Our first stop was a random pull over on the side of the road when I spotted a long, elegant waterfall. Turns out there were two, and the stop wasn't random; we had found Seljalandsfoss, the waterfall our proprietress had told us about after breakfast, when she forced a variety of brochures and maps upon us. It juts out enough from the cave underneath that people can walk a (very wet) path underneath, but I was so wet just from getting up close to take pictures that I decided to skip—those who had planned to come were wearing full rain gear. The wind was blustery and wet, and I slogged through the dewy fields to find refuge in the car while Michael climbed up a hill for better photos.
This entire stretch of the Ring Road is marked by waterfalls; we probably saw 10 today alone, so I won't describe each one. Suffice to say, nearly every one got at least one photographic mention, even if it was just through the rolled-down driver's window with the car stopped dead in the middle of the road for five seconds (I hate driving behind people, because I speed—85 mph in a 90 kmp (60ish mph) zone—but I hate driving in front of people, because I like to stop dead in the middle of the street for pictures without taking the time to pull over. Luckily, the roads have only gotten more and more empty as our itinerary pushes East.)
Continuing on the Ring Road (Hwy 1), I pulled over when I spotted our first real ruins: the fronts and foundations of three stone farmhouses on the side of the road, sheltered by a giant rock jutting up out of the grass and covered in velvety green. I pulled over for this one, and we did a bunch of pictures. I wanted to jump the little wire fence and take close-ups (the ruins are on private property), but Michael usually discourages breaking the law, so I made do with zoom. The rock seemed to be home to a very loud species of bird, and when I started to have a Tippi Hedrin moment, we hopped back into the car and drove on. Next stop, a real attraction: Rútshellir. This is an abandoned farmhouse built into the side of a cave, with grass growing all over the roof (turns out that there are hundreds of these on this part of the island). Took some pictures, got back in the car. Drove; saw another awesome waterfall; stopped at a gas station so Michael could get a Coke Zero (his obsession, and an unintentionally conscious choice: Island has the greatest Coca-Cola consumption per capita in the world at 115 liters per year. Yuck.)
We arrived in Vík and went straight to the beach ("vík" means "bay," if you're wondering), a blustery but stunning black sand stretch complete with black sand sand bar and a psychedelic triplet rock formation off in the distance. The wind at times was strong enough that the sand stung my face and I had to walk backwards, but I walked out to the sand bar's edge nevertheless, snapping pictures all the while. Michael braved the sandbar to touch the water.
After enough of the beach (we took some time to practice throwing rocks across the stream as well), we checked into our accommodation—Hotel Edda—which again had no cooking facility, disabling our desire to self-cater along with the bare grocery store, which sold Michael's company's He's Just Not That Into You in Icelandic, tennis shoes in a variety of sizes, and more candy than Rite Aid at Halloween, but not anything we could eat for dinner. It was five o'clock and the only restaurant in town seemed to be inside the gas station, but Michael found their menu highly distasteful (he would have had to dine on $15 cheese sticks). I asked the gas station attendant whether there were any other restaurants in Vík, and he looked at me as if I were crazy. "Of course," he said. "Where? Or. . . what's good, and where is it? I mean. . ." I bumbled. He rattled off the name of something that began with an "H" and ended with the syllables "-cafe" (and a lot of syllables in between) and pointed left. I thanked him, and we got back in the car to find the mystery cafe. What we found was the restaurant attached to the Guesthouse Lundi, where we had wanted to stay, but which had been booked solid (?!) that night. The proprietor told us that his staff wouldn't arrive until six, so we couldn't dine until then. We thanked him and decided to come back, since he offered a $30 pasta dish Michael found acceptable.
To kill time, we decided to drive up to the church (another tiny box church not much worth describing, and which we didn't even go into), and saw that the road kept going up the hill past the little white cross. We decided to go for the adventure, since we had 48 minutes to spare and counting, so I drove up to the hill's tip top, where we found a small graveyard and a fantastic panorama view of Vík; here we could see that the school had a brand-new full-size all-weather track, and Michael lamented not bringing his running shoes. I reminded him that they had been available at the grocery. We took some pictures, still had time to spare, etc.; we got back in the car. With a half-hour to spare, we decided to kill more time by taking the Ring Road past Vík, where we found another waterfall and snapped some pictures. With fifteen minutes to spare, we followed some signs for points of interest to a German Memorial Rock, decided it sucked, and turned around to go back to the restaurant. Arriving at 6:02, we were told by the proprietor that his staff still hadn't arrived. Kindly, he asked whether we knew about the restaurant next door; we didn't. He told us to go check it out, even though it was bad business on his part. We thanked him and did, and that is how we landed at the restaurant the gas station attendant had recommended: the Hallsdórskaffi, which had gotten a namecheck in our Lonely Planet.
I garnered the proprietor's respect by immediately ordering a large Viking (the local lager) and the "special" burger. Please note that a large lager is larger than a pint; it comes in a frosty glass mug marked with a 0.5 liter line, but is filled above the line such that the contents are likely 0.6 or 0.65 liters. Tasty. I am generally a stout drinker who avoids lager at all costs, but this was clean and refreshing and washed my burger and fries nicely. Michael had a garlic butter and mozzarella pizza with a Coke Light (European Diet Coke). Ought we feel guilty for eating such American food in Iceland? Blame the Icelanders for being so fond of American-style food; they drink Coke and eat hot dogs more than anything else. The only thing that detracted from our dining experience was the Abba playing at high volume throughout the meal. They are inescapable.
After dinner, it was still early and we had a bit too much energy for sleeping. We took a walk through the neighborhood, walking around a campgrounds, to a tiny waterfall, out to the track, over a small stream, and back to the hotel. We had to be in by 11:30 PM because the hotel locks its front door at that time, and Michael didn't want to have to ring the bell. The hostess in the lobby was kind enough to provide me with tea and a password for the wireless internet, and I stayed up late hyped up on English Breakfast, blogging (recall my excitement when Michael got my internet to work). Then, at last, sleep.
More photos from day five.
2 comments:
That bee sure looks good. I wonder how much those fixer-upper sod houses cost.
Meant to say beer, not bee!
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