The Icelandic Canadian - 01.10.2002, Page 28

leave together every morning after Diddi’s
breakfast. Diddi, our Hofsos cook and
Nancy would walk a hundred metres
behind me. Or in front of me. We’d walk
out our hour or two separately, I’d get my
spoken notes and my privacy. We’d stop
now and then for a drink and a snack, a
visit. Returning we’d walk together. The
trek would be far less lonely for me and
Nancy wouldn’t need to worry about los-
ing her way.
Nancy told me her life’s ambition. She
said she wanted to stay out of jail, that was
first. And she wanted to be happy. “Not
much else,” she said. She spoke as though
we were discussing the coffee we had for
breakfast. With an even tone, a good but
ordinary cup of coffee.
“Whoa!” I gave my head a shake. “Just a
few simple goals. They should be easy to
measure anyway,” I said. I’m not sure now
whether I meant that as a joke or not.
We’d hiked out three hours east along
the Hofsos River where the white wagtail
and golden plover and whimbrel sang.
Gravel road, and trail. Pastures again. For
sheep, for horses. We’d passed through
farmyards, through barbed wire gates that
we opened and cramped shut behind us.
Passed a modest sign on the road with an
arrow pointing up a long drive to a house
on the southern hillside, Holkot.
We’d hiked up a large hill through a
cluster of barns and back down into the
river valley where a washed out bridge
waited for us to cross. Two narrow iron
girders spanning the noisy torrent, and no
crosspieces, perhaps for twenty metres.
Where one plaintive redshank called to
mirror our concern. Where I stopped to
remove the first of my two flannel shirts.
Then, arms spread, and one careful foot in
front of the other, we inched along the
girders till we both stood safe on the other
side of the water. We’d wondered aloud a
few times about private property and tres-
passing, but our trail showed on the map
and it led through this series of yards.
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