West Side Story
It wasn’t the first time I’d stood here, but it was the first that I’d spent more than about four seconds squelching about on the marshy ground on the west side of Kirkjufell without being seen off by one of the local residents. Three years earlier, in my attempts to find out exactly where all of those beautiful reflection shots of this iconic mountain had been taken from, an irate Arctic Tern had wasted no time in telling me exactly what she thought of my unwelcome intrusion into a space she regarded as her own. As I stumbled about, she bore down upon me like a harpy, a shrieking flurry of wings, beak and claws. And while contact wasn’t made, she came close enough to leave me in no doubt as to her intentions. They’re not the largest birds you’ll meet here, but they might just be the fiercest when they’re feeling threatened. In my defence I hadn’t realised that there were likely to be busy nests around here, and I made a hasty exit in the direction of the van, where Lee had been awaiting the report from my reconnaissance mission on the marshes. My humiliation complete, and one furious feathered tactical missile returned to parenting duties, we made for the waterfalls on the southern side of the mountain, abandoning all thoughts of trying to take a shot here.
But now we were back, in September rather than July, and this being early autumn in these northerly reaches, there were no airborne assaults lying in wait as we began our first photographic mission of “Iceland Mark 2, The Return.” Or “Back in Iceland. This Time It’s Personal,” or whatever you want to call the sequel. The great irony is that by now we knew exactly where the reflection shots we’d seen from other photographers had been taken, and this wasn’t the spot. But we’d deal with that later. For now we wanted to explore this quiet space, less than a mile from the packed car park by the classic waterfall view, and revel in the fact that nobody was here except for ourselves. And those gracefully belligerent Arctic Terns, that had been such a ubiquitous part of the Iceland Mark 1 story, were nowhere to be seen. That’s all I can offer. If you were hoping for a lecture on where they go and when, I humbly apologise. I’m sure there are far more reliable sources on the topic. Actually I just had to stop writing to find out for myself. My goodness, they have the longest migration of all, spending their entire lives moving from the Arctic summer to the Antarctic summer, and then back again. Up to twenty-two thousand miles in an endless loop each year. A long way for a beak full of sand eels. There, I might yet make it onto Sir David Attenborough’s Christmas card list. No Puffins here in September either, just in case you were wondering.
I suppose like most mountains, Kirkjufell looks very different at every angle you care to view it from. From the classic position by the waterfalls it’s a particularly fine looking specimen and instantly recognisable. But from east or west it takes on a new form entirely, and though it remains easy to identify as you approach the area by road, I wonder whether that’s simply the anticipation factor at work and the knowledge of exactly where it is. After all, there are plenty of similar trapezoid shapes rising from the fjords around this part of Snæfellsnes. It only takes on that famously distinctive “Sorting Hat” appearance when viewed from the waterfalls and the lake. But we still felt it was worth exploring from the west side, and the marshes and river were offering some interesting foregrounds to work with. And to add to the mood we’d been blessed with some very dramatic clouds on this first afternoon, that hung in the sky like alien invaders, a gathering migration of a different kind. Eventually I found myself at the edge of the river, a pleasing curve in front of me that swept silently across the textured marsh.
During those first two days we photographed Kirkjufell from a number of angles, with a variety of foregrounds that showed that there’s far more to this place than the waterfall view we all know so well. Not that I don’t love that viewpoint, but next time I think I’d try moving further away again and seeing what the long lens offers. And if that happens to be in summer, further away will probably be better. I don’t want to risk the wrath of any more of those Arctic Terns. Next time one of them might just leave me staring into the heavens in bewilderment as they fly off carrying my hat and one half of my scalp in their talons. Which might spoil the trip entirely.
West Side Story
It wasn’t the first time I’d stood here, but it was the first that I’d spent more than about four seconds squelching about on the marshy ground on the west side of Kirkjufell without being seen off by one of the local residents. Three years earlier, in my attempts to find out exactly where all of those beautiful reflection shots of this iconic mountain had been taken from, an irate Arctic Tern had wasted no time in telling me exactly what she thought of my unwelcome intrusion into a space she regarded as her own. As I stumbled about, she bore down upon me like a harpy, a shrieking flurry of wings, beak and claws. And while contact wasn’t made, she came close enough to leave me in no doubt as to her intentions. They’re not the largest birds you’ll meet here, but they might just be the fiercest when they’re feeling threatened. In my defence I hadn’t realised that there were likely to be busy nests around here, and I made a hasty exit in the direction of the van, where Lee had been awaiting the report from my reconnaissance mission on the marshes. My humiliation complete, and one furious feathered tactical missile returned to parenting duties, we made for the waterfalls on the southern side of the mountain, abandoning all thoughts of trying to take a shot here.
But now we were back, in September rather than July, and this being early autumn in these northerly reaches, there were no airborne assaults lying in wait as we began our first photographic mission of “Iceland Mark 2, The Return.” Or “Back in Iceland. This Time It’s Personal,” or whatever you want to call the sequel. The great irony is that by now we knew exactly where the reflection shots we’d seen from other photographers had been taken, and this wasn’t the spot. But we’d deal with that later. For now we wanted to explore this quiet space, less than a mile from the packed car park by the classic waterfall view, and revel in the fact that nobody was here except for ourselves. And those gracefully belligerent Arctic Terns, that had been such a ubiquitous part of the Iceland Mark 1 story, were nowhere to be seen. That’s all I can offer. If you were hoping for a lecture on where they go and when, I humbly apologise. I’m sure there are far more reliable sources on the topic. Actually I just had to stop writing to find out for myself. My goodness, they have the longest migration of all, spending their entire lives moving from the Arctic summer to the Antarctic summer, and then back again. Up to twenty-two thousand miles in an endless loop each year. A long way for a beak full of sand eels. There, I might yet make it onto Sir David Attenborough’s Christmas card list. No Puffins here in September either, just in case you were wondering.
I suppose like most mountains, Kirkjufell looks very different at every angle you care to view it from. From the classic position by the waterfalls it’s a particularly fine looking specimen and instantly recognisable. But from east or west it takes on a new form entirely, and though it remains easy to identify as you approach the area by road, I wonder whether that’s simply the anticipation factor at work and the knowledge of exactly where it is. After all, there are plenty of similar trapezoid shapes rising from the fjords around this part of Snæfellsnes. It only takes on that famously distinctive “Sorting Hat” appearance when viewed from the waterfalls and the lake. But we still felt it was worth exploring from the west side, and the marshes and river were offering some interesting foregrounds to work with. And to add to the mood we’d been blessed with some very dramatic clouds on this first afternoon, that hung in the sky like alien invaders, a gathering migration of a different kind. Eventually I found myself at the edge of the river, a pleasing curve in front of me that swept silently across the textured marsh.
During those first two days we photographed Kirkjufell from a number of angles, with a variety of foregrounds that showed that there’s far more to this place than the waterfall view we all know so well. Not that I don’t love that viewpoint, but next time I think I’d try moving further away again and seeing what the long lens offers. And if that happens to be in summer, further away will probably be better. I don’t want to risk the wrath of any more of those Arctic Terns. Next time one of them might just leave me staring into the heavens in bewilderment as they fly off carrying my hat and one half of my scalp in their talons. Which might spoil the trip entirely.