Iceland 11: to Einhrningur

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Saturday 3rd September 1977

At Krókur, it is the first time I have had to get up in the middle of the night for a pee, awoken by the cold. I should have bought a long ‘mummy’ sleeping bag instead of the one I have. The down-filled ones were only £35. Now, three years later, they are nearly £100.

Outside, the night is still and silent, the sky full of stars. No street lighting here. In the morning, those of us in the stable part of the hut are up ages before those in the posh, wood-panelled part. Our breath has condensed and frozen on the underside of the iron roof. When the sun comes up it warms the roof, melts the ice, and it begins to rain inside. There are a couple of warning drips and then all hell is let loose. I have never seen us get out of our sleeping bags so quickly, especially me and the other ‘Rip van Winkles’ who are all in that part of the hut. Neville, however, gets a soaking because he is wearing his down jacket inside his sleeping bag, jammed in so tight he cannot get out. He wriggles helplessly like a butterfly struggling to get out of its chrysalis, only to find it is still a caterpillar. It must have been really cold to be a ‘duck-suit’ night.

Pat, the youngest of us, wears all his clothes all the time, even his two-pointed, tea-cosy hat. He did not bring anything like enough to wear. He never complains about the cold, he just looks it. “Gloves on in the hut?” queries Paul.

Today’s walk is comparatively easy. The countryside above the Markarfljót gorge is astonishing, but the weather deteriorates as the day progresses and after a wintry downpour we are glad to reach the next hut, Einhrningur. Paul coaches our pronunciation. The trick is to stress the ‘h’ and shorten the second syllable, flicking the ‘r’ off your tongue – Ein-Hr-ningur. It means unicorn. Say it right and you sound like one, or at least like a horse.
 

Einhrningur mountain in a wintry downpour

Einhrningur hut

Those who have been walking in shorts have chapped legs. James, the landscape architect, is worst. He borrows Debbie’s Nivea skin cream. “How do you use it?” someone asks. “You have to snort it,” James responds sarcastically as he takes off his shorts and begins to rub the ointment up his thighs and high into his crotch. “I thought snorting went up your nose,” someone else says. “He thinks it’s a suppository,” suggests one of the bridge school G.T. boys. “Suppositories are useless,” James responds, “of no benefit whatsoever. They’re too big to swallow, they taste disgusting, and for all the good they do, you might just as well shove ‘em up your arse.”

With only one more day’s walking to go, the evening has a party atmosphere. The hut is the most enormous and luxurious yet, with proper bunks. James produces a bottle of whisky, no wonder his rucksack was so heavy, and we share out our remaining Mars bars and other treats. Someone sets the challenge of swinging the length of the hut hand-over-hand on the overhead beams, and then swinging back underneath the long table. Only four can do it – the bridge school of course – but Gavin tries and fails about two hundred times. I make a decent attempt but cannot do it either.

The food, already here for us, is plentiful. There is dehydrated chicken supreme, sliced spam, peas, Smash potato, Angel Delight, and apple custard. A kind of yoghurt called Skyr is received with great enthusiasm. In the morning there is Sol Gryn porridge and real eggs, and not only sandwiches to take along during the day but also chocolate bars – Old Jamaica, Three Musketeers (American Milky Way) or just chocolate. I could eat it until I’m sick. It is a big improvement on the Marathon bars we had earlier in the walk, which Paul had carried next to the cooking fuel and tainted with the taste of paraffin. Those, we renamed ‘Parathon’.

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Some names and personal details have been changed. I would be delighted to hear from anyone who was there.

North Wales

Sorry for not responding or commenting last week. We were away in a cottage without internet at Llanbedr-y-Cennin above the Conwy valley. It is a bit off the beaten track. On the other hand, we had views down to the river and a J W Lees pub just across the road. You can’t have everything.

This green and ancient land is scattered with the remains of Iron Age hill forts, and was the location of the busy Roman township of Canovium, most of which has long disappeared.

Cross the Conwy river and you are in that part of Wales where Welsh is spoken, a language that seems to have too many Ls and Ds, and unusual combinations of letters. Words and place names echo round your head like catchy tunes as you try to make sense of them. Moel Siabod and Pentrefoelas are doing it right now. It is also not far from John Going Gently territory. Lovely. As is the countryside.

Llandudno

We have been many times. We came on honeymoon, then again with the kids, and now just two of us again. We have looked down from the Carneddau ridges into the cockpits of military jets flying fast along the Bethesda valley, so close we could see the pilots, and then marvelled as they lifted their jets on to their tails and blasted vertically into the stratosphere. We have looked up to the balconies of Llandudno hotels where guests, gin and tonics in hand, peruse the sweeping two-mile promenade. And we have looked along the precariously high and exposed walls of castles, afraid of losing our footing. Harlech is terrifying.

Yet we still found new things to do. We visited the enormous 80-acre Bodnant gardens for the first time. We circled on foot into the hills from the village of Abergwyngregy, past its 120 feet (37m) waterfall, returning with views across the Menai Straight to Anglesey. And we walked up from the village of Trefriw around the beautiful lakes of Llyn Crafnant and Llyn Geirionydd, one of the finest walks in Britain. 

Bodnant Gardens

Llyn Crafnant and the derelict Klondyke lead mill near Llyn Geirionydd

Almost all of our walks over the years have been from books bought thirty years ago for £1.80 and £1.99, which must be the best value walks books we ever bought. The pages note which we’ve done, with whom and when. Even after all this time, with common sense the directions still work for us.

Mrs D. is always very quick to remind me that North Wales is where I usually manage to injure myself. I have suffered twisted ankles and tripped over uneven steps on the Conwy bridge. More seriously, I slipped in sodden woodland and sat down heavily on a tree stump, damaging my coccyx. I had to carry a stiff board around at work for a month, unable sit on anything soft or curved. It was a kitchen chopping board with brightly coloured pictures of vegetables. And I fell in the bath, breaking a lower rib which clicked painfully in and out of position for a couple of weeks. It eventually set in a lob-sided lump. The doctor showed no sympathy whatsoever. “Your modelling days are over,” he told me.  

This year, it was Mrs D. who went down on a slippery stone near the derelict Klondyke mill, bruising her knee and hip, and limping. I’m not saying a word. Not one.