Reykjavík Grapevine - sep. 2019, Side 35

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history. On the main street, we pass
several signs nodding to the local
tradition of shark fishing, and the
bar Vagninn, where the reggae band
Hjalmar sets up for their evening
performance as part of the town’s
summer festival.
The two hours fly by, and we’re
greeted with green lights when we
return to the gas station to fill our
car.
Wait your tern
Traversing the trio of eyris—
Suðureyri, Flateyri, and Þingeyri—
is a favourite road trip in the West-
fjords. “Eyri” translates as a sand or
gravel bank, and it is on such banks
that these three villages have pros-
pered. It’s almost shocking, really, to
see life thrive on such slender spits
of rock and sand between the im-
posing Westfjordian mountains and
the cold ocean.
As we backtrack along the 20km
fjord, we decide to stop at a proper,
unpopulated eyri—the white-sand
eyri by Holt farm. We roll our car
through a sand-dune track towards
the ocean. The sand dunes are a
protected nesting ground for eider
ducks, so we inch along to mini-
mise disturbance of the area. Scores
of arctic terns circle their warnings
above our car as we crawl along the
track. One insistent mother tern
hovers outside the windscreen,
swooping and cawing. We soon spot
the cause for her concern: in the
roadside grass, three eggs ready to
hatch.
The enticing beach is a safe dis-
tance from ducks’ and terns’ breed-
ing grounds. Socks and shoes slip
off rapidly. The sand is warm, and
the North Atlantic an almost Med-
iterranean aquamarine blue. We are
beach babes below the Arctic circle,
plodging and beachcombing on a
mid-teens summer day.
After a walk under the pier, our
desire to learn the secrets of the fi-
nal eyri pulls us from our shoreline
saunter, so we pile back into the car
in search of our next bird guide.
The world is our
oystercatcher
After traversing the mountain pass to
Dýrafjörður, Þingeyri appears across
the bay. Oystercatchers line the road.
Plump black-and-white bodies look
at odds with the shock of neon or-
ange beaks bleating cheeps as we
park the car. One waddles from a
gravel nest, where we spy three more
eggs, similarly splotched to the tern
eggs, but larger in size. The village of
Þingeyri feels the most like the place
to root and roost after a pleasant day
exploring the fjords.
Simbahöllin Café has a strong
roast brewing, and we refuel our-
selves with a coffee in anticipation of
the drive back to Ísafjörður, through
the tunnels and fjords. The village
feels lived-in, familiar, comfortable.
If only we could stay to share the
local gossip, learn to play the lang-
spil, and take up residency in the
co-working centre of Blábankinn.
But there are more birds to follow,
and more slow travel in our futures,
so we set off home, our dreams
ready to hatch and soar.
“The sand is warm, and the North
Atlantic an almost Mediterranean
aquamarine blue.”
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