The Icelandic Canadian - 01.08.2006, Síða 28

70
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
Vol. 60 #2
the harborside buildings are brightly
coloured. Facing north across the bay, the
Sea Bastards’ Inn serves meals in a modest
brown house with a few tables on a small
verandah. We lunch with delight on its
homemade fish soup and fresh brown
bread, and afterwards visit Norska Husid,
the Norwegian House, originally the first
two-storey wood frame house in Iceland,
now a museum depicting the gracious life
of a merchant and his family in the early
nineteenth century.
It is only, however, when at last we set
sail that we feel our real adventure is begin-
ning. We certainly seem to have left
tourists behind and the rollicking golden
presence of Stasi, an Icelandic sheepdog,
whose owner is a breeder, seems to confirm
the authenticity of what we are doing.
Moreover, Breidafjordur is truly a
wonder. Studded with islands and skerries,
its waves dancing with puffins and cor-
morants, the beauty of the fjord dissolves
time until suddenly we reach Flatey, largest
of the islands, and the halfway mark of our
voyage. Bright with buttercups, its small
harbor is surrounded by a group of pleas-
ingly painted timber houses, apparently
being lovingly restored by what is now
chiefly a summer population.
Beyond, on the other hand, is a vastly
different vista. Despite the unwavering
length of the arctic day, the weather has
shifted and, as we approach the primordial
mountainscape ahead, the whole peninsula
of the West Fjords stretching west into the
icy waters of the Denmark Strait seems
bathed in a greenish gray light, the effect
undoubtedly of one of the frequent fogs for
which the region is famous. Soon, however,
we are landing, although totally unpre-
pared for what appears. Brjanslaekur, des-
ignated one of the main entrance points
into the West Fjords, seems at the very least
a curious choice since there is no settlement
here at all. But, civilization or none, sud-
denly people are scrambling off the Baldur
and onto the lone jetty, some with cars and
some without. Amidst the crowd of those
disembarking and those meeting them, I
look in vain for the long- distance bus sup-
posedly timed to connect with the ferry
and take us to the regional capital of
Isafjordur. Chancing on a familiar face, that
of a pleasant, somewhat portly Icelander,
whom I remember as being on the bus
from Reykjavik, in desperation I dash over
to him, to ask if he knows anything about a
bus. Indeed he does and points my hus-
band and me in the direction of a shabby
white van, the interior of which is equally
worn. But our options being non-existent
and persuaded by the fact that it is leaving
immediately, we, the helpful Icelander and
one other man who remains a stranger for
the journey, all climb aboard.
And so we set off on our second road
trip of the day. Yet not before the van, hav-
ing gone merely the urban equivalent of a
few short blocks, emits an ominous rattling
noise, shakes and then lurches to a stop.
Before we have time to react, the driver is
out, examining the underside of his
machine. In a moment, he returns to his
seat upon which there is much excited chat-
ter in Icelandic- our friend just in front of
us, the stranger in front of him, and the dri-
ver. Then, almost as quickly as it began, it
subsides and, incredibly, the van starts to
move.
“What’s happened?” I ask our inter-
preter, striving to project a calm I am far
from feeling. His reply, quoting the driver,
undoubtedly loses something in transla-
tion, but since this driver and this vehicle
are all that we have, I realize it must do.
“He says there are some problems with
the van, but he thinks it will see us home.”
For some reason, hearing this news,
reminds me of the printed itinerary which
we received from the travel agent for this,
the most unusual part of our trip: Bus
Brjanslaekur to Isafjordur 1900 (not sure of
arrival time) Despite the proviso in brack-
ets , nothing in it had seemed cause for con-
cern. Bracing myself for the journey, I look
at my watch. It is just after seven p.m..
Therefore, much to my amazement, I have
to acknowledge that we are right on time so
far.
We are travelling a highway, Route 60,
which, I am to learn later, is one of the
highest in Iceland. A narrow, potholed
gravel track, it has neither shoulders nor
guard rails and is designated a ‘summer
only’ road. For the next few hours, it will