Fishing in North Iceland

I am in Reykjavik on a brilliant sunny day. I have been in Iceland only a few days, but it seems like an age. I am on the su-filled courtyard of the art museum coffee shop. I love this coffee shop, it has a sense of quiet and peace about it.

When I arrived Monday morning, my friend Agusta picked me up from the bus station–I caught a bus from the airport to town–she grabbed my large suitcase, I grabbed my small bag and we hopped over to the domestic airport nearby. There I immediately caught a small plane north to Akeyreri. This flight was very rough, the plane buffeted to and fro, below I saw whitecaps on the bay and the landing was even worse. Strangely, I wasn't nervous, thinking, "This is summer, these pilots do this all year round, so surely to them this wind is nothing."

It had been sunny in Reykjavik, but in Akeryeri it was pouring rain, Windy and about 40°. Growl. It felt like a Seattle November (or maybe May this year).

I am always stunned in Iceland how quickly one can be completely remote. As my friend Alfrun (whom I had come north to meet) drove me to her parent’s summer cottage in the nearby village where she grew up, she told me about the road. We were traveling high above the fjord on a road along the mountainside. Then we popped into a tunnel. These road tunnels in Iceland resemble a miner’s shaft: low rough arch above you, the walls hugging close on either side, dim lights every several yards. This was one of the many single-lane tunnels where the walls seem to almost touch the sides of the car. "They” (road crews?) had placed cones along both sides at regular intervals, presumably to keep the driver centered, but the effect was more like petite mal and I began to feel dizzy. These tunnels function by one side having passing bays, everyone going reasonably slowly (tourists at a snail's pace) and those with the passing bays to the right pull over as they can whenever they see headlights.

"I would find this a horror if I had to drive it all the time," I said to Alfun.

"Oh, no," she said, "we love it.  Before they built it, you had to drive over the mountain." 

She later showed me the old road, snaking at a precipitous angle up and up the mountainside. "In the winter,” she said, "with the snow, we were sometimes trapped for weeks at a time." Another new tunnel, she reported, on the far side of town had just been completed last year linking their town to the next town along.

"That was a horrible road," she said, meaning the one to the next small town.

"Was it paved?"

"Oh, no, just at the beginning by the sea, most of it was never paved."

"You should see Norway,” she said, "it's like Swiss cheese. One tunnel even has a round-about in it where all these tunnels intersect."

So, it depends upon your perspective. To me the tunnels meant claustrophobia, to her they meant mobility.

We stayed in the old farmhouse beside her parent’s cottage. "You want to see some baby birds?" her 10-year-old son asked me. "I know where they are, some duck eggs too."  We tramped through the wet meadows. The baby birds had gone, but the ducks still guarded their new eggs. Later we pulled in a net they had set earlier, it held five fat trout.

"You kill the first one," her son said. "Kill it with a rock."

Alfrun's mother then took the ungutted trout, laid them in the grass beside the cottage and covered them with more grass she had just pulled up nearby. "We'll just keep these there until tomorrow," she said, "I always think the trout tastes better after they set for the day."

"You cover them with grass," she said," because the damp keeps them cool and so the birds won't see them."

I wouldn't be so worried about the birds, I thought, but also the bugs, the bears, the dogs, and a whole host of other hungry beasts. But here, none of this seems to be a worry. And the boiled trout she served with new potatoes and salad for dinner was delicious.

Because it was still raining, the children went into their room to watch television. Alfrun and I talked. Sometime later I looked at the clock.  It was 1 AM. It was still raining, but it was perfectly light, just the same as noon. "I love to climb the mountain to see the midnight sun," Alfrun said. Sadly, no sun tonight, I am sad to miss that, the slanted light of the mid night sun.

Time gets a bit strange with the continual light. It no longer matters if you sleep midday or at night, the light is just the same. And indeed, people seem to stay up late, sleep late in the morning, or sleep whenever seems convenient.

Here is a picture of the cottage in the rain.










Here is the fish caught!

Here is Alfrin's daughter juggling fish.

I think I will go out to enjoy the sun while it is while it lasts.

Later:

I had fun today pretending to be Icelandic for some American tourists. They were walking in the park, wearing high-waisted unfashionable jeans, trainers, and floppy hats. They carried a map.  I was impressed they had ventured this far, most tourists stay just around downtown.

"Can I help you find your way?" I asked making my tones soft, feigning an accent I thought might be credible as Icelandic to an unknowing non-Icelander.

"Yes, is this the way to the park?" the man asked.

"Yes, it is," I said.

"This seems like a real mice place," the man said, "but it sure is expensive."

"Yes, yes it is," I said

"So what about people who can't earn so much?" he asked. "What do they do?"

"Do with less", I said.