Reykjavík Grapevine - 20.05.2016, Qupperneq 64

It's snowing in Hellisheiði. Pow-
dery drifts sweep over the narrow
strip of asphalt that cuts through
the snow-laden mountains. Like
any trip south along Route 1, our
journey to Stokkseyri begins with
a steady climb over this high pla-
teau that separates the capital re-
gion from the low-lying expanses
of the coastal south. It's a white-
knuckle stretch of road, no matter
how many times I drive it.
By some climatic wizardry
there's neither snow nor storm
along Route 38, the road that takes
us south of the Ring Road. It's not
the only way to get to Stokkseyri,
our target for the day; nor is it the
fastest. But we're in no rush—
we're getting a feel for a corner of
the country often skipped on trips
along the southern coastline.
Rusty the
unfriendly ghost
After rounding the drainage basin
of the Ölfusá river and crossing
its mouth, we drive through the
small seaside town of Eyrarbakki,
arriving in Stokkseyri not long
later. Grey skies provide a fittingly
haunting backdrop for our visit to
Draugasetrið, the “Ghost Centre”
that occupies the third floor of an
old fishing warehouse. The café is
a spare, grim chamber overlook-
ing the skerries and jetties that jut
into the sea, and Júlía is in char-
acter when we arrive. "Me? I'm
just the cleaning lady," she laughs,
before assuming a spooking tone:
"No, I'm the mother of ghosts." She
warns us about Móri ("Rusty"),
a local ghost with a fondness for
playing with electricity. He's been
around for 300 years, she tells
us: "He's a funny guy—he hasn't
killed anyone in 250 years." When
I ask if it's about time for a mur-
der, she reassures me: "No, he's
sort of friendly." Not wanting to
put me at ease, she adds: "But not
like Casper."
Júlía equips us with mp3 play-
ers and sends us beyond the black
curtains. The museum is a laby-
rinthine series of rooms marked
with numbers, indicating which
track to listen to on our headsets.
Dioramas in each room depict the
stories we hear, and certain steps
trigger surprises like a jumping
mannequin or shaking ground.
They have a certain homemade
feel, but the audio stories consti-
tute an impressive archive of well-
told Icelandic ghost-lore. We get
Rusty’s origin story—he died near
Eyrarbakki after a farmer refused
him hospitality, and duly began
haunting the whole region, even-
tually cutting off trade. We hear
of fishermen's ghosts, appearing
to wives onshore the very moment
they drown. We meet the Dea-
con, one of Iceland's most famous
ghosts, who appears to his lover
Guðrún, but cannot pronounce
her name because, as a ghoul, he
cannot say Guð ("God").
"Icelandic Wonders" is a sis-
ter installation that celebrates
elves and aurora. Trolls used to
have a place in the exhibition, but
their cave was recently renovated
into the elf queen's palace. And I
thought the housing market in 101
was ruthless.
The Misery
After journeying through these
parallel worlds, we need some
fresh air. One house along the sea-
wall catches my eye: a two-storey
building, with triangles and odd
shapes pointing every which way.
It's some irony, indeed, that the
town's most modern building is
a decaying ruin. I learn later that
this house is known as Eymdin
("The Misery"). The owner built
the house on the seawall without
the proper permits, then disap-
peared to Thailand. Clambering
up the seawall rocks, I peer in to
see that the interior was never
quite finished. Nevertheless, a
grill sits outside, rusting slowly. I
hear the Stokkseyringar are look-
ing for an enterprising buyer to
put them out of their misery.
Before leaving town, we stop
into Fjöruborðið, a seafood res-
taurant famed for its lobster soup.
Árni, the head waiter, speaks
the lobster lore as gospel truth:
Stokkseyri fishermen wade naked
into the sea, swim amongst mer-
maids to capture langoustines
whose raison d'être is to become
tasty soup for travelers from near
and far. The menu devotes an en-
tire page to this mythology in a
four-paragraph paean with phras-
es that verge on the erotic: "Your
greatest desire is to lick on lobster
in garlic butter, gulp down the soup
that has been lovingly pampered."
The soup is good: tomato-based,
with generous, juicy langoustine
chunks, and enough bread to sop up
the last drops of mermaid-blessed
crustacean ambrosia.
We leave feeling completely full.
Rusty doesn’t obstruct our home-
ward journey, and we’re relieved to
find that the storm has abated.
Fjöruborðið: fjorubordid.is
Ghost Centre:
Icelandicwonders.com
SHARE: gpv.is/stok
A day in Stokkseyri
Friendly Ghosts
And Langoustine
Words ELI PETZOLD Photos ART BICNICK
64 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 6 — 2016TRAVEL
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