Geothermal
Mrs
A and I were obviously looking forward to a trip the isle of ice and fire, but
the rush for crisps on the plane by Icelanders returning home was a touch
disconcerting. What was going on? Didn’t they sell potato snacks in Reykjavik? The
number of times the hirsute family in front of us made extra trips to the
galley for ‘boxer chips’ whiffed strongly of panic buying.
Mrs
A and I were berthed either side of the aisle. She, of course, made instant
friends with the passengers on her right. Hotel details, recommended tours and
sights were gleaned, even the sunset times. Laughing and joking they were. I leant
across and butted in. “Hi, yes we hope to see the northern lights!” But my
conversational equivalent of the photo bomb got me nowhere. In dealing me a
dismissive glance, the bloke in the middle seat barely broke his flow about scuba
diving plans.
Instead,
I attempted light-hearted communication with the two sat next to me. “Mind
those popcorn packets, they go everywhere!” said the cabin chap, handing them a
couple of cardboard packages bulging at the seams. I waited a couple of minutes
into my beer and crisps and then casually remarked "I'm looking forward to
you opening that popcorn!" Grin grin. Point point. Window seat man looked
at me with alarm pricking his eyes and laughed nervously. His petite, slightly
clingy partner did the same and shuffled noticeably away from me. They simply
radiated "Nutter alert”.

Saturday
night is the big event in town. The runtur is a weekly bar crawl through the
Downtown area and things were getting lively by the time we wove our way back
to the Sky Bar on the eight floor of our hotel. One corner of the packed bar
was occupied by a group of acoustic guitar toting Christians belting out gospel
ditties and the other featured a couple of hardened Northern Lights watchers
with noses pressed up against the windows, scanning the heavens for glints of
green and blue. They looked like train spotters, which also explained the faint
whiff of egg sandwiches.
I
thought I caught glimpses of hairy, big jumpered locals squabbling over boxes
of crisps hoarded from Easyjet in another corner, but it may have been a trick
of the light.

On
the bus to the Blue lagoon the next morning and Mrs A had made friends again,
slipping into easy conversation with a charming young lady in the seat next to
her. Not to be outdone, I turned to the woman on my inside, clocked the sour
face, folded arms and decided against small talk.
The
Blue Lagoon was totally excellent. Yes it's a tourist trap, but it is so well
done. There was nothing corny or tacky about the experience. Like so much in
Iceland the attraction is perfectly managed, discrete and respectful.
It's
certainly no fault of this thoughtful management policy that I'd attached my
electronic wrist tag (Group 4 - take note) worked out the security lockers and
was half undressed before realising that the good lady wife still had my swimwear
in her bag. So, clobber chucked back on and locker digitally locked again, I
went downstairs to see if I could locate Mrs A. I was tip-toeing around, wondering
whether I should shout through the door of the ladies’ changing rooms or try to
explain my dilemma to an ever helpful assistant. Thankfully my mobile buzzed
and a few moments later, Mrs A emerged with my floral print swim shorts dangling
from an outstretched hand. Blushes saved.
It
was her idea to head out to the lagoon early. Top plan. We were amongst the
first into the geothermal wonderland that morning. All those adjectives you’ve
seen about this place apply: weird, surreal, other worldly… Fantastic. Sulphurous
steam rose from electric blue water encased by mountainous snow covered lava
flows. The sun streaming through light cloud cast an ethereal glow over the
milky surface. Mostly, the temperature was very pleasant, but occasionally,
vents pumped out screaming hot streams of scalding liquid. I lurched into one
boiling trough that caused me to hop about like a Maori on hot ashes, nearly
spilling my drink in the effort of water-sprinting away.
Skin
softened and aquated, we returned to Town for a chilled pootle. Reykjavik may
only be home to a shade over 100,000 souls but it knows how to mix
architectural muscle with the big boys when it chooses. Harpa is the capital's
main music and performance complex. We had a great view of the irregular
shaped, glass and steel creation from our hotel. At night the window frames
light up in sweeping and ever changing patterns. Inside the place is equally
spectacular. Geometric glass and mirror ceilings and walls dominate the
cavernous, multilevel performance and public spaces. Hardly any of the floors
or uprights are at 90 degrees and we felt disoriented more than once.
It
is well used too. We stumbled across a gentle piano and guitar recital and on
leaving had to shoulder-barge through crowds assembling for a production in one
of the main halls.
Later,
after a gentle beer, we took the lift to the top of downtown's other dominant
edifice, the Hallgrimkirkja. This gothic cathedral sits atop the highest hill and
can be seen from miles around. Insane buttresses fly off the main tower like
swept jet fighter wings and the building looks like a pimped up Thunderbird 1
on the launchpad. This is my newest
favourite monolith in the whole world. Spanking views from the top revealed the
surprisingly extensive spread of the city hemmed along the coast. The colour of
the place again shone through strongly.
Reykjavik
is full of weird business and visitor signs. Mrs A collected ‘The Happy Smiling
Headware’ shop, and meeting place for the ‘Hand Knitting Association of
Iceland’
I’m familiar with variable weather that seems to give four seasons in one day, but Iceland seems to have all the seasons going on at the same time. Rain of a more irresistible nature had, however, set in by the evening and our late night Northern Lights trip was cancelled. Instead we found time to explore a few more bars and ate probably the best meals of the stay in the classy (and yet again friendly) Restaurant Reykjavik. Helen’s charr ensemble (a fish she had never eaten before) was glacier fresh and my lamb was as tender as a re-run of On Golden Pond.
And
then back to the Sky Bar, though much quieter tonight, where the manager was
very chatty about the surprisingly good Icelandic ales. I’m happy to endorse Einstock IPA and Bjatur blonde ale, as well as some more predictable lagers. She
said most were brewed further north where the barley grew. Barley? Out of bare
rock and steaming pools? I was doubtful. As I was about the flocks of sheep
that allegedly roamed the island and supplied my meal tonight.
So
the next day we went on a trip to seek out barley fields and sheep pastures. We
saw absolutely nothing. Not a stick of wavy grass or a single scraggy ewe.
That’s debunked another Icelandic myth.
What
we did instead was explore some of the most active and riveting geology on the
face of the planet. The rain continued to lash and driving over the Blue
Mountains, visibility dropped to about 20 feet. Prospects didn’t look good, but
when we turned north, the sky lightened to reveal ridges, escarpments and volcanic
peaks poking out of the murk.
By
the time we hit the geyser fields, the weather had all but dried up. Mrs A was
telling me about how Icelandic trolls die if they see sunlight and that
planning decisions on one part of the island are subject to respecting the
ancient, mythical pathways of elves. I in turn was harping on about the subcutaneous
pressure required to power the water blasts and the sheer size of the Langjokull
glacier. It was a guide book score draw.
Seeing
a whole hillside venting clouds of hot air from clear water pits plays havoc
with the senses. The original Geysir pool, which gave the geothermal phenomenon
its generic name, no longer spouts boiling water, but its near neighbour,
Strokkur, performs magnificently every minute or so for the assembled
galleries.
Geological
highlights continued. The powerful triple water falls of Gullfoss slam into a
spectacular gorge fuelled by glacier meltwater further inland. The sound was as
immense as the sight. So I thought I’d video it. Something I rarely do. I won’t
be bothering again. “Listen to this” I said to my Dad and Bruv, when back home.
They’d been looking after the girls – or possibly the other way round –during
our trip. Fully expecting an ear splitting roar brewed in the very pits of the
earth, the distant thrum we heard had more in common with a weedy generator on
Summer rations than screaming falls throwing down 52 million cubic metres of
turbulent water a minute. “Hmm, that’s impressive, Dave [chuckle].” observed
Bruv. Think I’ll stick to the pics.
This
area was the most northerly we ventured on the trip and the icy blast straight
off the glacier was numbing. So the comforting lamb soup, speciality of the
café at the top of the falls, warmed spots that really shouldn’t have been exposed
in late March.
On
the way back to Reykjavik we gained a glimpse of the fissuring and cracking
that is renting apart the North Atlantic plate from the Eurasian one. The
Thingvellir national park is a giant rift valley formed at the cutting edge of tectonic
action. The split is reportedly increasing at 1-2cms per year. “Can you actually
see it?” asked Daughter No 1. “Not in real time” I replied. But imagine if you
could. Sat there all year waiting for the 2cm shift and then missing it because
you went to the loo…” Geology brought to fizzing life.
The
rains returned as we dropped back into the capital, extinguishing any lingering
prospects of a Northern Lights appearance. That night we stumbled across
perhaps the best bar of the stay. Laundromat is a large airy informal space
dominated by a square central bar whose base houses shelves of paperback books.
Red leather benches, booths and non-conformist tables surrounded the bar and
were populated by a genuine all human life clientele. The food was somewhere
between posh café/bistro, and the beer list took up the entire back page of the
menu. Proper!
Why
Laundromat? Mrs A said it was still a working launderette and we couldn’t work
out how. Until I went to the loo downstairs where I passed three bright red
washing machines and three large red tumble dryers. All being used and waited
upon by locals minding hopper-sized laundry baskets. As I say. All human life.
We
couldn’t pass up a drink in a subterranean bar called Koffin where I finally
tracked down a dark beer I’d seen supped elsewhere. Mori Red, hand pumped and
served in a pint glass, was as tasty as it was civilised.
Then
one late-night last drink in the Sky Bar, peering through rain lashed windows
at the dancing, symphonic patterns of tint and hue flickering across the face
of the Harpa. A colourful metaphor for this vibrant city full of wonderful
people surrounded by stunning landscapes.
And
we barely scratched the geothermally ravaged surface.
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