Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.06.2015, Blaðsíða 31

31The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 7 — 2015 TRAVEL
Distance from Reykjavík
301 km
the area. We stand on a little platform
and look down at the peculiar dark tur-
quoise water. It seems the perfect hue
for a mermaid or some other aquatic
figment. In all honesty, Glanni is noth-
ing compared to the larger waterfalls
like Gullfoss or Seljalandsfoss, but it’s
still a nice place to stretch your legs.
Autumn: The Mist
As we progress northwards, the weather
quickly deteriorates. Hurled by strong
winds, the rain starts to come at the car
horizontally. At this moment, I feel very
grateful for my windshield. It’s the small
things in life, really, right?
Despite the overcast gloom, the co-
lours around us are bright and vivid. The
verdant chartreuse of the grass outside
Reykjavík has turned into a darker green-
ish umber. The country foliage is also filled
with golden hues, although I cannot fig-
ure out what plant has caused this. It’s a
picture-perfect autumn landscape, and I
half expect to see copses of laden apple
trees and jack-o-lanterns dotting the few
houses we pass.
Past the tiny windswept village of
Buðardalur, the landscape becomes more
dramatic. We head towards a range of
massive mountains,
whizzing up windy
roads, going gradually
higher and higher. Draped in deep mist,
the place feels distinctly otherworldly.
Were I to be given the job of location scout
for a new ‘King Arthur’ film this is where I
would set it.
John then offers me control of the car
stereo, a choice he will probably later re-
gret. I put on some sufficiently epic metal.
Perhaps my version of ‘King Arthur’ could
be scored by Sólstafir. Can someone
please give them my email?
Still Autumn…
A few hours later, we're still driving
through beautiful mountains, but the cars
are becoming fewer and the wind is grow-
ing stronger. I think we’re getting close to
the Westfjörds, but how could I know?
We hit a patch of snow for a few min-
utes. Only in Iceland can you pass through
sun, snow, and rain in a single kilometre of
road. Not only does this country humble
you, it also keeps you on your toes.
Alright, now I’m at the end of my road.
No really, the road just literally ended. I
stop and ask John if we’re lost. He points
to a dirt track on the right. "Okay," I say,
doubtfully, and start up
the trusty Skoda. We start
bouncing along a rough,
rocky track. Other than sheep, there are
no markers of civilization for about 30
minutes until we run into a lone blue truck.
We're now so starved of interaction with
humanity, we stop for a photo. Alas, the
strong winds are freezing, and make the
whole experience rather unpleasant.
I’m starting to think that this trip might
be a prank. Maybe they do this to all the
new staff members at the Grapevine?
Send them to a town that isn’t even on
Google Maps and see how far north they
drive until they realise? Hazing is illegal
in the States. Maybe John’ll leave me to
hitchhike back, or maybe he’ll just leave
me to die. I read a lot of Stephen King and
so my imagination runs wild as John non-
chalantly eats potato chips in the passen-
ger seat.
The scenery grows more and more
startling. I still haven’t seen a sign for
Djúpavík, though I’ve seen signs for a
tonne of other similarly unpronounceable
places. These mountains make those puny
black ones outside of Reykjavik seem like
molehills. The wind is picking up and at
one point the car starts to slide around
slightly on the road. But we're surrounded
by sharp boulders on one side and the
wild Atlantic on the other. There’s no place
to go but onward.
We cross the mountains and drop into
a dark valley. This place is fucking creepy.
If there were ever a place where legitimate
supernatural activity might occur, it’s here.
The air feels electric and I keep thinking
how perfect this scenario would be for
a horror movie. "Ever seen ‘Cabin in the
Woods?’" I think. "No, shut up, Hannah,"
I reply.
As I start getting worried about the
possibility of Joss Whedon engineering my
death, we turn around a bend and LITER-
ALLY run into a fucking Blair Witch Proj-
ect cruciform horror sculpture thing next
to the road. I couldn’t have even made this
up. I scan the horizon for signs of sorcery.
Far in the distance there’s a little house.
This is some weird pagan shit that I want
no part of. I want to be as far away from
this place as possible.
Driving quickly away from the witches,
we start climbing the side of the fjörd.
There’s room for only one car on this road
next to a vertical drop. We climb higher
and higher until all of a sudden there's
a sharp incline that takes us into a land
completely covered in snow. We’ve made
it. We're at the Wall, and like Bran and
Hodor, we’re going through. (As the driver,
I am Hodor in this simile.)
Winter: The White Walkers
On a philosophical note, there has never
been a moment in my life where I’ve truly
considered the gravity of death. Yes I
know, “All men must die,” but I’m a writer,
not a BASE jumper. I spend most of my
time behind a bright computer screen,
thinking. Yet as I started driving along the
edge of a snowy cliff tumbling hundreds of
meters downwards to the rocky sea, with-
out snow tyres, the possibility was getting
a little bit too real. Valar morghulis.
But, thank god, I saw the film ‘Mad
Max: Fury Road’ last week. Inspired by the
many badass female drivers in the movie,
I continue on like a champ. The car never
slides or skids, but my passenger squeals
a few times anyway. White knuckled, he
yells: “There’s a big drop!” I respond like a
stone-cold bitch: “Don’t look.”
Eventually the cliffs lead us into a flat
area. John’s knuckles regain their colour,
and once again we're confronted by one
of those fucking weird pagan cross things.
Another one? What the fuck are these
things? Signs of the White Walkers? Fuck!
Because I am embarrassing, I ask John
to take a photo of me posing as a black
metal musician next to the cross. This will
be perfect for my next (first) album cover.
But I'm not an actual black metal musician,
so the next best thing is to periodically
pose like one. For the record, I’m single.
Getting back into the car we continue
along the precipice, and I realise that this
landscape is actually pretty majestic. High
mountains, snowy fields, the Atlantic at
our feet—this country once again humbles
me with its beauty. As we turn the final
corner and finally descend into Djúpavík,
I'm not only super jazzed about being alive,
but also in awe of the wildness of the land.
I always thought that if I lived in Westeros, I
would be a Targaryen, but I now know that
wildling blood runs through my veins.
So be warned: if you undertake this
road trip, things may change. You may not
come back the same person. Me? I don’t
know if I can go back to my comfortable
room on Njálsgata.
White knuckled, he
yells: “There’s a big
drop!” I respond like
a stone-cold bitch:
“Don’t look.”
BOOK YOUR FLIGHT OR
DAY TOUR AT AIRICELAND.IS
ÍSAFJÖRÐUR
ICELAND’S WESTFJORDS
ARE ONLY 40 MINUTES AWAY
Let’s fly
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