Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.10.2016, Page 52

BOOK YOUR FLIGHT OR
DAY TOUR AT AIRICELAND.IS
ÍSAFJÖRÐUR
ICELAND’S WESTFJORDS
ARE ONLY 40 MINUTES AWAY
Let’s fly
ÞÓRSHÖFN
VOPNAFJÖRÐUR
GRÍMSEY
ÍSAFJÖRÐUR
AKUREYRI
EGILSSTAÐIR
REYKJAVÍK
is
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/s
ia
.is
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At the southernmost point of main-
land Iceland sits a particularly dra-
matic and tide-lashed stretch of
coastline. Around the town of Vík,
the waves crash in with particular
force, rending the cliffside apart
in imperceptibly slow motion and
leaving behind angular basalt for-
mations and precarious sea stacks.
The black sands of the surrounding
beaches are a flat expanse punctu-
ated by craggy land islands that
appear and vanish through fast-
moving bands of rain and dust.
Nestled between Vík and Sól-
heimasandur is Dyrhólaey, a high
headland that juts out defiantly into
the ocean, offering a view over the
scene. The road winds a delicate
path between pockmarked hills
before crossing a land bridge over
a shallow lagoon to an area where
the elements have battered the cliffs
since Iceland was born, creating a
series of impressive natural arch-
ways and rock formations. Down
through a gap in the cliffside lies
Kirkjufjara, a long beach where the
violent tide lifts hundreds of black
pebbles and noisily clatters them
down again in a cloud of salty sea
spray. Something about the ferocity
of the elements imbues this part of
Iceland with a sense of perpetual
motion, and lingering drama.
High castle
Overlooking the scene from the
crown of Dyrhólaey is a lighthouse.
It’s a proud little building, squat
and square, topped with a rampart
and a giant lamp. Tourists ascend
the potholed dirt track in droves to
take a look at it. They set up tripods,
studying the light and the clouds for
a particularly photogenic moment,
or come over and try the unmarked
front door only to find it locked.
What lies inside might sur-
prise them. Because rather than
the lodgings of a lighthouse keeper
or a workspace full of oil cans and
machine parts, the lighthouse has
been converted over the last year or
so into a luxury hotel residence. As
we unlock the door, we’re greeted
by an immaculate grey wood-lined
hallway, a modern kitchen, and din-
ing and sitting rooms set up for five
people. The narrow, winding stair
leads up to three bright, minimally
decorated bedrooms—a double,
a twin and a cosy single—spread
across two more floors.
At the top, a steep wooden stair
leads up to a hatch that opens onto
the roof. The view is a sight to be-
hold, even to someone familiar with
Dyrhólaey. To the north stands the
towering, icy peak of Myrdalsjökull,
overlooking the vast floodplain of
Sólheimsandur which recedes to
the west as rhythmic waves lap the
black shore. To the east, the black
sea stacks of Vík are silhouetted
against the raging sea. It’s a breath-
taking vantage point over a quite
astonishing landscape.
The machine awakens
As the sun sets, pink light floods
through the bedrooms. We settle
into our rooms, all of which have
nice design touches, whether hang-
ing white lamp shades, coat hooks
that resemble old doorknobs, or
piles of comfortable blankets made
from Icelandic wool. Each room
also comes with a couple of pairs
of earplugs, which I assume are for
nights when the weather outside is
particularly loud.
But as night falls, their purpose
is revealed. I’m jarred from a sleepy
reverie by a loud grinding sound
that seems to shake the walls. I
come out into the hallway, wonder-
ing if the emergency generator has
started up due to a power cut. But
the noise is coming from above.
I open the roof hatch and realise
that the lighthouse has started its
work for the night. The huge lamp
has started turning, sending three
bright beams shooting out into the
gloaming, alerting incoming ships
that they’ve reached Iceland.
Beaming out
The noise has a rhythmic quality
that becomes soothing after a while.
I sleep deeply, waking up for a few
sleepy moments at dawn. Outside
the window, the sun is coming up,
catching the clouds and the break-
ing waves with pink and orange
light. The machine is still running,
South
To The
Lighthouse
A magical getaway at
Dyrhóleay
Words JOHN ROGERS Photos ART BICNICK
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 16 — 2016
52