In Snaefellsnes
On the first day we’d collected Brian from the offices of the rather wonderful Snail rental company in Rekyjavik. In the car park on the industrial estate at the edge of the city, an entire fleet of mostly yellow, elderly VW campervans had been awaiting our pleasure, and we’d been allocated a marvellous specimen in return for a hefty Icelandic sized hit upon the credit card. Brian had no less than two hundred and eighty-three thousand kilometres on the clock, yet he ran as quietly and eagerly as a brand new California 6.1 model rolling straight off the production line. It was a happy/sad collection in fact. We were excited at travelling along the entire ring road in such a splendid vehicle, but at the same time we were told it was the company’s last year of trading. “I’m sixty-nine and Arni is now seventy,” Siggi explained to me. It seemed that they’d skipped their golden years to run a fleet of VW campers, but retirement now beckoned. As we waited for our vehicle at the forecourt, a man had arrived from Norway to take one of Brian’s friends home forever. “An old customer,” Siggi explained. “He’s buying one of our vans.” Even though we’d just arrived fresh-faced onto the scene with no previous knowledge of Snail, Siggi, Arni, Brian or the Norwegian visitor, I felt like shedding a tear. The end of an era had arrived and we were there to witness the final acts.
Following Arni’s instructions, we headed north towards Snaefellsnes, through the rain, stopping at the Bonus supermarket at Borganes, a ritual which I feel will become an inevitable touchstone on all future visits to the country that haunts me in my sleep as I fantasise about the next visit. Less than twenty-four hours later, with the first adventures at Budir and Kirkjufell behind us on this race against the clock, and the rain still falling softly, we parked very briefly by the edge of the water at Kolgrafarfjörður. Here the glistening highway stretched ahead of us across the fjord and into the low mountains of the northern side of the peninsula. Somewhere, maybe two or three hours away along roads and tracks that seemed almost deserted, lay the main route that would take us around the entire country all too quickly. Today was Monday – by Friday night we’d be back in that car park in Reykjavik, having seen and not seen the whole of Iceland as we passed through it. So much to explore, and nowhere near enough time to do so.
But throughout that adventure, there were moments like this to steal and savour from the long miles in front of us. Moments when I would pinch myself and say things like “we’re actually in Iceland!” I’d been dreaming about these fleeting days in this fantasy landscape so long and it still didn’t seem real. The empty road didn’t seem real either for that matter. Even in the more remote corners of our own nation it’s hard to escape the endless traffic, but here on this breathtaking peninsula, where just a few small towns huddle for shelter along the coast, it seemed at times that we were the only humans left alive. In other moments we might arrive at a well known hotspot to a full car park and bus loads of tourists, but none of them seemed to be interested in stopping in places like this as they raced away from Kirkjufell and back towards civilisation.
And the thing about this image, taken as a passing snapshot from the layby, is that it was completely overlooked in favour of all those hotspot shots from Skogafoss, Dyrholaey, Godafoss, Vestrahorn, Reynisfjara and so many others. I’d also taken a handheld panorama here, but the edit hadn’t grabbed me. It was only when, much later I revisited the single image with the lone car, headlights glowing and breaking through the greys of the dark morning that I thought again. It was yet another shot that didn’t work in colour, but where a high contrast black and white edit caught the mood. I was at the end of the most difficult year of my career when I’d lost my closest colleague and had to step into her shoes and take a seat in the boardroom, while all I’d really wanted to do was gaze into the space beyond the window and dream of Iceland’s waterfalls and mountains and glaciers. I was never a natural high roller. This shot caught how I felt by the end of that long hard emotional year – saturnine and brooding but facing a silvery wet highway that led towards somewhere else. Here in Snaefellsnes it seemed there might be answers.
By the time we arrived back in Reykjavik, just after midnight on the following Saturday morning, we were seriously considering how feasible it would be to hand over the money and take Brian back to Cornwall. He hadn’t missed a beat on our long journey, and we were both smitten. We could take him on the ferry from Seydisfjordur and land on the north coast of Denmark, from where we could gradually roll back to one channel ferry port or another. The odd thing is that the Snail website still exists. Whether they just forgot to close it down, or whether Siggi and Arni found a buyer to take over the family of VW campers remains a mystery. I guess I could try making another booking perhaps?
In Snaefellsnes
On the first day we’d collected Brian from the offices of the rather wonderful Snail rental company in Rekyjavik. In the car park on the industrial estate at the edge of the city, an entire fleet of mostly yellow, elderly VW campervans had been awaiting our pleasure, and we’d been allocated a marvellous specimen in return for a hefty Icelandic sized hit upon the credit card. Brian had no less than two hundred and eighty-three thousand kilometres on the clock, yet he ran as quietly and eagerly as a brand new California 6.1 model rolling straight off the production line. It was a happy/sad collection in fact. We were excited at travelling along the entire ring road in such a splendid vehicle, but at the same time we were told it was the company’s last year of trading. “I’m sixty-nine and Arni is now seventy,” Siggi explained to me. It seemed that they’d skipped their golden years to run a fleet of VW campers, but retirement now beckoned. As we waited for our vehicle at the forecourt, a man had arrived from Norway to take one of Brian’s friends home forever. “An old customer,” Siggi explained. “He’s buying one of our vans.” Even though we’d just arrived fresh-faced onto the scene with no previous knowledge of Snail, Siggi, Arni, Brian or the Norwegian visitor, I felt like shedding a tear. The end of an era had arrived and we were there to witness the final acts.
Following Arni’s instructions, we headed north towards Snaefellsnes, through the rain, stopping at the Bonus supermarket at Borganes, a ritual which I feel will become an inevitable touchstone on all future visits to the country that haunts me in my sleep as I fantasise about the next visit. Less than twenty-four hours later, with the first adventures at Budir and Kirkjufell behind us on this race against the clock, and the rain still falling softly, we parked very briefly by the edge of the water at Kolgrafarfjörður. Here the glistening highway stretched ahead of us across the fjord and into the low mountains of the northern side of the peninsula. Somewhere, maybe two or three hours away along roads and tracks that seemed almost deserted, lay the main route that would take us around the entire country all too quickly. Today was Monday – by Friday night we’d be back in that car park in Reykjavik, having seen and not seen the whole of Iceland as we passed through it. So much to explore, and nowhere near enough time to do so.
But throughout that adventure, there were moments like this to steal and savour from the long miles in front of us. Moments when I would pinch myself and say things like “we’re actually in Iceland!” I’d been dreaming about these fleeting days in this fantasy landscape so long and it still didn’t seem real. The empty road didn’t seem real either for that matter. Even in the more remote corners of our own nation it’s hard to escape the endless traffic, but here on this breathtaking peninsula, where just a few small towns huddle for shelter along the coast, it seemed at times that we were the only humans left alive. In other moments we might arrive at a well known hotspot to a full car park and bus loads of tourists, but none of them seemed to be interested in stopping in places like this as they raced away from Kirkjufell and back towards civilisation.
And the thing about this image, taken as a passing snapshot from the layby, is that it was completely overlooked in favour of all those hotspot shots from Skogafoss, Dyrholaey, Godafoss, Vestrahorn, Reynisfjara and so many others. I’d also taken a handheld panorama here, but the edit hadn’t grabbed me. It was only when, much later I revisited the single image with the lone car, headlights glowing and breaking through the greys of the dark morning that I thought again. It was yet another shot that didn’t work in colour, but where a high contrast black and white edit caught the mood. I was at the end of the most difficult year of my career when I’d lost my closest colleague and had to step into her shoes and take a seat in the boardroom, while all I’d really wanted to do was gaze into the space beyond the window and dream of Iceland’s waterfalls and mountains and glaciers. I was never a natural high roller. This shot caught how I felt by the end of that long hard emotional year – saturnine and brooding but facing a silvery wet highway that led towards somewhere else. Here in Snaefellsnes it seemed there might be answers.
By the time we arrived back in Reykjavik, just after midnight on the following Saturday morning, we were seriously considering how feasible it would be to hand over the money and take Brian back to Cornwall. He hadn’t missed a beat on our long journey, and we were both smitten. We could take him on the ferry from Seydisfjordur and land on the north coast of Denmark, from where we could gradually roll back to one channel ferry port or another. The odd thing is that the Snail website still exists. Whether they just forgot to close it down, or whether Siggi and Arni found a buyer to take over the family of VW campers remains a mystery. I guess I could try making another booking perhaps?