No, you're getting colder

This post describes our recently completed visit to Iceland, in honour of Tarrin "Mapper" Wills' 30th birthday. Tarrin and Tom both studied Old Norse, along with several equally esoteric subjects, in the English Department at the University of Sydney. Others present were Alana Chinn and Megan Graham. Becky has taken most of the photographs (below), meaning again she is in fewer of them than some of you perhaps hoped for. It takes a lot to get the camera out of her hands! (Becky: Try wrestling Tom away from the computer when writing the blog!) Becky has written the captions for the photos.

On 16 December 2004, Becky and I caught a late flight into Keflavik airport. Iceland is the sort of place that non-Icelanders regard as a cold country. Under normal circumstances, Icelanders would knowingly point out that their scenic island, strategically located under the main flight paths between western Europe and the United States of America, is felicitously situated on the gulfstream. 'It never gets too cold here.' 'The sea keeps these winters quite mild.' 'This may seem like a cold day to you, but really the Gulfstream is keeping it much milder than it would otherwise be.'

We did not hear too much of the amelioration line on this visit, however, as Iceland is in the grip of its coldest winter since 1918. On 17 December, when we hired cars to drive through the tourist 'golden triangle' (Thingvellir, Gullfoss, and Geysir -- piccies below), one themometer was recording an outdoor temparture of -12C, and it was possibly a bit lower than that when Alana's legs and Tom's fingers started dropping off. Reynir, a friend of Tarrin and our man in Reykjavik for the day, said he had never experienced such cold weather. Perhaps some inland Canadians, Polacks, and Skane hardheads will scoff at this weakness. Look: just get yourself a gulfstream nearby, will you!

Thingvellir was where the Old Icelandic parliament, the Althing ('meeting of all'), would convene outdoors every summer during the commonwealth period of early Iceland (the island was settled in 874AD, a real terra nullius, and annexed by Norway in 1281AD). The elected lawspeaker would stand up on the law-rock and recite the entire laws of Iceland in three instalments. They were essentially verse laws, so they were a bit easier to remember. We went onto the law-rock, then walked down beside the drowning pool, where condemned women were executed in the good old days (men were hanged). Becky's photographs capture the darkness and harshness of the pool very evocatively, in Tom's opinion. For anyone who has read Hrafnkels Saga, Thingvellir is a real must-see.

Gullfoss is the great Icelandic waterfall. It was vaster, colder, and more powerful than any postcards have suggested. The river was whistling and howling like a dog, as I think Blind Lemon Jefferson once said. Geysir is the place where they have a geyser. It is kind of the original and the best. (A bit like the old Norse gods invented the first real esky.) These are all places you will see when you are a tourist in Iceland, if you have not already, so it would be wrong to overdescribe them. I must, however, throw in a quick rave about the splendour of the Toyota Rav-4 wagon driving on snow and ice. This was ridiculously exciting. The handling was different enough to be weird, but incredibly responsive with the all wheel drive, ABS brakes, and studded tyres. Our youth hostel lined up the hire for us, and very cheaply at that.

You know, in Iceland, people come for the harsh rugged beauty, but they really stay for the heated outdoor swimming pools. Every township of any size has at least one pool, with at least one spa and at least two other hot tubs ('gossip-pots,' as some call them). We spent a good half of 18 December frolicking in geothermally heated waters, with snow falling steadily on our heads and shoulders. Relaxing and surreal. Not to swim at least once per week is a real non-conformist attitude in Iceland. The pool experience is highly ritualised. 'Before entering change rooms, persons are requested to remove footwear and place in locker,' and 'All persons must shower without a swimsuit before entering pool,' say signs in 5 languages. Some signs also include an anatomical outline that would make Da Vinci weep with rage, identifying, after the fashion of a Venn diagram, those parts of the body that must receive particular attention during said shower without swimsuit. You meet a lot of people in those change rooms. And then the walk through driving snow to reach the pool. With swimsuit, fortunately, to obscure the effects of shocking cold on highly sensitive bodyparts. And then you are in the water, and it is heaven for the next however many minutes or hours you wish to spend cavorting.

Another day we went to the Blue Lagoon. This too was incredible, but like most things in Iceland it was expensive. The swimming pool was cheap, and full of Icelanders, rather than tourists. When Sigurdur ('Sigi') heard that Tarrin and Tom are into the Old Norse literature, he started to tell all about superstitious practices up his way, in the north-west wild country. Many people still believe in trolls and fairies, and it is not unheard of for building or roadworks to stop while locals negotiate with their fay neighbours to get an agreement on the scale and timeline of the project.

Christmas lights tend to look pretty dicky in Australia. Like everything the Griswold family was trying to achieve, plus the added bonus of being unseasonal. In Iceland, they are slightly more modest, but they are absolutely everywhere. Every house, flat, and shop has window displays. In most graveyards, every grave is adorned with Christmas lights. Additionally, Iceland is a country with extremely cheap electricity and plenty of darkness -- the sun rose at 11.21 on 21 December and stayed up for 4 hours -- and the overall effect is vey beautiful, bewitching even.

And after all, it was celebratory cheer that brought us to this snow-covered land. Tarrin's 30th birthday party was a dinner at the house of Reynir's parents, Eggert and Ina. Piece de resistance was poached fish, Icelandic style. God it was good. A hell of a lot nicer than the dried cod Tarrin was getting us to eat during the day (but compare biltong in South Africa -- see below). In addition to Reynir and his parents, we 'Strayans met Merrill from the University of California (Berkeley), Icelandic quiz show champion Armann, University of Queensland graduate Kari, and his 'Strayan wife Olanda. All very nice people, all of them astronomically intelligent, and we hope they will stay in touch.

Some things are priceless -- eg the northern lights, or just the sight of the gloomy sea, restless beneath austere and sheer snow-covered mountains -- but for everything else there is definitely Mastercard. Tarrin claims it is quite feasible to visit Iceland without ever using cash, which may well be true, but you certainly need the money in one form or another. Iceland is famous as an expensive place to be. Tom can report that a stubby of beer in a typical bar bought after 3 in the morning costs about AU$17. How students cope is a mystery, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves well enough at the time. Other very expensive things are pretty much everything apart from the exceptions. Exceptions included: lodgings at the youth hostel in the suburb of Laugardalur; the Flybus to and from the airport; the swimming pool next door to our hostel; dried fish; a walk in the cold; and the cleanest sweetest cold tap water you have ever tasted (although the hot water is slightly sulphurous, and smells of rotten eggs).

So there you go. It's great. Again we write this from London, where we are staying with Nicki and Morgan. Again their hospitality is warm and cheery, a blessing for which we are deeply grateful. Last night all four of us went and saw 'The Bog of Cats,' starring Holly Hunter. It's a kind of Euripides-cum-Ibsen affair set in rural Ireland some time ago. Lots of shouting, guilt, and internecine slayings. Ms Hunter has very impressive biceps and deltoid muscles. Good for footy. Nicki and Becky were excited to be standing in front of Ms Hunter while in the long pre-Xmas butcher's queue in Notting Hill that day. They can report that she is very short and drinks wine exceedingly slowly (the 'Edwardian' butcher's shop provided plastic tumblers of sweet wine to customers waiting in the cold to purchase feasting flesh).

Enough raving. This morning (24 December) Becky and Tom set off for Manchester, where there will be an eagerly awaited Christmas party. Confirmed starters are: Leon Clark (Tom's cousin), Nisha Patel (fiance wrt Leon), Beryl Clark (Leon's mother), and Terry (fiance wrt Beryl). Later in the week it is off to the river Spey in Scotland for new year with April Kelly, Becky's erstwhile flatmate, her fella Gavin, and other friends. A fuller itinerary is in the very first posting for this blog, way below. Photographs are below, but we should also give a mention to Tarrin's photographs, which you may be interested to peruse on his website:

http://skaldic.arts.usyd.edu.au/ph.cgi?list=event&show=30th

We are thinking of you often. Merry Cricketmas! Happy New Year!

Posted by Tom in London (notwithstanding several amendments by Becky).