Reykjavík Grapevine - 10.11.2017, Blaðsíða 46

Autumn is possibly the shortest
season in Iceland, but it’s also one
of the most beautiful. As we drive
north out of Reykjavík and turn
off Route One towards the small
town of Laugarvatn, the after-
noon sunlight catches the yellow
and copper grass and shrubbery
of the Mosfellsdalur countryside,
casting long shadows and giving
the landscape an inviting golden
glow.
Outside the warmth of the car,
however, it’s bitingly cold. We
make a few speedy stops at pictur-
esque locations in the Þingvellir
National Park, scurrying out for a
wander through a craggy canyon
to the frigid Öxarárfoss waterfall,
and to look out over the majes-
tic expanse of the island-dotted
Þingvallavatn lake. It’s absolutely
freezing, and a perfect example of
what Icelanders refer to as glug-
gaveður, or “window weather.”
Ghost farm
Þingvellir is a popular first stop
on the Golden Circle tour, so we
avoid the heavy traffic around
the visitor’s centre and cruise
onwards through the forest. It’s
an impressive landscape with
diminutive, gnarled silver birch
trees growing over a rolling sea of
knolls and hillocks that stretches
off into the distance.
There are various laybys and
viewpoints along the narrow,
winding road, most of them only
big enough for one or two cars. We
pull over at a spot with a gravel
track vanishing off into the trees,
noticing a sign that tells us the
road is called Nýja Hrauntúns-
gata. A 1.8km hike will bring
us to an the abandoned farm of
Hrauntún.
Shivering even in hats, scarves,
and gloves, we stride off into the
network of trails that crisscross
the forest. It’s a twenty minute
walk to the farm during which
we don’t see another soul, except
for when we startle a pair of birds
that squawk off into the sky in
mottled black and white autumn
plumage.
Hrauntún isn’t what we ex-
pect—the path ends suddenly at
a tumbledown stone wall that
marks the edge of a large mead-
ow. No buildings remain, and tall
strands of feathery grass sway
in the chilly breeze, enclosed on
all sides by knotty trees and dis-
tant snow-capped mountains. We
pace around the muddy pathways,
taking in the silence. Hrauntún
is an eerie and intriguing spot in
the heart of the dense forest of
Þingvellir.
Top of the lake
We’re just getting some warmth
back into our limbs by the time
we arrive in Laugarvatn. This
small town of 200 people sits on
the shore of a lake of the same
name. The largest house in town
is Heraðsskólinn, an impressive
old school designed by Guðjón
Samúelsson, the former na-
tional architect of Iceland whose
other works include distinctive
buildings like Hallgrimskirkja,
Akureyrarkirkja and The Nation-
al Theatre of Iceland.
Built in 1928, the house has
been rejuvenated into a bou-
tique hostel that’s full of historic
charm. We’re welcomed warmly
by the staff, who pour cups of
hot coffee and show us around.
The bright, cosy café-bar area
is decorated with objects from
Héraðsskólinn’s former life, in-
cluding heav i ly-laden
bookshelves, an old
gramophone, and
a model of the
Earth that can
be wound up to
illustrate the
planet’s path
around sun.

H é r a ð s k ó -
l i n n a l s o
r e n t s o u t
some smart,
m o d e r n
a p a r t m e n t s
just across the
street. After un-
packing and tak-
ing in the glorious
view from the balco-
ny, we head out to explore
the few streets of Laugarvatn. It
doesn’t take long; there’s a mar-
ket, a gas station, a municipal
pool and sports hall, a lakeside
restaurant and a small gallery
café. The air is fresh, and we take
a walk by the rippling lake as the
sun sets, the open water reflect-
ing a glorious pink sky. Life in
Laugarvatn moves at a slow pace,
and it’s a relaxing break from
Reykjavík.
The homeward road
The next morning begins with
a dip in Laugarvatn Fontana,
a pristine geothermal bathing
complex on the lakeshore. There
are various hotpots ranging from
lukewarm to comfortably tem-
perate, as well as a sauna, and
several steam rooms with varying
degrees of intensity. People bask
and bathe, taking in the view and
sometimes taking a dunk in the
freezing lake before heading back
in for another steam.
After a brunch of juicy and ten-
der reindeer burgers at the nearby
Lindin restaurant, we take
a drive through the
rolling countryside
around the lake.
It ’s a pastoral
area, and if it
wasn’t for the
o c c a s i o n a l
steam plume
rising from
the ground
a n d t h e
f lat-topped
m o u n t a i n s
i n t he d i s-
tance, it could
b e t h e l u s h
fa r m cou nt r y
of mainland Eu-
rope.
The homeward
road curves gradually to-
wards Selfoss, and we pass the
vast volcanic crater of Kerið, in-
undated with bright anoraks
even as the tourist season slows
down. Soon enough, we’re driv-
ing through the more familiar
lunar landscape of Iceland past
raging rivers, black tundra and
bumpy fields of moss-coated
lava towards Route One, then
Hveragerði, and then back to the
bright lights of Reykjavík.
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The Old Skool
A weekend getaway to Þingvellir and Laugarvatn
How to get there
Route One North, right onto Route 36, left onto Route 365
Words: John Rogers
Photos: Timothée Lambrecq
“No
buildings
remain, and tall
strands of feath-
ery grass sway in
the chilly breeze,
enclosed on all sides
by knotty trees and
distant snow-
capped moun-
tains.”
46 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 20 — 2017
The deep, knotty, Fangorn-esque forest of Þingvellir
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