The View from Here
Sometimes you step into a moment that you immediately know is going to stay with you forever. The birth of a child, the untimely passing of an icon, the day that you began working from home during a pandemic spring to mind, but sometimes it's simply a perfect day when you're happy in the world and everything simply falls into place. One Thursday evening last July fell into the latter category.
There's a huge mass of upland immediately to the west of the lovely town of Vik on mainland Iceland's most southerly point. It's probably possible to drive to the top of it in a 4WD vehicle, but you'd miss all the fun if you did that. We walked up from Vik, enjoying the views over the town and the surrounding area which felt surprisingly green and bright after several days in the wilderness; and beyond that to the east from where we'd come earlier in the day as we went, startling the odd sheep and greeting occasional passers by as we made the short sharp climb to the plateau at the top. It was a fantastic day to be out, enjoying nature and salivating over the photographic opportunities that we knew were waiting as a reward for our efforts at the top.
It was evening time and we had the world almost completely to ourselves as we gazed down at the sea stacks of Reynisdrangar to the south when they finally came into view. More of that later when I share the image, but as I finished experimenting with long exposures over the stacks I became aware that Lee had disappeared from sight. Normally he's right next to me, complaining that I've picked the best spot and using the elbows that have bought him notoriety in the local 5 a side football community to shove me to one side so that he can plant his tripod there instead. I've learned to live with this on our photographic outings you understand, so if he's not right beside me and we're at the top of a cliff that must be at least 250 foot high then the faintest moments of alarm can pass at times like this. Peering over the edge, all I could see were the ant like humans on the beach below, none of which appeared to be huddled around a recently arrived body, so I assumed he had survived my flight of imagination.
I moved on, soon discovering what had grabbed his attention. Of course we both knew this was the panorama we'd see when we headed to the western edges of the clifftop, but that still didn't prepare me for it. The view along Reynisfjara to the stacks of Dyrholaey, with the thin strip of land between the sea and a large body of water is just extraordinary. You have to remind yourself that yes, you are still on Planet Earth and that no, this is not a dream. Apart from the intentionally included white camper van (and ok I might have cloned out a couple of parked cars and some enormous plastic silage bags), the view must be as old as time. Or as old as Iceland at least, which you geologists will tell me is quite young in comparison to the continents. A walk that was worth taking I feel.
The View from Here
Sometimes you step into a moment that you immediately know is going to stay with you forever. The birth of a child, the untimely passing of an icon, the day that you began working from home during a pandemic spring to mind, but sometimes it's simply a perfect day when you're happy in the world and everything simply falls into place. One Thursday evening last July fell into the latter category.
There's a huge mass of upland immediately to the west of the lovely town of Vik on mainland Iceland's most southerly point. It's probably possible to drive to the top of it in a 4WD vehicle, but you'd miss all the fun if you did that. We walked up from Vik, enjoying the views over the town and the surrounding area which felt surprisingly green and bright after several days in the wilderness; and beyond that to the east from where we'd come earlier in the day as we went, startling the odd sheep and greeting occasional passers by as we made the short sharp climb to the plateau at the top. It was a fantastic day to be out, enjoying nature and salivating over the photographic opportunities that we knew were waiting as a reward for our efforts at the top.
It was evening time and we had the world almost completely to ourselves as we gazed down at the sea stacks of Reynisdrangar to the south when they finally came into view. More of that later when I share the image, but as I finished experimenting with long exposures over the stacks I became aware that Lee had disappeared from sight. Normally he's right next to me, complaining that I've picked the best spot and using the elbows that have bought him notoriety in the local 5 a side football community to shove me to one side so that he can plant his tripod there instead. I've learned to live with this on our photographic outings you understand, so if he's not right beside me and we're at the top of a cliff that must be at least 250 foot high then the faintest moments of alarm can pass at times like this. Peering over the edge, all I could see were the ant like humans on the beach below, none of which appeared to be huddled around a recently arrived body, so I assumed he had survived my flight of imagination.
I moved on, soon discovering what had grabbed his attention. Of course we both knew this was the panorama we'd see when we headed to the western edges of the clifftop, but that still didn't prepare me for it. The view along Reynisfjara to the stacks of Dyrholaey, with the thin strip of land between the sea and a large body of water is just extraordinary. You have to remind yourself that yes, you are still on Planet Earth and that no, this is not a dream. Apart from the intentionally included white camper van (and ok I might have cloned out a couple of parked cars and some enormous plastic silage bags), the view must be as old as time. Or as old as Iceland at least, which you geologists will tell me is quite young in comparison to the continents. A walk that was worth taking I feel.