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Another extract from the journal: Neville and I are on an organised
walking tour in Iceland, backpacking with ten others and a walk leader.
We spent all day yesterday cooped up in a hut because of gale force
winds and hailstones. Not the best start to the walk.
Sunday 28th August 1977
The morning begins with light drizzle, but yesterday’s impossible wind
has gone. The day gradually improves until by evening there are sunny
periods.
At last, some walking! After yesterday’s forced
incarceration we are moving from Sveinstindur to Skaelingar, a trek of
about ten miles. We set off up a long hill. I find myself easily at the
front, with lots of stamina after the summer in a canning factory.
Twelve-hour nights spent cleaning machinery have boosted me from student
infirmity to super-fitness.
A small group we now refer to as “the bridge school” shoot off ahead, almost missing a river crossing and change of direction. I keep in sight of Paul, the walk leader, as he is the only one who knows the way. “If they’ve got the energy to go off in front, they’ve got the the energy to come back,” he mutters. Moral – don’t go off in front.
We come to a steep slope down to the edge of a lake. The surface resembles ball bearings on a corrugated iron roof. I descend rather more quickly than intended. Neville watches hopefully, camera at the ready, but my canning-factory hardened hands control it without injury. Later I tread carelessly and fall, bruising my hip, which does not bode well for restful nights. After then dropping behind the front runners for a while, I put on an hour’s sustained speed to catch Paul and the bridge school just as we near the hut.
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| Skaelingar |
How superb it is compared with Sveinstindur. In fact, Skaelingar is
two huts. We use the smaller one for cooking and eating as it is
draughty but with a wooden floor. The other hut, the stable, is
palatial, with a comfortable mossy floor, so we use it for sleeping.
There is plenty of room to spread out with wide spaces at both sides of
your sleeping bag to avoid second-hand bad breath. Water is available
from streams running into the nearby River Skaft. I even wash my hair in
the evening sun. The cold produces a force-ten headache.
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| Rock pillars at Skaelingar |
All
around Skaelingar are strange, knobbly pillars of rock, many of them
hollow. They can be eight feet high and three or four feet wide (2.4m x 1m).
According to local folklore, they were left from a war between trolls.
They were actually formed underwater by lava seeping up from a lake bed,
possibly as recently as 1783 when volcanic activity created a temporary
dam.
As well as better weather, the climate has improved
socially. Everyone now gets on like old friends. It is a well-educated
middle-class group. In addition to me and Neville, there are three
chemists, a factory inspector, a landscape architect, a Brussels
translator, a medical researcher, a personnel administrator and two other
students one of whom is a mature teacher trainee. Paul, the leader, also
did languages at university. Three are in their thirties, the rest of
us in our twenties.
The landscape architect works for the Forestry Commission. What a break for him: an island with no trees.
The
only girl in the group, Debbie, is here with her boyfriend, Dennis. She
must be finding things very awkward. As I round the corner of a lava pillar, I
see her with pants down. I quietly retreat.
One of
the chemists has been calling Dennis, ‘Des’, having misheard his name
when Debbie said what they are. Being cautious, I hadn’t
been calling him anything. I’d thought she said their names were Debbie
and Dilys
Some gentle teasing is starting to occur. The four we
call ‘the bridge school’ seem completely unaware of anything beyond the
cards. Someone suggests they need a portable card table that folds down
from the back of a rucksack so they can play as they walk, oblivious the
wonders of the surrounding landscape.
When it emerges that four
of the group are from Manchester, someone goes into a long story about
being there and watching vandals shave the paint off parked cars. “What,
with a razor blade do you mean?” someone asks. “No, with an electric
one,” someone else suggests.
Thrown together like this in
remote, overcrowded huts, it is becoming clear there is plenty of scope
for for getting on each other’s nerves. One good way to irritate others
is to pontificate erroneously about chemistry in front of three
professional chemists who cannot get a word in edgeways. Another is to
bullshit about languages in front of linguists. Sveinstindur does not
mean ‘pig mountain’. But the best way of all, bearing in mind that in the dark we only have a weak camping light, is to wear a reading torch
that straps to your head and blinds everyone you look at.
(next part)
Some names and personal details have been changed. I would be delighted to hear from anyone who was there.
