Tall Tales
It was the final port of call on our first full day around the southernmost point of the mainland. Some time earlier in the day we’d already walked halfway across the black sands of Reynisfjara, to a point from where we’d pointed the cameras in both directions. It really is a location where the two obvious subjects, rooted at either end of the beach, are equally compelling. Look to the west and you’re faced with the dramatic sea arch at the edge of Dyrhólaey, a promontory that rises up from the ground, with a cluster of sea stacks spreading out into the sea. Turn one hundred and eighty degrees on your heels, and you’ll be staring at the most famous sea stacks in Iceland, just a hefty stone’s throw from the edge of its most famous beach. Its most infamous beach too, come to that. Paddling in the ocean is in no way recommended here, although people do sometimes like to try their luck - and it doesn’t always end well. We kept our distance.
On each of the visits here that day, I divided my attention equally between these two quite wonderful and iconic landmarks, as if they were equally loved children where it was important not to be giving favour one way or the other. Yes, I was dealing with adolescent rock collections rather than sensitive human beings, but dividing the love straight down the middle seemed the right thing to do. Even though this one didn't get the attention it deserved as I initially rushed the edit and had to return later on with a virtual garden rake to tidy up the set of footprints marching over the sand that I’d somehow not spotted the first time around. And you might be forgiven for wondering at the fact that the evening shot was the one I took with the camera pointing to the east. But when I asked Ali whether she liked this one, or the edit of the Reynisdrangar shot I’d taken earlier, her one word answer was “Stonybridge.” And unless you’re among the few who might remember a Channel Four sketch show called “Absolutely” from the late 1980’s, only the patchwork of pebbles on the sand is going to give you a clue as to which one she meant. I think I preferred this one too, with the cool blue hour tones, textured sky and the surprisingly ordered foreground chaos. But I'll probably post the other one at some point. You never know.
Just to give you a sense of scale if you haven’t been here, I’ve left the few remaining beachgoers in the scene, a straggle of yellow raincoats bracing themselves for the change in the weather that would have made this shot impossible to take the following day. And Iceland being Iceland, there just had to be a handful of white dots grazing the lower slopes of Reynisfjall. If your zoom tool is misbehaving, the tallest of the stacks climbs from the ocean surface to a height of sixty-six metres, and in summer, all of them are covered from top to bottom in seabirds. It’s quite a sight, and one I hadn’t photographed from this position at all when we’d been here three years earlier. We’d shot the scene from the secret beach, and we’d shot it from Víkurfjara on the opposite site of the muscled headland. We’d even walked to the top, where I lay on my belly as close to the edge as I dared and took a long exposure that reduced them to a miniature kingdom of the sea. Various legends abound, most of them suggesting that the stacks were trolls, turned to stone by the gods. But I’d seen lots of trolls on sale in the duty free store at Vík, and none of them looked like this, so I’m not convinced. Of course Icelanders are famous for handing down stories from one generation to the next. The Sagas are deeply woven into Iceland’s relatively short human story. But I can’t help wondering whether a couple of crates of single malt washed up on the beach around here somewhere back in the annals of time, and during the course of one particularly long winter’s night when the storms shook the foundations of the mountains, a few of those ancient tales had some colourful new chapters added to them after the contents had begun to take effect. And I don’t suppose anyone back then imagined that people would come from all over the world to stand on this beach a few generations later. Serendipity right there in a drunken ramble.
Mind you, if you ever managed to make it through “Noah” with Russell Crowe, this is where he, his family and a bad tempered Ray Winstone washed up when the rains retreated. The only thing I really remember about that film is him sitting in the cave at the foot of the cliff, staring out at the trolls. That’s the sea stacks rather than the two he brought with him. Rather impressive considering he supposedly started his voyage somewhere in the Middle East. But maybe a few more of those crates of whisky had taken a long voyage of their own and landed on the Pacific Coast just outside the Hollywood Hills. Even more artistic licence than I used when I airbrushed away those footprints in the sand.
Tall Tales
It was the final port of call on our first full day around the southernmost point of the mainland. Some time earlier in the day we’d already walked halfway across the black sands of Reynisfjara, to a point from where we’d pointed the cameras in both directions. It really is a location where the two obvious subjects, rooted at either end of the beach, are equally compelling. Look to the west and you’re faced with the dramatic sea arch at the edge of Dyrhólaey, a promontory that rises up from the ground, with a cluster of sea stacks spreading out into the sea. Turn one hundred and eighty degrees on your heels, and you’ll be staring at the most famous sea stacks in Iceland, just a hefty stone’s throw from the edge of its most famous beach. Its most infamous beach too, come to that. Paddling in the ocean is in no way recommended here, although people do sometimes like to try their luck - and it doesn’t always end well. We kept our distance.
On each of the visits here that day, I divided my attention equally between these two quite wonderful and iconic landmarks, as if they were equally loved children where it was important not to be giving favour one way or the other. Yes, I was dealing with adolescent rock collections rather than sensitive human beings, but dividing the love straight down the middle seemed the right thing to do. Even though this one didn't get the attention it deserved as I initially rushed the edit and had to return later on with a virtual garden rake to tidy up the set of footprints marching over the sand that I’d somehow not spotted the first time around. And you might be forgiven for wondering at the fact that the evening shot was the one I took with the camera pointing to the east. But when I asked Ali whether she liked this one, or the edit of the Reynisdrangar shot I’d taken earlier, her one word answer was “Stonybridge.” And unless you’re among the few who might remember a Channel Four sketch show called “Absolutely” from the late 1980’s, only the patchwork of pebbles on the sand is going to give you a clue as to which one she meant. I think I preferred this one too, with the cool blue hour tones, textured sky and the surprisingly ordered foreground chaos. But I'll probably post the other one at some point. You never know.
Just to give you a sense of scale if you haven’t been here, I’ve left the few remaining beachgoers in the scene, a straggle of yellow raincoats bracing themselves for the change in the weather that would have made this shot impossible to take the following day. And Iceland being Iceland, there just had to be a handful of white dots grazing the lower slopes of Reynisfjall. If your zoom tool is misbehaving, the tallest of the stacks climbs from the ocean surface to a height of sixty-six metres, and in summer, all of them are covered from top to bottom in seabirds. It’s quite a sight, and one I hadn’t photographed from this position at all when we’d been here three years earlier. We’d shot the scene from the secret beach, and we’d shot it from Víkurfjara on the opposite site of the muscled headland. We’d even walked to the top, where I lay on my belly as close to the edge as I dared and took a long exposure that reduced them to a miniature kingdom of the sea. Various legends abound, most of them suggesting that the stacks were trolls, turned to stone by the gods. But I’d seen lots of trolls on sale in the duty free store at Vík, and none of them looked like this, so I’m not convinced. Of course Icelanders are famous for handing down stories from one generation to the next. The Sagas are deeply woven into Iceland’s relatively short human story. But I can’t help wondering whether a couple of crates of single malt washed up on the beach around here somewhere back in the annals of time, and during the course of one particularly long winter’s night when the storms shook the foundations of the mountains, a few of those ancient tales had some colourful new chapters added to them after the contents had begun to take effect. And I don’t suppose anyone back then imagined that people would come from all over the world to stand on this beach a few generations later. Serendipity right there in a drunken ramble.
Mind you, if you ever managed to make it through “Noah” with Russell Crowe, this is where he, his family and a bad tempered Ray Winstone washed up when the rains retreated. The only thing I really remember about that film is him sitting in the cave at the foot of the cliff, staring out at the trolls. That’s the sea stacks rather than the two he brought with him. Rather impressive considering he supposedly started his voyage somewhere in the Middle East. But maybe a few more of those crates of whisky had taken a long voyage of their own and landed on the Pacific Coast just outside the Hollywood Hills. Even more artistic licence than I used when I airbrushed away those footprints in the sand.