Reykjavík Grapevine - 18.05.2018, Side 48

48 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 08 — 2018
Around 200 kilometres from Reyk-
javík, somewhere near Kleifar on
Route 60, the rolling landscape of
western Iceland starts to change.
After speeding through the hopeful
springtime farmland of Borgarfjörður
and Hvammsfjörður and over the Gils-
fjörður land bridge, the green-tinged
land fades into autumnal expanses
of umber and maroon shrubbery and
shivering copses of reddish trees.
Open fields become wild, barren
heaths, rough hills, and stretches
of broken, islet-littered shoreline by
steep, eroded mountainside; well-kept
farm buildings give way to careworn
farmsteads and rusty barns, and the
few gas stations we pass seem weath-
er-beaten and forlorn. As we enter the
Westfjords, there’s a palpable shift in
atmosphere.
The Westfjords have historically
been a genuinely remote region of
Iceland. Until the 1950s, the Vestf-
jarðarvegur road ended somewhere
around the Reykhólar peninsula—
travelling to there meant a voyage by
boat, with some southern Westfjord-
ians having to sail to the tiny island
of Flatey to buy everyday items in the
general store. All-but disconnected
from the rest of the country, the re-
gion developed a distinctive local cul-
ture of proud and fierce independence
that survives to this day.
Shall not pass
Even now, the road isn’t easy. The
narrow paved road of Route 60 often
gives way to sections of potholed dirt
track that curve through long, pre-
cipitous fjords, and over mountain
passes that are still snowbound in
a still-blustery May. At the highest
points, fierce winds whip the fresh,
powdery snow over the road, creat-
ing treacherous snowdrifts. We crawl
past a jackknifed articulated truck,
and shortly after we’re waved past a
Mercedes stranded in a snowbank as
the stoically smiling driver organises
his rescue by cellphone.
The fishing town of Patreksfjörður
sits nestled in the fjord of the same
name, perched on a narrow shelf of
land between the mountainside and
the water. There’s not a soul to be seen
as we pass the pool, police station, a
diner, and a shop, and pull up at the
Fosshotel Westfjords. Weary from the
long road, we’re the last to arrive at the
restaurant. We take in the view as we
eat, wordless and exhausted, drinking
a cold beer and gazing through the
spitting sleet as the sky slowly starts
to darken over the wetly flapping Fos-
shotel flags, the steely ocean, and the
huge, snow-streaked mountains be-
yond.
Croaks, chirps & trills
Patreksfjörður is one of three towns
in this region of the lower Westfjords,
Distance from
Reykjavík:
392 km
Car provided by:
gocarrental.is
Accommodation
provided by:
fosshotel.is
How to get there:
Drive Route One
North, then Routes
60, 62 & 63
“The vast,
textured
mountains
appear
and vanish
through
fast mov-
ing bands
of rain and
sleet.”
Another
Iceland
Spring snowstorms in the wild Westfjords
Words: John Rogers Photos: Timothée Lambrecq
Where'd that view go?
Put your feet up