Reflectrahorn
I don’t mind admitting that I was a bit confused. I mean where did the water come from? Ok, we were on a beach, but even at high tide the sea didn’t seem to come anywhere near this far inland. Eventually, we concluded that the wetland on the other side of the long thin strip of dirt road that connects Stokksnes to the café by the entrance barriers must be the source. Somehow it was feeding this lagoon that seemed to self-replenish with each tide, before gradually sinking into the dense black sand.
Those of you who’ve stood before this extraordinary mountain range will know that doing so comes at a cost. Only a modest cost, but it’s a bone of contention for many. But if you’ve done your homework, then at least you’ve prepared yourself for it. The online reviews are interesting, and some people described the staff here as “rude and obnoxious.” I often wonder whether these people have become confused and started describing themselves, because that wasn’t our experience. We received warm smiles in exchange for ours, and a potted description of the highlights. In my experience, people are pretty much always friendly when you treat them with respect. Apart from the lady who once served us at Slough Railway station when we were heading into London to watch England play Estonia at Wembley. She was rude and obnoxious in the extreme to every customer who was unfortunate enough to be standing in her queue, and no number of pleasantries were getting around the fact. When it came to my turn, it took me about five seconds longer than it might have done to hand over our fares, in return for which I received a hard glare and a very audible exhalation of dismay. One of John Betjeman’s friendly bombs was clearly in need in Slough that morning. But that’s another matter.
Here at Vestrahorn, we were told where we’d see the lagoon, and we made it our first port of call. Funnily enough I’d stood in the middle of it in my wellies, or a previous version of it, three years earlier, pointing my camera back towards the road for a shot entitled “The Life of Brian.” There’d been no point in trying to photograph the main attraction that day, because for all the low lying cloud we might as well have been back at Wembley watching the football. But now, Vestrahorn was entirely visible, and framed by pleasing white cumulus shapes floating gently over its peaks.
We’d been waiting for this. In fact I’d been so excited as we drove along the side road that brings the visitor here, craning my neck around each corner and then complaining that I still couldn’t see it. And you don’t get to see it until you’re in, because it faces directly south, away from the road entirely. But now we were here, loudly salivating at the sight in front of us. Nothing really prepares you for your first sight of Vestrahorn, this compact microcosm of the country it sits at the edge of, maybe a mile wide, and so beautifully formed that you might think a famous architect had designed it. The question was, how long would the lagoon last? There seemed to be a lot less water there than I’d remembered from three years earlier. It was time to get cracking.
I soon learned that as I suspected, sixteen millimetres wasn’t enough. Not from here anyway. And after plodding about at the edge of the water in my wellies, I found as good a spot as I was going to, and took several sets of two or three frames to stitch together later and then moved onto the dunes to try something else.
Twenty-four hours later I was back here again, with a fuller lagoon and streaky clouds, convinced that a better shot was forthcoming. I edited the images from the second visit quite some time ago, but I’m still not happy with them, and it was only recently that I decided to revisit the shots I’d taken the first time around. This time, things seemed to flow much more happily in the editing suite, as sliders became friends instead of adversaries. It would have been lovely if those sandbars in the middle of the scene had been submerged, but you can’t have it all I guess. Maybe I’ll return to the day two edit at some point, and see if the processing blocks have melted away, but I’m pretty happy with how this one worked out, framed by clouds in all four corners. And Vestrahorn reflected, is a sight worth seeing. Even if I’m still not entirely certain how all that water arrived here to make it possible.
Reflectrahorn
I don’t mind admitting that I was a bit confused. I mean where did the water come from? Ok, we were on a beach, but even at high tide the sea didn’t seem to come anywhere near this far inland. Eventually, we concluded that the wetland on the other side of the long thin strip of dirt road that connects Stokksnes to the café by the entrance barriers must be the source. Somehow it was feeding this lagoon that seemed to self-replenish with each tide, before gradually sinking into the dense black sand.
Those of you who’ve stood before this extraordinary mountain range will know that doing so comes at a cost. Only a modest cost, but it’s a bone of contention for many. But if you’ve done your homework, then at least you’ve prepared yourself for it. The online reviews are interesting, and some people described the staff here as “rude and obnoxious.” I often wonder whether these people have become confused and started describing themselves, because that wasn’t our experience. We received warm smiles in exchange for ours, and a potted description of the highlights. In my experience, people are pretty much always friendly when you treat them with respect. Apart from the lady who once served us at Slough Railway station when we were heading into London to watch England play Estonia at Wembley. She was rude and obnoxious in the extreme to every customer who was unfortunate enough to be standing in her queue, and no number of pleasantries were getting around the fact. When it came to my turn, it took me about five seconds longer than it might have done to hand over our fares, in return for which I received a hard glare and a very audible exhalation of dismay. One of John Betjeman’s friendly bombs was clearly in need in Slough that morning. But that’s another matter.
Here at Vestrahorn, we were told where we’d see the lagoon, and we made it our first port of call. Funnily enough I’d stood in the middle of it in my wellies, or a previous version of it, three years earlier, pointing my camera back towards the road for a shot entitled “The Life of Brian.” There’d been no point in trying to photograph the main attraction that day, because for all the low lying cloud we might as well have been back at Wembley watching the football. But now, Vestrahorn was entirely visible, and framed by pleasing white cumulus shapes floating gently over its peaks.
We’d been waiting for this. In fact I’d been so excited as we drove along the side road that brings the visitor here, craning my neck around each corner and then complaining that I still couldn’t see it. And you don’t get to see it until you’re in, because it faces directly south, away from the road entirely. But now we were here, loudly salivating at the sight in front of us. Nothing really prepares you for your first sight of Vestrahorn, this compact microcosm of the country it sits at the edge of, maybe a mile wide, and so beautifully formed that you might think a famous architect had designed it. The question was, how long would the lagoon last? There seemed to be a lot less water there than I’d remembered from three years earlier. It was time to get cracking.
I soon learned that as I suspected, sixteen millimetres wasn’t enough. Not from here anyway. And after plodding about at the edge of the water in my wellies, I found as good a spot as I was going to, and took several sets of two or three frames to stitch together later and then moved onto the dunes to try something else.
Twenty-four hours later I was back here again, with a fuller lagoon and streaky clouds, convinced that a better shot was forthcoming. I edited the images from the second visit quite some time ago, but I’m still not happy with them, and it was only recently that I decided to revisit the shots I’d taken the first time around. This time, things seemed to flow much more happily in the editing suite, as sliders became friends instead of adversaries. It would have been lovely if those sandbars in the middle of the scene had been submerged, but you can’t have it all I guess. Maybe I’ll return to the day two edit at some point, and see if the processing blocks have melted away, but I’m pretty happy with how this one worked out, framed by clouds in all four corners. And Vestrahorn reflected, is a sight worth seeing. Even if I’m still not entirely certain how all that water arrived here to make it possible.