And that’s how, starting in Krakow, Poland and after a pint-filled overnight layover in London, I found myself touching down in Reykjavik on October 9th, with only my digital SLR and a few changes of clothing to my name, and meeting Kevin, my partner in birthday celebrations and everything else, at the airport.

A Flickr slideshow with a few of the hundreds of photos Anna took on her trip to Iceland

We spent the first few days of our week-long adventure in Reykjavik, walking a lot — it’s good for that — admiring the graffiti (we’re both big fans) …

… and nature (ditto).

On my birthday, the sun warmed the city enough to wander about in just a sweater, before coming home to warm up with wine and then hitting the town for “the best lobster soup on the planet” (as told to us by two very enthusiastic New Yorkers while queuing for hot dogs the night before) at a restaurant on a boat. It lived up to the hype.

The rest of our time in the city is a blur of taking photos and running around exploring the nightlife with newly-made Icelandic friends.

Perhaps this photograph will best illustrate how charming and odd Reykjavik is.

This is the backyard that was the setting of an Icelandic documentary called The Backyard, in which the filmmaker gets his friends who play in various local bands to perform in, well, his backyard.

We caught the film one afternoon during Airwaves, and as we were walking back to our apartment straight from the cinema, I noticed the scenery suddenly looking familiar. A bit of inquisitive wandering into gardens and there it was: the backyard from The Backyard! Only in Reykjavík. (In Texas, where Kevin hails from, I’m pretty sure we would have gotten shot.)

When planning this trip, and taking into account that unfortunately neither Kevin nor I are millionaires or even close, I more or less counted on subsisting exclusively on hot dogs and hitchhiking to get anywhere. However, upon arriving, it turned out that while the recent financial crisis had been devastating for the Icelandic economy, it was great for us (sorry, Iceland).

Not only could we afford to share a lovely little apartment in central Reykjavik for a few days, it turned out that the price of a car rental was substantially less than I had assumed (one’s firstborn plus half a college tuition), so we decided to rent an economical little European motorcar so we could explore the island at our own pace. Our chariot:

With Kevin at the wheel and myself in position as navigator/photographer extraordinaire, we set off for three days of adventure from Reykjavík to Vík that had us sleeping at a horse farm, riding said horses, driving up to a glacier, seeing more waterfalls in one day than I had in the past decade, and generally gawking in awe at the incredible natural richness the island has to offer (not to mention meeting some very nice people).

Of course, in this case more than ever, the pictures say so much more than words can.

Anna Spysz is a 28 year old Polish-American living in Kracow, who visited Iceland in great company from 9 to 16 October 2010. But you knew that already. Apart from having an excellent taste when it comes to islands in the middle of the ocean, she is also a very talented writer, blogger, photographer and keyboardist. You should say halló to her on Twitter.

This isn’t a trip one reads about in tourist brochures. How and where did you get the idea?

I’ve always been the sort of person who likes looking at a map and determining how I can find a route from here to there. Something about Iceland captured my imagination. The initial idea was to cross the country coast to coast, and then I discovered the packraft. This seemed to be great for a challenge that wasn’t a silly gimmick. So then I fine-tuned the idea of walking inland from the coast, crossing a glacier, then paddling down to the other coast.

You’ve written books about cycling solo around the world. Why not choose that mode of transport for Iceland?

I spent four years on the bike. To do any more bike trips is going to repeat the same experience in different ways. So I try and use other means of transport for expeditions now.

What did you know about the country before the trip?

I think my preconception of Iceland—which turned out to be quite true—was of wild emptiness and rugged land and big waterfalls and rivers.

Did you get along well with travel partner Chris?

All I’d done with Chris in the past was spend three weeks in his flat in Kazakhstan overstaying my welcome, but we got on very well. Importantly for a travel partner, he was very relaxed with a good sense of humour. By the end we were slightly tired and fed up, but that’s normal. …

The big problem for Chris was that he’s used to sitting for a day or two until the sun shines correctly, or if it’s boring he jumps somewhere else and just keeps going. On this trip he was stuck, so walking through the highlands where it rained for a week and he didn’t get one good photo, he found that stressful. Similarly, it would have been great to sit some places for a week, but we didn’t have enough food so we had to keep going.

Was the lack of food a problem?

It was one of the biggest difficulties. To carry food for 25 days was quite difficult, plus camera, rafts, camping gear, so we could just fill our packs until we could just about lift them and divided the food there by 25 and accepted that was our lot. We were on 2000 calories a day. We got quite hungry; we had to ban conversations about food.

Did you have your iPod with you?

I don’t take music on trips. It’s lovely to have, but I like the experience of not having it. We have so little silence in our normal lives.

Anything you wish you’d packed?

Just more food. Everything else was as minimal as possible. When it started snowing, we wore every stitch of clothing we had. When you’re wearing all your clothes and you’re just about warm enough, then you’ve packed right.

What were the highlights?

The massive variety is what really struck me. We started north by Akureyri so immediately heading up that valley was green and pretty, and then the highlands were so grim and empty, but I found them quite wonderful. Then we were on a glacier and on the river. We did the Laugavegurinn hike. So the highlight was the emptiness and the variety. Coming in to Reykjavík, it struck me how safe and friendly and civilized Iceland was, so that was a nice bonus too.

Did you ever feel dangerously isolated?

Isolation is always nice until something goes wrong. A strange thing is that our mobile phones worked the whole way. But I think the thing that worried us is that on the river, if something goes wrong, even if you call the police it’s too late. We had police numbers, but you don’t want to have to rely on that. It’s best to assume that no one can rescue you and that you’re responsible for your own actions and the consequences of those actions. That applies to any river anywhere in the world. You don’t want to mess around with water too much.

What’s the next challenge?

I haven’t decided yet. It’s time to dig out the atlas and start browsing again. … I’m trying to emphasize that anyone can have adventures; you just have to go and do it.

Alastair Humphreys spoke with Eliza Reid on 1 December 2010. Read all about Alastair’s and Chris’s adventure on Alastair’s website.

“Babies” is the first example Ragga (as she likes to be known) gives of this legacy, but knitting is the second: “You can take it everywhere. It’s not noisy or smelly, and it can be easy or difficult and everything in between.”

Not noisy, perhaps, but there is definitely a constant clacking hum this evening in the well-lit community room of Bústaðakirkja church just outside central Reykjavík, where dozens of well-heeled women are sitting in clusters of up to five around tables, knitting fiercely and conversing just as efficiently.

There may be no y-chromosomes present, but all generations are represented, from great-grandmothers with shocks of white hair and perfectly manicured fingers, to fresh-faced teenagers somewhat more tentatively stitching and purling something snugly to wear while waiting for the bus in blustery Icelandic weather.

White china mugs are stacked in rows on a table at the side, standing guard over a big bowl of freshly fried kleinur (Icelandic cardamom doughnuts) while waiting to be filled with freshly brewed strong coffee (even though it’s 9.30 pm). The ladies of the church’s Women’s Association have prepared these traditional treats for the break time at this two-hour Knitting Café.

And this café is all the rage.

“Everybody loves a knitter!” jokes Ragga, a former nurse and now self-described ‘knitting entrepreneur’ and co-owner of Knitting Iceland, a business devoted to almost any stitch-, pattern- or lopi-related topic imaginable.

Like at Iceland’s ubiquitous outdoor swimming pools, conversations at the Knitting Café run the gamut of topics, from upcoming births in the family to frustration with local politicians. Many in attendance choose to exercise only their digits and stay silent, leaving the decibels in the room at a low level.

The evening’s coddled children are undoubtedly the numerous varieties of wool: Warm, soft pastels for a child’s hat. Delicate grey for an Icelandic three-pointed shawl. Durable, water-resistant and fashionable lopi (Icelandic wool) for just about anything from sweaters to gloves to neck warmers. Piled on round tables or trailing onto the floor, with spare bundles forming soft mountains in handbags, centimetre by centimetre the strings are pulled, prodded, and gently tugged onto needles, counted in stitches, and checked every few minutes or so to make sure they are conforming to the overall pattern.

“Icelanders have a deep relationship to knitting,” explains Ragga.

After learning the skill from German merchants in the 17th-century, knitting became vital for families to keep each other warm during the long, harsh winters.

Thanks to the Icelandic sheep, which had arrived on the island with the first settlers in the late 9th century, supplies of wool were abundant. It was also ideal for the living conditions: lopi, as Icelandic wool is known, is composed of two different fibres, making is simultaneously warm, water-repellent and light.

Before the industrialization of the country, knitwear was actually Iceland’s second-largest export after fish.

“In the 17th century, we had a population of only about 40,000,” says Ragga. “But we exported almost 100,000 pairs of socks and mittens annually.”

Today people knit less out of necessity and more for enjoyment and a link to tradition. It is still part of the primary school curriculum.

“Here it is completely normal to knit,” Ragga says.

Icelandic volunteers knitting for the Red Cross

In fact, Iceland has been experiencing somewhat of a renaissance in knitting in the last five years or so. The durable lopapeysa, a wool sweater worn by farmers and fishermen since the 1950s, has made an appearance on fashion runways and is worn in various guises by trendsetting Icelanders. According to Hulda Hákónardóttir, Marketing Manager at Ístex, the country’s largest producer of lopi yarn, sales of wool and knitting products have tripled in the past three years.

Halfway through the two-hour café evening, Ragga delivers a brief presentation on new knitting patters and introduces Knitting Iceland’s new online knitting magazine. The Icelandic word for knitting pattern is the same as the word for recipe; there are “recipes” for new shawls and hats, lopi sweaters and pillows.

There’s a draw for a how-to DVD, and a copy of the book Whimsical Little Knits, followed by polite applause. The soft clacking continues throughout Ragga’s speech.

Just before heading to the coffee table to hydrate, Ragga reveals what she’s been busy knitting: a pair of socks for her first granddaughter-to-be, due any day now. Ragga’s tablemates concur that something hand-knit by a grandparent is a virtual pre-requisite for leaving the hospital after birth.

That shouldn’t be a problem for most newborn Icelanders. Knitting fervour seems stronger than ever.

“A lot of Iceland is intense,” says Ragga. “Our weather is intense and the economy is intense.” She laughs. “It’s the same in terms of time spent on knitting and the social activities surrounding it.”

The Knitting Cafés take place on the third Monday of each month. Admission is free (though donations for coffee and kleina are encouraged) and all are welcome, presumably provided they have needles and yarn. Knitting Iceland also offers special knitting tours of Iceland.

I miss you.

Last time we met was more than three years ago, and the time before that was three years before. Even if there was no previous time before those two times, I miss you today.

I live in a beautiful place where there are big mountains around and it’s nice. Though glaciers nearby are ice cubes for a glass of Pastis compared to the massive impression one has, when looking at your Vatnajökull from the cliffs of Skaftafell.

I like it that on you there are no big electric lines everywhere and that it’s wild and wide and big and free and every breath of your air is more refreshing than a supra-menthol chewing-gum.

The water is good too. The Brennivin is stranger but is really worth a try. Your ale however… Well… it’s drinkable and it’s ale so it’s ok.

I like your baths too, especially the one near Mývatn, but i haven’t tried them all. That could be a reason to come back too but it’s not necessarily what makes me miss you right now.

I love your light, you have the most amazing light my eyes have been filled with. I’m not talking about the northern lights, that I didn’t see, and could be a reason to come back to you, but it’s not a reason to miss you since I didn’t experience it. I’d like to see that, but it can wait. Anyway, I love your summer light at the end of June.

I also had the most enjoyable time sitting and watching your falls. They’re powerful but give peace at the same time and make the spirit lyrical. I miss them too, but it’s not what’s staying in my thoughts right now.

Of course, there’s this little thrill when I remember your strangely funny and beautiful but so dangerous muddy bubbling stuff. That is not something one sees every day.

Maybe you’re thinking that I want to come back to have another very refreshing foot-bath in the Jökulsárlón? Once was enough you know. Besides, I can do it at home more or less.

What is reeeaaaally making me pain for not being on you now is not, either, the sight on your north-west fjords from the hills of Grunnavík, that I keep in my heart as one of the most perfect moments I’ve had (the picture doesn’t reflect one tenth of the feeling).

Now, you’re probably thinking I’m going for the “warm people and lovely kindness that made the welcoming stay as sweet as an ounce of sugar in a cup of honey”… Well that’s true you have wonderfully welcoming people whom I had a lot of pleasure to talking with. I liked everyone I talked to and never felt unwelcomed or lost. It made me sick when I learned the financial problems they were facing. So I really liked your people, I regularly read some thriller novels from your authors and am often curious about the music festivals there because, hey! — this is Iceland and music festivals must really be super-cool.

And yet, I could still live a few years and keep on maintaining a distant interest, and I would eventually end aching for a pint of your average good beer in a bar in Reykjavík, talking with cool people, watching the sky never getting dark. But it’s not urgent, imperious, imperative like what I’m longing for right now.

There are tons of other thing I can mention as being worth a third visit, seeing the Trolls of Vík from above the cliff was extraordinary for example.

Or contemplating these strange rocks nearby…

Or simply walking by the harbour of Húsavík.

Or taking the ferry to Stykkishólmur.

Or watching a boat floating in the entrance of the harbour of Heimaey, between these beautiful cliffs and the little Pompei.

All of these are simple and great moments i owe you and will eventually make me return.

But what I miss above all since a few days, and that could make me take a flying machine to come back sooner, is your lobster soup.

I had some of this soup in the tourist house in Jökulsárlón and in a tiny restaurant in Reykjavík harbour.

I thought I would never forget it, but for the last days that went by, I realized with horror that I can’t imagine it any more. It’s been too long! My memory is fading! I need some of your soup now!

I have taken great pictures of you (even though I’m no super photographer, but it’s hard to make bad photos of you) so I can remember places, sightseeing, walks and hiking moments.

But there is no film able to print the taste of your lobster soup. So i’ll have to come back again, I hope you don’t mind preparing some lobster soup for when I’m around.

Thank you, hope to see you again soon!

Monsieur Julien Apack is a young man trés sympa from Grenoble in France. (If you don’t believe it, just ask him on his Twitter.) He visited Iceland in 2004 and 2007. He wrote this open letter to Iceland and posted it on his Tumblelog on 26 September 2010. He will be back.

The trip took 15 days. We took a tent but only managed to use it once. We stayed pretty much everywhere, from a tin hut on a mountainside to a four-star hotel. It was just what came up at the right place and the right time for us, because we weren’t sure how far we would get each day.

We knew it would be windy, but it was a shock how it slowed us down and how hard it made the trip. On the second day we were riding uphill in a headwind. Normally when you get to the top you get to freewheel down, but we had to peddle downhill because it was so windy. That was slightly soul destroying at the time, but looking back, it was kind of fun.

The terrain in itself isn’t particularly challenging; it’s the weather and remoteness that make it harder. It’s just so empty compared to everywhere else I’ve ridden. We did 110 kilometres (about 70 miles) through lava fields. Initially that’s great, but then after seven or eight hours it can make you a little crazy. Also the scenery is so massive a car passes you and you finally see it disappear into the distance ten minutes later.

This would be a great trip to do in a car. The Ring Road is good almost everywhere, and in the few sections that were unpaved, you could see the highways agency working on a detour.

We had some really fantastic experiences. By and large, Icelanders are reasonably reserved, but once they learned what we were doing they were really helpful and kind.

My overriding memory for kindness was from some Austrian mountain bikers. We had just gone down a really scary, windy, dirt road and slept in a mountain hut and used up our emergency rations. The next day we didn’t manage to stop and get some food and so we really needed some by the end of the day. We rolled into a campsite with just some noodles. The only other people there were these Austrian bikers. They gave us food and beer, and even did our washing up for us!

We passed some beautiful places. We stayed at Lake Mývatn and saw the geysers and mud fields nearby. One of the most beautiful things we saw was the glacial lagoon. And there were many waterfalls—massive, powerful ones and pretty, high ones.

The volcano was impressive. We could see it in the distance, and the scale of it was mindboggling. All you could see were those big mud flats and you knew they were there because this torrent of water had just come from the volcano. Seeing how quickly this was dealt with was impressive. The road agency just dug away a section of the Ring Road so the floods wouldn’t wash away too much.

On the other hand, the ash cloud was quite scary for us. It was a big cloud and it was very scary and menacing to ride into. As you got into it you could see there were green fields but now there was just ash everywhere. For us, what was scary about it was not knowing because you didn’t know how bad it was going to get and when it would end. We were wearing close fitting sunglasses and different masks so we resembled Lawrence of Arabia and Hannibal Lector riding together.

Raising money for charity was very positive. The charity Reach supports children by getting them to meet each other and share experiences. We just thought we could help a bit, but it turns out we are their major fundraiser for the year. We’re at 9,500 pounds but we’re hoping to get to 10,000.

Anyone thinking of doing a similar trip should be prepared for the remoteness. Make sure you have enough food with you; buy it whenever you see it. It’s not inaccessible, but there is always a day where there is a long stretch of nothing, so you must have something in reserve. Plan where you can stop and make sure it’s a place where you can find food and a place to sleep.

Overall it was a really positive experience. It made people think we’re a bit crazy. Maybe we were—but it doesn’t really feel like it.

As told to Eliza Reid, on Monday 19 September 2010. You can find out more about Pete and Nick on their website, and if you want, you can even make a donation to Reach.

Nominative: Egill (AY-yitl) e.g. This is Egill.

Accusative: Egil (AY-yil) e.g. I asked Egil.

Dative: Agli (AK-lih) e.g. This gift is from Agli.

Genetive: Egils (AY-yils) e.g. I miss Egils.

As someone who communicates regularly with The World Outside Iceland, journalist, broadcaster and political commentator Egill Helgason bears the burden of a perpetually butchered first name with aplomb.

The youthful 50-year-old is one of the most famous residents of Þingholt, the name of the historic centre of Reykjavík. Anyone who lurks long enough around the neighbourhood is bound to encounter this jovial fellow walking to a meeting, for coffee, or out to play a round of football with his eight-year-old son. When you spot him, give him a smile and a wave—after all, everyone else does.

Nominative: Þingholtin (The THING-holt) — “This is Þingholtin.”

(Attention grammarians: The beautiful, ancient language of Icelandic has a certain assuredness with its place names. One does not only enjoy nature, one enjoys the nature. One conquers the Esja, Reykjavík’s signature mountain. Consequently, the ancient area of Þingholt isn’t just Þingholt in Icelandic; it’s the Þingholt, or Þingholtin.)

This primarily residential neighbourhood in central Reykjavík used to be an enclave for the capital’s intelligentsia. At the turn of the last century, hemmed between the old Reykjavík town centre, rocky hills (where Hallgrímskirkja church now stands), and marshes around Tjörnin (the Pond), this collection of small timber or corrugated iron homes housed Reykjavík poets and politicians whose names remain well-known today.

After decades of neglect from the mid-40s until the 1980s, during which time those who could afford it moved to bigger accommodation in the equally grammatically challenging Vesturbær or Laugardalur, the neighbourhood gentrified once again, thanks to an effort by its residents to improve their homes and gardens.

Nowadays, the area’s colourful homes remain a sought-after location, attracting a mix of politicians, artists, writers, and, in the pre-2008 era of excess, not a few conspicuous útrásarvíkingar, or “business Vikings”. Immigrants and students attracted to the central location round out the mix.

“Sometimes I like to imagine myself walking in the footsteps of the poets and writers who used to live here,” says Egill from the sitting room of his mid 19th-century home in the heart of Þingholt. “There is so much history in these houses; you know who used to live in each of them.”

Egill compares Þingholt to the old quarter of any other European town, like Gamla Stan in Stockholm for example, although he points out that most of the homes in Þingholt have gardens, giving it a “leafier” feel that in some more urbanized neighbourhoods in other Nordic cities.

Traditionally, the neighbourhood of Þingholt is described as the area around Þingholtsstræti Street, stretching uphill to Óðinsgata and Freyjugata and to Laufásvegur in the south. Secondary school Menntaskólinn í Reykjavík (“MR” to all the locals), which has moulded the young minds and fine-tuned the grammar of Iceland’s political and social elite for over a century, remains a focal point of the neighbourhood.

More recently, the name has started to apply to a larger area. “When you read the ads of houses for sale,” Egill says, “all the estate agents classify the homes far across the hill as part of Þingholt, even though this isn’t technically true.”

Accusative: Þingholtin (The THING-holt) — “Around Þingholtin.”

Egill begins our walking tour on Miðstræti (“Middle Street”), a one-block row of perfectly preserved mostly three-storey corrugated iron homes from the late 19th century.

“This is just a street I like; it’s very peaceful,” says our writer guide, pausing to wave hello to a passing pedestrian. “You don’t really notice this street, but for me it’s the centre of Þingholt.” Egill lived in the only stone house on the street from 2002 until 2007.

The architecture of Þingholt plays a central role in Egill’s love affair with the neighbourhood, which tends to inspire a devout loyalty amongst many of its residents. “On a summer’s night you just drift around the streets and houses. It’s so full of character,” he muses.

Rounding a corner, we head to what Egill describes as a “hidden gem” of the neighbourhood. Tucked behind 19th-century merchant Thor Jensen’s house is a small dirt football pitch, with two somewhat tattered football nets at either side. A grassy slope provides room for spectators. One might often find Egill and his son here on clear summer evenings, enjoying a little father-son bonding time. The pitch is a former horse corral and is encircled by an old stone fence.

“When [well-known Icelandic entrepreneur] Björgólfur Thor bought the house, he wanted to turn this into a parking lot,” says Egill ruefully. “And just before it happened they realized this corral was a hundred years old so they weren’t allowed to destroy it.”

We return up Skálholtsstígur. Egill waves a greeting to a man chatting busily on a mobile phone.

“It’s a pity there aren’t more shops in Þingholt,” Egill comments. “There was another one and then the Bónus opened and the shop promptly closed its doors.”

A great exception to the mass production is another stop on Egill’s tour: the plainly named Fiskbúðin on the corner of Freyjugata and Óðinsgata, sells a selection of the freshest riches of the sea. Egill nods a friendly greeting to the owner through the window. His favourite selection is cod, an unusual choice for Icelanders, who, despite their sentimental attachment to this deep-sea dweller, prefer to indulge in haddock, perceived as a “classier” fish.

Dative: Þingholtunum (The THING-holtu-num) — “Always something going on in Þingholtunum.”

As we approach the Einar Jónsson sculpture garden, Egill greets a couple of journalists stopping by.

“I go here with my son,” says Egill, ushering me through the entry gates to the free garden.

“I like the sculptures because they are from a period that speaks to me, it’s sort of mystical,” he says, strolling on the marked paths around the two dozen or so sculptures, some of which Egill says are presented in rather a smaller final form than the artist originally intended.

Egill singles out one of his favourites, the monument to poet Hallgrímur Pétursson (58 cm x 105 cm x 60 cm), who died of leprosy in 1674. Pétursson’s ailing body lies on his deathbed, the phalanx of huddled masses behind him representing salvation.

Exiting the sculpture park, a gaggle of costumed girls from the local secondary school stop and request a photo with this famous Þingholt resident (that’s a photo “with Agli” in Icelandic), who happily obliges.

Genetive: Þingholtanna (The THING-holt-anna) — “The best coffee of Þingholtanna.”

There are a few downsides to the charmed Þingholt life, Egill assures me. He cites the usual grievances of being in an urban centre (even one on an Icelandic scale)—drunks or drug addicts, noisy weekend revellers, and a dearth of parking spaces, but hastily adds that “the benefits far outweigh the costs. It’s not how the people in the suburbs picture it.” Nor is grammar a consideration — after all, consider local community Hafnarfjörður (or HAP-nar-fyord-ur), Hafnarfjörður, Hafnarfirði, Hafnarfjarðar.

The last stop on this short walking tour is Kaffifélagið, a relatively new café on the main street Skólavörðustígur (“one of the nicest main streets in town”), where Egill claims one can find the best coffee in the capital.

While the journalist sips a cappuccino outside, a woman driving down the road in a yellow Yaris stops, rolls down her window and calls out: “Halló Egill!”

There is no anonymity in Iceland, perhaps particularly in Þingholt. But for Egill Helgason, that’s just fine.

Eliza Reid, a staff writer and an above-average good person, walked all over Þingholtin with Agli Helgasyni on Thursday, 30 April 2010. Karólína later followed him with a camera almost as big as she is, and took many pictures of him, in Þingholtunum on Friday 28 May, and during the live transmission of his TV show on Sunday, 30 May. You can see the rest of them on Flickr.

Earth Science students of the world unite in front of an old Icelandic farmhouse in the summer of 2006. (Photo: Hayley Dunning)

Reykjavik is a wonderful kind of city, it has everything a capital city should do; theatres, cinemas, museums, concerts (the Iceland Airwaves festival in October is unmissable); but with a lot less people. This gives it a calmer and safer feel than your average capital city; children are a much more visible and bubblier presence, and no place is ‘far’ to get to, even an escape to nature. Public transport is efficient, and in general, everything just works in Reykjavik. In fact, the whole country works, which is something of a miracle in itself, considering it has a population less than 320,000. Heck, they even have their own X-Factor! But even such talented folks as these need help from abroad, and Iceland has many immigrants, giving it a truly international atmosphere.

During my year, I had countless adventures. I camped in the yellow rhyolite hills of Landmannalaugar, bathing in the hot springs, and lying on the cool grass in the night. I took a boat on a lake at the front of a glacier, and weaved between stolid icebergs. I walked behind a waterfall. I watched whales, I experienced a whiteout, I hiked in lava fields and I soaked in a hot tub under the Milky Way. I saw an Icelandic film that made me cry and an Icelandic play that made me laugh.

And I did all this on a student budget! Who said Iceland was an expensive country?

Despite all these fantastic experiences, the question I get asked most often is: “What about the darkness? Isn’t it depressing in the winter?” For most people I know, lack of winter daylight didn’t depress them, but rather caused an involuntary hibernation. But two things make up for this lack of vitality: the winter light, when it is around is just beautiful, a constant dawn/dusk; and in the summer, the light is constant, and your energy flows along with it. Although it can make you feel terribly guilty, stumbling out of a club in the early hours to be struck with broad daylight, as if you’ve regressed to a teenager and defied your mother by staying out all night.

Some of Hayley’s photos from Iceland on her Flickr stream.

But, while we’re at it, let’s bash out some of the other questions I get most commonly asked:

“Is it cold?”

Yes, but not as much as you might expect. After all, it is still under the influence of warm oceanic currents. The coldest I experienced was probably -15°C (which is nothing compared to my new home in Canada, which, at 10 degrees latitude further South, plummeted to -35°C this winter).

“Did you see the Northern Lights?”

Yes. Trust me, if you stay through a winter, you will see them.

“Did you learn any Icelandic?”

Er, well, not really. A few basic phrases yes, but to be honest it was disarmingly easy to get along without it. Of course, learning the language is a bonus (not to mention it delights the locals), but all the courses I took at the university were taught in English and many of my friends got jobs in hotels, supermarkets and restaurants without being anywhere near fluent in Icelandic.

“Did you try the rotten shark?”

No, although I had the opportunity. Unfortunately it was drowned in a shot of the particularly lethal Icelandic spirit ‘Brennivin’, which is not really my thing. I did try a couple of other ‘delicacies’ though, such as boiled sheep’s head and whale burger.

Askja, the building of the University of Iceland’s Earth Sciences department in Reykjavík. (Photo: Hayley Dunning)

But while there was a lot of fun and adventure, I was there to study, and in the end this also contributed to it being the best year of my life. Volcanoes are a large factor in Iceland’s landscape and culture, and studying them was essential. Much to my surprise, I came top of my class in volcanology. As I looked at the paper with my results, I thought ‘Hey, I enjoy volcanology, and I guess I must be good at it, so why not make this my speciality?’ And I did.

I’ve returned to Iceland twice since that year: once to research the volcano of Eldfell (on Vestmannaeyjar, the Westmann Islands), and afterwards to present my findings to an international conference of volcanologists. There isn’t a doubt in my mind I will go back again and again.

Hayley Dunning is a very nice person who studied Earth Sciences at the University of Iceland in 2006-2007.

The guy who works at Gullfoss Cafe and makes the famous meat soup is here, and he just made 30 litres of it. It has become our steady go-to meal for any given occasion. It will last us all weekend but as a result everything is evenly glazed with lamb fat.

We smell, we don’t look our best, we’re having the best of times. It’s a festival and it doesn’t seem to matter that we’re not staying in a tent outdoors, that there’s no mud, that there’s a constant blizzard outside and I haven’t seen anyone wearing a beer hat. It seems like the lowest common denominator of a festival is the mysterious odor melange of smelly feet, stale beer and a piece of a rotten fruit cause somebody thought it was a good idea to bring something healthy along but has since forgotten about it and the fruit is hidden underneath something that also smells. In short, this is a festival. They all smell the same.

It’s the feeling, the location and the general attitude that makes Aldrei fór ég suður special. The relaxed, down to earth attitude of the good people of Ísafjörður somehow makes you feel welcome: “It’s a good time” one of them said, last night when I asked him what the festival means for him, as a local. “But in the end it’s just a weekend, there’s only one Friday every week and we celebrate every single one of them. This time there are loads of bands. That’s good too.”

Normally I, and everyone here, would think twice about going somewhere that is expected to be blizzarding the whole time. Even though it’s free, you’d still hesitate if it was any other festival, anywhere else in the world. I expected this, because I checked the weather reports beforehand, so I dressed for it, as did the others in this house. We just know that if you go to Ísafjörður at this time of year, you can expect the elements to try your endurance. That is the way of the Westfjords. Other than that, if you’re dressed in your blizzard best, you’ll be fine.

I could tell you that we’re here because of the charming people or the exciting weather, but I would be lying. Because of course we mainly come all this way for the music. But as music festivals go, this one isn’t really your average. Here, it feels more like we’ve all been invited to somebody’s house and there happen to be loads of bands playing. You’ll see 5 to 10 year old kids playing around the monitors on stage while a hard rocking beer guzzling metal band tear off their clothes on stage and scream bloody gore over a crowd where the mandatory festival goers are evenly mixed with local baby wagons and grandmothers minding them while the parents get jiggy with it in the back. So even though we like the festival for its music we also love it for the domestic feel of it.

I’m feeling a little better. I just helped my self to a huge bowl of steaming meat soup. I will drink one more cup of coffee then I’ll go to the swimming pool. After that the festival will proceed. There are talks of fewer bands tonight since a bulk of the musicians are still stuck at Reykjavík Airport and won’t make it on account of weather but no one is really devestated about it. There are other bands being formed or recruited for the show. It’s going to be fine.

Besides, we came for the music, not for the bands.

see you next year,
Aðalsteinn Jörundsson

The First Day of Summer (celebrated in Iceland on 22 April this year) may be maligned as false advertising by 21st-century cynics, but Trausti will set you straight. This day, one of the most significant of an ancient Icelandic calendar that is almost as old as the Settlement, almost always falls during the week that temperatures make the welcome shift from below average to above average.

The calendar

The ancient Icelandic calendar, known simply as misseratal or “half-year calendar”, was actually more accurate than the Julian calendar, which was adopted by Icelanders in the 11th century, says Trausti.

Rather than being based on months, it was divided into 52 different weeks and two seasons, summer and winter.  There were also different months, the most well-known of which today is Þorri (during which time Icelanders of all ages celebrate at Þorrablót parties).

The First Day of Summer fell on the first day of the month of Harpa, which was dedicated to the maiden.  This time, explains Trausti, was “critical” as hay supplies were usually depleted and livestock needed to move outdoors.

“They needed to merge the traditional holidays with the Christian ones like Easter very well,” he adds.

It was difficult for people to keep track of the festivals and high days of the various calendars. To help the population in a pre-technology (heck, a pre-publishing) age, the fingrarím, literally “finger rhyme” method was applied to allow people to remember vital dates by counting using the fingers and knuckles on their hands.

The holiday

“The First Day of Summer is a vestige of the traditional calendar,” explains Trausti. Using the traditional Gregorian calendar, the holiday falls on the second Thursday after 11 April, which is the Saint’s day of Pope Leo I. “Many say it is the first Thursday after the 18th,” notes Trausti sternly, “but that is technically inaccurate.”

Traditionally gifts are exchanged on the First Day of Summer. In the past, these gifts were more significant than those distributed at Christmas, but modern practice usually has parents buying their little ones a happy gift.

In Reykjavík, a parade processes through the city centre, cheered on enthusiastic children and their parents. Typically, the weather is anything but summer-like.

The weather

“Of course in a sense, the winter alone is a season here,” says Trausti. “But actually, twice a year the temperature crosses the mean, and if you look at a 30-year average, that nearly always happens near the First Day of Summer and the First Day of Winter. Clearly the originators of the old Icelandic calendar knew this. They could have switched seasons at the equinox but they did not.”

There is more meteorological evidence that makes this day a legitimate time for a first day of summer.

“The winter circulation that dominates the winter breaks down at this time every year. There is a transition in the winter and summer circulation in the upper atmosphere and that affects storm tracks and storm frequency.

While there is no one place better than another to celebrate this ancient day, according to Trausti “Mýrdalur and Eyjafjöll are favourite spots in the sense that that is where the spring arrives first.”

As to what this day will bring in 2010, Trausti makes no predictions. “It’s still far too early to predict anything.”

Eliza Reid, a staff writer born in a country where summer doesn’t start nearly yet, interviewed Trausti Jónsson at the Icelandic Met Office in March. The photos were taken by Karólína on 16 April, just in time for summer.

We’re so small, sometimes Iceland isn’t even marked on maps. But we’re bigger than Denmark, although of course not many people live here. Mostly, though, I’d tell people how good it is to live here.

Why is that?

Because of the water.

The water?

It’s the best in the world. You just turn on the tap and drink it and it’s great. The Family Park & Zoo is good too.

Where would you like to go in Iceland that you’ve never visited?

Egilsstaðir, because it’s far away and it’s fun to drive. It’s nice to have the family together in the car.

What do you think foreigners think of Iceland?

They think that it’s strange. They probably believe that even if they’ve been here before, because when they come in summer we’re in shorts and T-shirts biking everywhere and they think it’s still really cold. They might think that’s a little weird.

What would you recommend to people coming to Iceland?

They should go to the Family Park & Zoo, and to a pool, just any one that has a good slide. And Jökulsárlón, because it’s totally awesome and I know that tourists like taking pictures of it.

Any secret places not many people know about?

There is a museum near Akureyri where you can go and see the polar bears that they shot here a couple of years ago. I’d like to go and see that.

And the food? What’s good to eat?

It’s very funny to see visitors taste the pickled ram’s testicles for the first time. They must think we’re so ridiculous — although I quite like them [the ram’s testicles. He draws no conclusions on the tourists.] The milk here is also different, because our cows are different.

Does Iceland have any other unique features?

The schools are different here. Some girls I know went abroad and they saw schools with huge fences and the kids weren’t allowed to leave at all. I saw their photos of it on Facebook. Also, there are different shops here than you might be used to. There is no H&M in Iceland and there is no Hagkaup in Norway, for example.

Also the rest of the world has cooler animals than we do here. They have crocodiles and stuff.

And at Christmas, we open presents in the evening, not in the morning. Foreigners get up and open presents in their pyjamas, but we’re already in dressy clothes when we open the presents.

Everyone now knows there’s a severe recession in Iceland. Is your life any different since the recession started?

Yes. We used to get Cocoa Puffs all the time and now we have stopped buying them and just have Cheerios and buttermilk for breakfast. Except at Easter; we’ll have Cocoa Puffs then.

Ástráður was interviewed on Thursday 18 February 2010 by Eliza Reid, a staff writer who sometimes can’t type well because of the baby on her lap.