We have breakfast at the farm, watching the cows in the barn
and the sheep in the fields. We head out
for the Diamond Circle, a 150 mile loop in the northeast connecting 5 of the
most beautiful sites in the region and countless hidden gems. First stop is Dettifoss, the most powerful
waterfall in all of Europe. The hike is about
half a mile through a lunar-like landscape to the edge of the falls. We have seen literally hundreds of waterfalls
in the last week, but this one does not fail to impress. Pouring a stunning 500 cubic meters of water
per second, you can feel the raw power of the water, but that power has a
mesmerizing effect on us the longer we look.
Another half mile upstream is Selfoss, same amount of water, wider and
not as tall, the two siblings demonstrating their individual personalities.
Next stop is Asbyrgi Canyon. The river that forms the last two waterfalls flows through the bottom of the canyon, but we’re headed to where the canyon starts. It’s a surprisingly enticing thing to see. Flat ground then, foot by foot, the left wall pushes up and away and the right wall pushes up and hard in the other direction. In the middle there’s now an attempt at a nine-hole golf course, perfectly flat from the first tee box to the final tee and exactly zero trees or sand traps. The “rough” is pretty tragic, though, consisting of nothing but lava rock. Just take the penalty stroke. You can see the entire course from our vantage point and there literally only one single guy trying to play in the strong swirly wind. But I digress. Although it’s still and peaceful now, It’s one of those few landscapes where you can feel the earth ripping apart millennia after the actual event.
Near the start of the canyon is a visitor’s center, a big, well designed modern structure with a nice display area and we are the only visitors. The woman behind the counter is chatty and friendly when we ask about seeing puffins now that we’re at the north coast. We explained that we saw some on Westmen Islands, but only at a distance. These birds are unspeakably cute, found in every piece of Icelandic promotion and seeing them up close (and getting good pix!) is a goal for our trip. Mandy has a few notes, but the woman dismisses them, instead telling us about a place where she goes. An unmarked pullover on Route 85 right on the edge of a cliff. We follow her instructions and it’s exactly as she described, a place we wouldn’t bother stopping otherwise. Nor has anyone else, and we’re alone here, edge of the world, high above the water. A few gulls buzz just overhead as we get out of the car, a good sign as the two birds are often found together, the gulls nesting in the cliffside rocks and the puffins burrowed into the little tufts of grass. Just steps from the car we see the layout, a high cliff with a narrow sliver or rock jutting out in front angled slightly down. Looking down the few hundreds of feet to the water, we’re amazed to see hundreds of puffins bobbing in the water, soaking up the sun’s rays. Looking back at the cliff wall, we see hundreds more, right there, eye level and slightly below, some as close as 20 yards and well within the range of our lens. We sit there for almost an hour, taking turns photographing and just watching, giddy at our good fortune and the kind advice of the locals. The pix are among the best we have ever taken.
(side note: Puffins have some amazing qualities. They mate for life. They fly very fast but are even better
swimmers, diving up to 60 feet to catch a fish.
Every fall, they fly thousands of miles south to their winter
homes. Every spring they fly thousands
of miles back to the exact same nest, and do this for life as well. They’re here in Iceland from late May to
early September, so when the woman told us where the puffins were, she not only
knew that they would still be there, but they were the exact same ones she
would go and visit. Going to be in
Iceland? Let me know and I’ll drop you a
pin!)
Pulling ourselves away, we continue up the mountain with the sea to our right, heading higher and norther to the tip of the Tjornes peninsula. Sweeping views of the Greenland Sea, the curve of the earth and somewhere beyond the horizon, only the Artic. Wow. Breathe. Smile. Kiss. Wow.
Excitement has given way to hunger, so we continue around the peninsula to Husavik, another charming little fishing town in a series of charming little fishing towns. Big bowls of piping hot soup, tomato for Mandy and seafood for me, in a classic seaside inn, followed by a walk around town. It’s a tiny place, so there’s not much more to see after the working harbor and church that came right off my childhood model train platform. Time to head back to the farm.
We catch a quick nap and wake in time for the 5:30pm milking. This isn’t some gimmicky tourist show. This is a working farm, and we realize that as we let ourselves into the cow’s portion of the cow barn. The smell is authentic but gets a little better as the first farm hand pressure washes the floors. Mandy has never been in a milking barn before, and the smell stings her nose (not that I like it, just not my first rodeo.) When we ate on the other side of the glass, I’d watch the farm hands as they did their chores, busily going about their work, but often talking to the animals and giving them a happy rub on their nose or head. As soon as we walk in the cows look at us, clearly expecting attention. I oblige, and Mandy gets (almost) comfortable doing so after a few minutes (she’s not really big on touching smelly things). Their big heads preen up under our hands, nudging for more petting like some huge Labrador. The mature animals lick our hands with their big sandpaper tongues, but the young ones need to be corrected when they try to nibble. The other two farm hands come in. A big Viking of guy with a shock of curly red hair and a black and white Boarder Colie, who we’ve noticed are constant companions. The dog knows why he’s here and sets to work without any instruction, making sure the first couple cows are securely tucked into the narrow stalls near the milking machine. Viking gets the machine going on the first cow, slips his headphones on and fires up the live feed of the European Cup soccer match. No show, just today’s work as normal. The dog knows he has a few minutes and comes over to us. We pet him and he’s soaking up the loving for as long as he can. With a single word, Viking sets the dog back to work, keeping the cows still until the milking is done.
Enough farm for us today, so it’s back to the Myvatn Nature Baths for a nice rejuvenating soak. We’re really starting to dig this hot outdoor pool culture, and now understand that the locals hang out at the pool like us Americans might hang out at a bar for an hour after work. It’s a wind-down, communal, plus the water feels as good as any drink I have ever had. It’s almost 9 with the sun showing no signs of setting, late for dinner for us as time has become blurry. We pull into the Hotel Laxa dressed casually, but this place is more swank then we thought. They happily greet us and seat us anyway, a nice table by a window. The fish tonight is river trout, caught just a few miles from here and the first trout we have seen in country. It was everything we hoped fresh trout from a few miles away would be, sweet, flaky and mild.
It’s after 10:30 when we leave but even after a long day we’re not tired. About halfway back, we stop at Dimmuborgir, a place on Mandy’s list that we didn’t think we’d have time to get to. Dimmuborgir’s claim to fame is the large field of crenulated rock. Webster’s dictionary defines crenulated… naw… that’s just lazy writing. Besides, crenulated is such a good word that I bet, like art or porn, I’ll just know it when I see it. And we do. You can imagine most of these rock formations coming to life and talking in some big booming voice like The Thing from The Fantastic Four. We walk one of the smaller loops for a half hour or so, finding shapes in the rocks like so many crenulated clouds.
Back at the lodge, we do some salutations to the late night sun before we finally call it a night.
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