Pinin' for the Fjords!? What kind of talk is that?

So, back from the Westfjords. Long trip, but absolutely worth it. Allow me to recap for you, my harrowing journey, fraught with near-death experiences, fantastic discoveries, chilling tales of long-dead children, and mostly terrible music!

Day 1, wherein I eat suspect shellfish:

David, Paul, Siobhan, Ben* and I left Reykjavík in a RAV4 we rented from (no joke) SAD Cars. They specialize in vehicles over 10 years old, and for cheap. So off we went, on our epic journey northward, to the land of sagas and adventure! But first, we went south, to Keflavik.

See, a RAV4 is a tiny, tiny vehicle. Especially with five of us wedged in there. So we convinced them to let us trade up for a Mitsubishi Pajero - a 4-wheel drive, diesel-fuelled, monstrosity of a vehicle - and we were off! Properly, this time, I mean!

So northward we went, Siobhan and David alternating their time behind the wheel. Many great vistas were taken in, and you will see some selected photographs at the end of this post. One very important point of interest, though, is that I started the traditional "James goes on an adventure and nearly dies!" excitement during the trek up to our hostel in Korpudalur. See, the Westfjords, they are basically bits of sea which carved away chunks of Iceland's northwest tip. This leads to all sorts of marine life being found along the shore. Including mussels.

Now, I love food of all kinds, but I have a particular weakness for shellfish (much to the chagrin of my gout), and as such, I pretty much had no option but to collect four of the wee buggers, put them into an empty skyr pot I'd filled with sea water, and bring them with us to the hostel so I could have them for dinner.

Which I did.

And by the gods, they were delicious. So delicious, in fact, that I do not regret putting myself at risk of getting a myriad of diseases, or eating a poisonous creature for even a second.

After dinner, we went to the music festival in Isafjörður, wherein there was precisely one band which did not suck who played that night. It was Skálmöld, my favourite Icelandic Metal band. The mosh pit was fantastic, and everyone had a good time. The rest of the music, though, was...Well, how can I describe Icelandic music in general?

It tends to be extremely...hip. They know exactly what is on the bleeding edge of popular culture, and if that happens to be retro-ironic goth rock along the lines of Nine Inch Nails or Marylin Manson, then they do that. If it happens to be generic mid-90s pop-rock, then by the gods, they do that too.

Not really my scene, yeah?

After the Skálmöld show was done, the last act came on and I made David a deal: If the act was terrible, we left. If it was awesome, I murdered everyone at the show. Fortunately, the band was terrible, and we left.

When we got back to the hostel, we went to bed. All was good.

Apart from the phantom sheep that Paul heard while having a smoke.

Perhaps some elucidation is needed: Korpudalur is a farmstead. It has lots of fields. Several buildings. No livestock that we saw. The fields are full of sheep droppings, though, so they must be there. Somewhere. But we neither saw nor heard them during the day. At night, however, you could hear the plaintive bleating of a sheep in the distance. Which, when you're in that weird state of half-awareness that comes with just waking up from a deep sleep, or - in Paul's case - knackered from the effects of whiskey,** sleeping pills, and a hot shower, can be extremely disconcerting.

Fortunately, we survived the night. On to...


Day 2, wherein rocks fall, James nearly dies:

After a hearty brunch of bacon, eggs, beans, and toast, we headed off to see sights!

We went all over the Westfjords, from dreary, workaday fishing villages, to shabby industrial towns, and back. We saw many sights, and had a lot of fun. Of the events that day, the one that stands out most is my second - and most legitimate - near-death experience of the trip.

The town of Bolungarvik is a shabby industrial centre, mainly famous for processing fish. To reach it, you used to take a scenic route along the coast, but they bored a tunnel through the mountain and now you go that way. Well, that certainly wouldn't stand - not for an adventuresome group like us! - and as such, we resolved to travel the coastal road on the way back from the town! Unfortunately, the road was marked as 'blocked' and, despite the fact that a group of horsemen had led their mighty steeds through it not ten minutes earlier, we decided to try the road from the other end.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I nearly got crushed by a mountain.

We drove up the road on the Isafjörður side of the tunnel, and encountered the same 'road blocked' signage. This would not do, however, and we dismounted our mighty vehicle. I decided to take the scouting role for myself and travelled up the road around 1200 metres or so. The first 600 metres were fine; the sides of the mountain were a combination of exposed rock and soil, but there were fascines of stones laid alongside the road to keep any errant rocks from ruining our day. There was then a gentle curve in the road, and I disappeared around the bend. This is where things got a bit dodgy. The exposed rocks were riven and fissured, with water pouring down their faces, while the fascines became fewer and further between - the last one had been smashed open by a rather large rock that lay on the road, serving as a sober reminder of the danger in which I found myself. A more pressing reminder, though, was when a few small stones slid down the face of the mountain around 100 metres behind me. Then several more fell a few metres in front of me. And then a boulder the size of my chest bounced into the road less than 20 metres directly in front of me. I took this last occurrence as a sign that I should withdraw post haste.

Siobhan said to me later that I didn't need to shout "We've got a problem" when I rounded the bend of the road. The fact that I was running was indication enough.

Thwarted in our plans for sight seeing, we returned to Isafjörður and from there we went to the second day of the show. Again, there was only one act I was actually looking forward too - my favourite Faeroese singer, Guðrið Hansdóttir - and she performed fantastically. David and Ben wanted to watch more of the show after she was done, so Siobhan, Paul, and I went back into town and drove around for a few hours. After that, we got hungry and found possibly the greatest establishment in Iceland: A combination diner, ice cream shop, convenience store, bar, music shop, and casino. I kid you not. We got milkshakes and had pizza. Then I won 6700ISK playing slots. Great time.

After that, we went driving a bit more, then picked up David and Ben from the concert and went home.

Which is when the second Night of Terror began.

As I have already said, Korpudalur is a farmstead. This means it is fairly isolated. This also means that any children will have to make due with their imaginations; this, unsurprisingly, leads to playhouses and whatnot. One of these playhouses was sitting on the side of the road, and was abandoned. Paul and I joked about it being the sole remaining indicator of a poor dead girl, and went from there. We successfully managed to scare the hell out of ourselves (and David and Ben, although they will never admit it) - and then, to prove our manliness, we went hiking in the farmyard, just the two of us, in the dark. Which kind of worked. At least the phantom sheep would have two people to deal with then.


Day 3, wherein mother nature pulls a Saruman:

We left this morning, prepared for a 6 hour drive south. What we got, however, was a 11 hour drive. Part of this was due to the fact that we stopped at the Galdrasýning á Ströndum and spent an hour or so looking at Icelandic witchcraft and sorcery-related things. Another part of the delay was because we'd decided to eat at a gas station, and that took some time. A third part of the delay was the fact that we tried desperately to ford a flooding river so we could get to some natural hot springs. Alas, that didn't work, but we did get to spend some time with Icelandic horses, which was neat.

The thing that took the most time, though, was our failed attempt at a shortcut across Eyjafell, which would have cut approximately 40km off of our trip. We managed to get a third of the way up the mountain, in 4-wheel, low-centre drive, before we became bogged down in deep snow and Siobhan was forced to back us up. At that point, we again dismounted and I again took a scout up ahead. There was only five or so metres of snow left in the patch we'd been in - it was around 15cm deep - and we decided that, if the path ahead was navigable, we'd try the rest of the mountain.

By this point, though, the weather on the mountain was turning against us quite badly. Winds, rain, and blowing snow made me lose my footing in several fissures along the road, and when I reached the second ice patch, the fact that it was a 100 metre long morass of slush, ice, and mud caused me to curse and bellow my rage at the fact that the next half-kilometre or so looked relatively safe for driving. I reported back and it was decided that we make for the Djupavegur - literally, the Deep Road - and return along the fjords. Which we did.

And that got us home.


There are, of course, many pictures, and I'm going to put them here under a jump, but as there are around fifty of 'em, I'm not going to give you pithy or witty on most of them. You'll just have to deal.



*Ben being David's younger brother.
**Yes, whiskey - he was drinking Jack Daniel's, so the extra 'e' is necessary.


Day 1: The Digital Pictures (of the way in to Korpudalur. And of my Suspect Shellfish.)

This little bivalve was destined to become dinner.  Or murder me.

And here they are; cleaned, washed, and steamed with a bit of butter, garlic, and salt.  Absolutely delicious!

Day 2: The Wrath of Rocks (As well as pics of the hostel at Korpudalur, and of the surrounding area.)

This is a First World War-vintage British 2-pdr. Deck Gun sitting in downtown Suðereyri.  I was enamoured by it, and depressed by the fact that such a magnificent piece of engineering had been left outside to rust.

A close-up of the Hotchkiss recoil dampening system.

That restaurant won't know what hit it.

The second half of the recoil dampener.

And a starboard profile shot of the old girl.

Well, this looks safe enough.

Not pictured:  Those rocks just to the right of the ramp coming loose.

Action shot!  Rocks began coming down, I skedaddled.  See those two rocks in the bottom right?  They were up at the top of the previous picture.  Those rocks on the left?  They were at the top of the previous picture, too.  Adventure!

Day 3: The Search for a Shortcut (which, alas, happened after my battery died.)