Iceland : land of memory

Late last April the working bastard crow Chris Booth joined Teddy Laycock on a jaunt around Iceland from South to North. Departing from Reykjavik the pair took a route east under the vatnajökulspjóõgarõur glacier, up the seldom visited Eastern fjords and over into the Troll Peninsula in the far north by way of Akureyri.

We took a plane to Reykjavik, rented the most affordable car we could find, bought a box of groceries, and then we drove that car and those groceries around Iceland.

We were in search of the big empty: a place where time ran slowly, where mountains would open on to an endless ocean, and where clean air and an infinite horizon would remind us of the things we too easily forget.

Our passage would meander along volcanic flats, skirt around ancient fjords and glaciers, idle through small fishing towns, traverse over midnight mountain passes, and visit the many cafes serving carrot cake. This carrot cake would be delicious.

We would travel as far north as we could, and when we arrived, an unexpected encounter with an affable fisherman named Sölvi would show us that you could go further north still. Fisherman Sölvi would agree to transport us into the crown of an arctic mountain paradise. Ocean would surround us on all sides.

By day we would ski and make Sherpa tea and hotdog. By night we would stay up late – drinking whisky from the duty free and waiting for the sun to never set.

We would find the big empty. We would discover a place where mountains open on to an endless ocean, and where long days slowed the seeming passage of time. We would breath clean air and watch an infinite horizon, and we would do this for as long as it took to remember the things we had too easily forgotten.

Articles associés

19 degrees Fahrenheit