Remembering Iceland

It’s 6 years since I was there, thought I’d share my recollections of the land of fire and ice

My phone reminded me today, that six years ago, I was in Iceland.

It was a brief yet passionate encounter, as some unions must be, but the memories still freeze and flame me.

My desire to visit Iceland undoubtably stemmed from my teenage love of Björk and The Sugarcubes. She and the band embodied surging life force to me. The sound was so alien yet familiar in its primal cry. The elasticity of the yearning vocal caught my heart as rogue balloon and I felt compelled to one day seek out the raw shores that unleashed it.

It didn’t disappoint.

My first impression, as I leave the airport mid winter, is one of desolate moonscape.  The tortured sky bleeds into feral, forging charcoal, pearl and petrol like the fraying canvas of a frameless painting. There is a morbid industrialism to it, and as my all-mod-cons coach sails the road as valiant ship, it strikes me that any path carved into this unyielding crust must have been an arduous endeavour.

I check into my hotel in Reykjavik.

Unusually for me, I booked this as part of a package deal and the entrance is a smooth mouth of twinkling onyx.

“Did you arrive here by train?”

The hotel receptionist asks.

This is followed by a laugh.

“Of course not! There are no railways anywhere on Iceland!”

She teases.

Once more, that reminder that I am somewhere quite unique.

The architecture of the city disappoints me somewhat. Buildings are bland and shoeboxy. Turns out they have been designed with practicality rather than aesthetic in mind. They are constructed with metal rods inside them, so they can flex to accommodate the frequent earthquakes. The first night there, I am met with such an event. Thrill seeker that I am, perversely, I enjoy the ‘what if’ of the tremors. I picture the metal rods bowing gently in the structure of my hotel walls, as though cement covered tweezers toying with whether to drop me.

I am held.

I have limited time and make plans to see glaciers, thermal lagoons and magnificent waterfalls as well as the beguiling dance of the aurora borealis.

I will experience them all, bar one.

As I board my coach in the pitch black, next morning, it’s an odd truth that daylight won’t occur until roughly 11 am. Makes you ponder the manmade instrument of time, the purpose it serves. How really, in both literal and abstract sense, what matters is not the number of hours we have but the light and dark they inhabit and how we utilise both to best effect.

Iceland is very much a place of water in all its glorious guises. First stop is the famous Blue Lagoon, worth a visit with its milky turquoise colour and swim-up bar, but by far, I prefer the less showy ‘Secret Lagoon ’. Okay, ‘secret’ is a bit of a stretch, but certainly there are fewer tourists and it makes for a less commercial experience.

There’s something life affirming about being immersed in hot liquid whilst all around you flaps a gale.  It’s as though you are encased in an elemental sandwich - your body warm and wet, your face rose-kissed by chill, hair combed by rake of wind.

I swim, I float. I twirl. As I inhale the salt-sugar of the freshly whipped air, I am fully alive.

Waterfalls are plentiful in Iceland. There are safety ropes that cordon off, tempting daredevil selfie-seekers to take treacherous risk by defying common sense. I witness first hand the lure of the Insta gamble. It saddens me that so many people are consumed by crudely documenting the “I woz ’ere” in search of ‘likes’, rather than absorbing, joining the earth in joyous rhapsody. The pursuit is not, I muse, unlike netting and pinning down butterflies.

The waterfalls vary in appearance. Some are wide, draping terrain as moving silver veils. Others are tall, cascading white as the beards of wizards. They thrash and foam, spluttering their torrent as magical chatter. Sometimes their spell softly brushes the drums of my ears, other times they are pounded furiously as Tom Toms.

Some waterfalls are partly frozen and give the impression they were hastily turned to marble by an angry ogre throwing his temper around. And there are, of course, stories to accompany every one of these wondrous sights. Myth and legend oozes from each dour pore of this crystalline kingdom. My imagination surrenders as knowledgeable guides recount tales of selkies and ghost fleets.

I see geysers that spurt their majesty as jolly squat Dumbos. I take in glacial pools that glaze my eyes with their serene aquamarine.

And then…..I spy a cigarette butt and it pains me like an unexpected bullet, knowing there are people who could treat this blissful environment with such disdain.

I suddenly feel filled with a guardian instinct toward this mystical place. Although the land is old, the way the volcanoes and earthquakes sever its ebony flesh, constantly re-wounding, brings out the bandaging mother in me. “Don’t hurt her” I want to say protectively. “Please, don’t hurt her”.

I am taken to a spot where two tectonic plates meet, the North American and Eurasian. You can walk between them. I envisage Earth as a patched doll and Iceland her raggedy heart, stitched with love, a little worn and fragile.

I see chunks of ice that flank black sand as smashed glass giving it the name ‘Black Diamond Beach’.

I observe seals enjoying their playground of spearmint and glossy mirror.

Dusk contours the snowscape like carefully angled stage lights. Every jagged floe is pronounced, the still of each lagoon polished to golden gleam.

One day, my guide stops to show us Icelandic ponies. These stoic creatures live outside year round, gracefully accepting of the biting wind that whirrs through their manes and gnaws at their hooves. They huddle happily as sturdy beige dumplings, equipped for all a wild winter can throw at them.

As I wrestle with retaining each new ‘vik’ and ‘foss’, I know I won’t recall the names of all the places I visit. But the best memories don’t need names, do they? Your mind creates its own filing cabinet of beauty. Scenes lodge in your brain as ‘the bridge where I met a million candle sways’ or ‘the surging river I lost the beat of my heart to’, and that is enough.

I invite each act of this fleeting play to reside in me as sensation rather than signpost. That’s how everywhere was once, after all, before humans dared name with word treasures too complex and dazzling to ever be accurately expressed.

The Northern Lights trip ends up being cancelled three nights in a row, but I’m weirdly pleased about that.

In a Veruca Salt world, where entitled humans rustle up at whim whatever we want whenever we want it, I rather like the idea of Mother Nature asserting herself as top dog, as she announces;

“Nah…..sorry, guys, didn’t fancy it tonight”

It’s a great reminder that there are some things we will never harness.

We cannot patent every pattern of the ocean, nor capture every colour of the sky.

We are of Earth, not its lion tamer.

And the roar of Iceland, leaves me humble.