horses, 42 milk cows and
more than 100 cattle. The upstairs
restaurant and bar area is the perfect
place for a quick lunch, though it's a bit
disconcerting eating home raised beef
stew while cows stare up at me with
their big brown eyes from below. Lucki-
ly, the handmade ice cream and cream-
skyr comes without a side of guilt, and
are probably just the most delicious
things in the entire world. Seriously, I
will gladly give up oxygen if instead I
could just taste that skyr every moment
of the short, sad, oxygen-deficient few
minutes that would define the rest of
my life.
I get back on the road for a quick
drive over the river beyond Efsti-Dalur
and park the car by the side of the
bridge. After being thoroughly inspect-
ed by several stumpy Icelandic hors-
es—which decide I'm not worth their
attention once they realise I don't have
any food—I make my way up a trail that
runs parallel the river. Although I lose
the trail a few times and have to double
back, I eventually reach Brúarfoss wa-
terfall, where clear blue water froths
and foams. The roar of the falls fills my
head, strengthened by the isolation that
comes from exploring secret gems, hid-
ing just out of plain sight.
Smoke And Sulphur
I drive back to the hostel and change
out of my now lovingly mud-covered
hiking gear so that I can continue to
explore the more civilised parts of
Laugarvatn. I head over to Reykhúsið
Útey, a fish smokery just across the
lake where visitors can buy fresh and
smoked fish. After donning a clear
plastic apron and a hair net I'm allowed
inside to check out the fish racks and
the smoke room. Elsa Pétursdóttir, the
friendly woman who gives me a tour
of the smokehouse, tells me that they
have been churning out fish for the past
20 years, and that one of Útey's three
flavours is created the "traditional Ice-
landic way," meaning the fish is smoked
by burning sheep manure. I happened
to visit at the perfect time since they
had just put out the first net of the sea-
son earlier that day.
After thanking the welcoming
people at Reykhúsið Útey and mak-
ing my way back to Laugarvatn, I have
the growing suspicion that the smoky
smell of a bonfire has dug deep into
my clothes, skin and hair. Hoping to
rinse the smell of fire out of my body, I
walk down to Laugarvatn Fontana Spa,
stopping for a quick peek at the tranquil
steamy shrine next to it. It looks like a
sort of earthen mound garden with a
creek running through it and is sup-
posedly the place where the members
of the Althingi went to be baptised after
converting to Christianity in 1,000 AD.
After a quick shower—am I really the
only one that finds those signs explain-
ing exactly where you need to wash
yourself at all the swimming pools hi-
larious?— I gently lower myself into one
of the more mild hot pools, and admire
how the steam rolls off my arms and
shoulders as if it is carrying all my aches
and worries away. The pools are some-
what eye level with the surface of the
lake and I'm able to watch birds flying
over it, off into the distance, a soothing
and peaceful sight that seems to linger
behind my eyelids, a scene imprinted
on my mind that I revisit long into the
night.
Words
Ben Smick
I'm huddled over the steering wheel peering out from behind rapidly jerking windshield
wipers as sprays of rain lash out across the glass. The car bounces up and down over the
drenched crags of Þingvellir National Park. All of a sudden, the clouds clear and I see the
sun break out and shine over Þingvallavatn lake while the clouds majestically roll over the
mountains in the distance. The view is so gorgeous I have to shake my head like a horse
shooing flies off its face to get myself to concentrate back on the road. Leave it to Iceland
to be distractingly beautiful even on the most bitter of days.
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