Friday, August 21st, 2026
Distance driven – 357 kilometres (611 total)
Distance hiked – 7.2 kilometres
I am always an early riser, I seem to have an internal setting in my head that wakes me up at 05:00. Sadly, that same setting appeared to be for C.E.T. – which was no good in Iceland, where it translated to 03:00. When I woke, it was just light enough to see the calm waters of the bay and the mountains beyond (which were actually on the next peninsula up), but I did not feel like getting up. I crawled back under my duvet and, hey presto, it was suddenly 06:40 local time.
I got up and crept to the kitchen to make Lucie her early morning coffee, but I guess she must have been dying for a fag, because she got up too. There was some “communal” milk, so I made myself three cups of tea (the IKEA cups were tiny) and we sat in the kitchen and fussed over our notes. Not these, of course, but the one’s from the day before which the Wi-Fi declined to send after I had polished them up.
We had emptied the fruit bowl before leaving home so, as breakfast was not included, Lucie made a fruit salad out of grapes, banana, pears and mandarins. Delicious, but the next morning, we would have pear and, errrr, lemon !
We (Lucie) packed and off we went.
Our first port of call was the local supermarket where we bought some candies for the road and some nail scissors. We always end up needing the scissors – and we cannot travel with them in hand-baggage. So, every time we travel, we have to buy scissors when we arrive and then abandon them when we leave. No matter what else the late and unlamented Osama bin Laden may have done, I hate him for that !
We jumped into the Suzuki and headed off a mere twenty-two kilometres around the coast to our first “diversion” of the day.
Lucie directed me into a small car park, across the road from a single mountain that rose impressively skywards.
This was Kirkufell. The outcrop stands some 463 metres high but, mercifully, Lucie’s scheme was to walk around the base and NOT to ascend to the top. There was a poorly marked, but well trampled and thus easy to follow trail. The peaks of other mountains nearby were hidden by mist, but ours, perhaps because it was surrounded on three sides by the sea, was not. We set off in dull sunshine and no small amount of wind.
Our entire lives, it seems these days, are unconsciously controlled by sounds of some description. Our ‘phones ring in a variety tones, sufficient at times, to let us know who is calling, before we even answer. Other beeps and tones let us know we have a message – and can also give us an idea of the source. My car has a bewildering array of sounds to let me know that I have made an omission or a transgression. Sounds are everywhere and we know what they mean and are programmed to react to them.
Why all that blab ? I hear you ask.
Well, as we entered some long grass, I heard a tone, a sort of piped single note. I did not know it and no reflex action ensued, so I assumed it must be from Lucie’s ‘phone. But, she did not know it either and looked at me quizzically. We heard it again. I looked around and, alerted by a nearby fluttering, observed a Golden Plover in the grass. It piped again, revealing it to be the source of the tone. I do know a bit about birds and I know that, should a bird deliberately try and make you look at IT, then there is a fair chance that its chicks are nearby. So, instead, I looked elsewhere and we spotted two chicks scurrying in the opposite direction. I whipped up the camera and I hope I got them because, as soon as they froze, they became completely invisible. I know they are on the second picture, but even with a magnifying glass, I cannot find them now ! The other parent had now arrived too and was piping anxiously. Much to their joint relief, Lucie and I continued on our way.
A hike is a hike, the experience largely dictated by the terrain. This hike was largely flat, through tussocks of occasionally boggy grass, with no great ascents or descents. We had the sea on our right and the towering massif on our left. There was a lot of birdlife, gulls mainly, but some ducks, some geese and a lot of ravens. We spotted a very large raptor, at one point, but it flew away before I could identify it. There were sheep too, some very high up the outcrop. An unusually high proportion of them seemed to be black.
With the hike completed in somewhat more than Lucie’s projected ninety minutes, we drove into the nearby town of Grundarfjordur. The waters beside Kifkjufell and the bay behind the town attracts cruise liners, there were two in the bay. As a consequence, it was a bit twee, but we found a little restaurant, Kaffi 59, where we enjoyed a pleasant lunch of salmon (Lucie) and lamb chops (me).
Refreshed, we continued along the coast on Road 54. As we rounded the bay, there was a rainbow, neatly framing a cruise ship. You just have to, do you not ?
We carried on driving along the coast. The scenery, everywhere you looked, was harsh and dramatic.
When we came to a sign that said Berserkjahraun, we turned up something that might have charitably been called a track.
This area had been recommended to us as something to see, by a friend and was ultimately well worth the bumpy drive up some very poorly surfaced roads. Still, that is why we had rented a jeep, not a saloon car. The jumbled lava field was truly spectacular, with dramatic rocky formations of varying vintages over a large area.
We decided that it was time to bring “little tripy” into action, but soon found out that I had forgotten the part that holds my iPhone so that we can take snaps with a beeper. No problem, we could screw our camera on. Except we had only had it a week and we did not know how to set the timer.
It was very windy, not very warm and dust was blowing around. This was a time for neither prevarication, nor hesitation. It was not an argument, as such, but words were said ! In the end we (Lucie) unravelled the timer’s mystery and some pictures were taken. Then it was off again, through some really harsh and dramatic terrain and back onto Road 54.
We were now heading for what was our real destination, the North West Fjords. Away from the Road 1, which circles almost all of Iceland’s coastline, there are some very basic roads indeed. Although there are occasionally some beautifully surfaced stretches, the majority are not in good repair and are often little more than half-metallised tracks. The little Suzuki took them all in its stride, but progress was slow. At the point where Road 54 met Road 60, we turned left and headed West.
Precipitation from the low clouds and generally poor visibility slowed us still further and it was almost six in the evening before we crossed the long bridge that “officially” put us in the West Fjords.
At first, we encountered a beautiful road, but it soon became apparent that this was probably a by-product of the bridge we had crossed, which was obviously of fairly recent construction. The surface steadily deteriorated and, in places, was as bad as anything we had seen. We love being on our Harley-Davidson, but we agreed that Iceland in general and any other thoroughfare than Road 1, was probably not the place to ride one.
The weather had also closed in. The already low cloud was practically at ground level on top of the hills and passes. It condensed on the windscreen and the intermittent wiper was in constant use. These two factors combined to render visibility off to the sides all but non-existent and we are sure we missed a lot of beautiful views and scenery. All I could do was concentrate on the dubious road surface ahead. The day became a bit of a drone.
As a consequence, I cannot tell you much about what we saw. In the rare, short, periods when we could see something, our surroundings were as stark and harshly beautiful as anything anywhere. Just how, on earth, they managed to put roads there at all is a wonder, especially for such a paucity of people. What did amuse us was the green colour of the grass. After our long hot Summer in Prague, during which our lawn became a brown patch between our brown vegetable beds, the bright emerald hue of the grass in the meadows seemed almost surreal.
Then, to cap it all, it began to rain and, in Iceland, that meant it had a capital “R”. No wonder the fields were all so green ! All we could do was keep going, but the speed dictated by the weather and the road surface meant that our final destination was coming towards us at a snail’s pace. Long stretches of road followed the side of each fjord to its “vik” (the bit furthest in) then we would cross a small bridge – and drive all the way back out again. This reminded me of a motorcycle trip in Norway, in the 1970s. The Norwegians have since obviated this with endless tunnels and a few suspension bridges. The Icelanders (who are admittedly a lot nearer to the Tectonic Plates as the island actually sits on one joint) have opted for low-level bridges on artificial levees across the mouth of some fjords. We went over several of these and more are under construction. That meant that, periodically, we had to change fjord by climbing a precipitous serpentine over the top. The Suzuki only had a 1300cc engine and a couple of times I was required to go down into second gear in order to complete the ascent. Heavy Goods Vehicles also make the trek. How those long and heavy behemoths can navigate those climbs, descents and hairpin bends, I cannot begin to imagine. I am just grateful that I did not encounter one in a really sticky place. Bridges were usually single track, which reminded us of New Zealand.
Our petrol began to run a bit low and I had no wish to relive (yet again) the experience of running really low in the middle of nowhere. Mapy, Lucie’s ever-reliable Czech map program, soon found us a place. Incidentally, despite the previously mentioned national move to 5G internet, that does NOT cut much ice in the remote and mountainous fjords. There is virtually no internet signal in a lot of places and none, whatsoever, in others. Luckily, she had downloaded the offline maps and we could tell where we were (and watch our painfully slow progress) by virtue of GPS.
We found the petrol station. Like most of them, it was automated but that was not the problem. How did we open the flap to get at the filler cap ? There is always a button, or a lever, but could we find it ? No we could not. In the end, we were forced to consult the manual in the glove-box. This thick and weighty tome, which would have put many a bible to shame, eventually revealed that a small lever, situated right under the left heel of anyone sitting in the driver’s seat looking for it, would do the trick. In went the petrol which, amazingly, was cheaper than in Prague.
Attached to the petrol station was a service area/supermarket. It was the sort of place where you could buy a bulb for your car, your week’s groceries, new socks or some racy black lingerie for your wife or girlfriend. We limited ourselves to a cookie (there was only one left) and some surprisingly good coffee and hot chocolate. The somewhat bored looking girl on the check-out, spoke amazingly good English.
Refuelled in every sense, we set off on the last leg of that day’s drive. It had stopped raining, but it was heading towards dusk, so the visibility was not much better. The road still rose and fell dramatically and snaked crazily. We could tell where we would eventually be by the lights of oncoming vehic
les that appeared at a variety of positions and elevations in the gloom ahead.
Places to sit and eat are very much at a premium in those parts and Lucie had located one about six kilometres before our lodgings. This was the Hotel Flokalundur. We found it quite easily as there was nothing else, anywhere. It was cheerful enough, but more like a transport cafe than a restaurant. The food (we both had cod) was passable, but no culinary delight and we followed it with a chocolate fondant. Unbelievably, the waitresses were girls from Olomouc in the Czech Republic and Banská Bystrica in Slovakia. The Czech one had just completed a Masters Degree in Italian culture. This apparent statement of intelligence did not stop them misunderstanding Lucie and giving us A fondant, we really wanted one each. I did have another Gull beer, but that was a bit naughty as Iceland has a zero alcohol limit for drivers.
Outside, the downpour had recommenced with a vengeance. Across the road from the restaurant was a bridge and, in crossing it, we finally left Road 60 for Road 62. It took only a few minutes along that narrow highway before we came to the tiny Brjanslaekur ferry terminal (we could have come directly there from about thirty kilometres away from where we woke up) and, almost directly opposite that, the tiny road leading to our accommodation. We had been instructed to collect our keys from “the blue house” and in truth, the word “blue” was a bit superfluous as there were no other houses at all . While Lucie was picking up the keys, I amused myself by watching a man pressure-wash his muddy pickup during the still torrential rainstorm. Keys collected, we drove the short distance up the hill to the Gamli baerinn cafe and guesthouse, which was where we were staying. We supposed it was the former house of the cleric as it stands right next to a cute little church (Brjanslaekakirkja) with its attendant cemetery…,……
Our room was small, basic and comfortable – and overlooked the graveyard.
A day of high concentration had left me exhausted and I scarcely registered the rain still drumming on the roof above my head before I dropped gently into dreamland.
