In Love in Iceland - Day 2

A former colleague, an American guy who lives in Norway, once told me "There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing." Wise words that have become my mantra, among others, and which The Ragazzi will probably have inscribed on my grave stone, along with, "Turn the light off!" and "Can someone please feed the cat?"

The second day in Iceland was wet. Now I am accustomed to wet, I live part of the year in Brittany where it rains from above, sideways and sometimes, it seems, upwards, but the rain in Iceland is very, well, wet and rainy. North Atlantic storms are pretty powerful.

The farm provided orange waterproof trousers and jackets. They were great for those riders who are adult-sized but me, I am built more like an elf and so would have been completely swamped by them. But I had come prepared, I had a waterproof riding jacket and over-trousers, all was well.



In fact my own gear was better than that lent by the farm, as a fellow rider confirmed when. after ten minutes, she was already cold and wet and not happy.

So, the two of us with a guide, rode towards the local small town. In the dark and the pouring rain. And we rode into a small forest that was planted a few decades back as part of the plan to re-forest Iceland, so there were clumps of pines, and beeches and oaks and it was all managed and the trees were thriving with their roots in the warm soil and plenty of rain.



And there was a former Viking house, the walls had remained standing because they were built several feet thick, but the roof had recently been replaced and covered with moss. I couldn't take a picture, it was too cold and wet for me to rummage inside my jacket for my camera. And I was too busy drinking the rain that was pouring down my face.

In Iceland you'll see old buildings that have been empty for years and that are still standing. The reason for this is not that they can't be bothered to pull them down, or that no-one wants to occupy/use them, but rather that Icelanders believe that elves may have taken up residence and you do not want to mess with an elf.

Do I believe in elves? Well, that's a whole other story.

By lunchtime we'd ridden for a total of ten hours. The farm thought it was time for a break. I disagreed, I would have stayed in the saddle all day but perhaps they were wise. We were driven to a swimming pool. An open-air, water supplied from hot springs, steam room stinking of sulphur, swimming pool and introduced to Icelandic relaxation.

The Icelanders are very good about hygiene, of necessity since no noxious chemicals are used in the water, so we were ordered to remove our shoes at the door and to shower naked, and lest we not know which parts to pay particular attention to, there was a picture highlighting feet, under arms and privater areas.

I swim frequently at home, four, sometimes five days each week. And I do like to sit in a sauna, close my eyes and imagine I'm in a Finnish forest, so this was a familiar experience for me. Familiar save for the fact that as I swam lengths in the pool a cold rain was falling on me.

But the best experience, for me, was the freezing plunge pool into which I dropped before leaping out and running to the 38 degree hot pot. I'm a little addicted to this masochistic past-time of alternately heating my body and then fast-freezing it, I'm told that it's good for the immune system, I just love the all-over tingly feeling.

So the people from the farm were right. The pool was a perfect place for the second afternoon.
And I almost, almost but not quite, managed to sleep that night. I think I need more hot/cold dips before I permanently cure my insomnia.

In love in Iceland - Day 1

It was a treat to myself.

Or should I say to my inner seven-year old pony-mad self?

The little kid with the blonde plaits and scruffy jeans who liked nothing more than to muck about with ponies.

I had arranged a Northern Lights Ride with Responsible Travel.

Three days of Icelandic horses.

Perfect!

On the first day I met this guy whose name was the Icelandic version of Storm.

 I wish I'd written the names down but the others in the party (all Germans whose youth and style and general self-confidence made me feel a tad old and silly at times, though the fault was mine, they were lovely), were less horse-mad than me and I had to temper my enthusiasm a little so as to at least make a show of a stiff upper-lip.

Storm was afraid of mounting blocks, which made the first day challenging for me with my arthritic knees. He also seemed to be startled by the sound of ice cracking, which I thought was amusing since he must hear it often, until the guide pointed out that perhaps he was spooked by the elves. More on those guys later!  

Storm and I got along like long-lost buddies. And he even performed a tolt for me which is, if you've never experienced it, like going into fifth gear on the smoothest road in a Ferrari after bumping along in a wheelbarrow over stones. Make sense?

The weather was not conducive to riding, a sharp frost on top of snow. Thick ice that made the horses  slither and slide but never, not once, stumble, and thin ice that broke under-hoof plunging furry legs into deep and freezing muddy water.

The farm lent us warm outer-clothing and I had ski gloves and thermals so I was warm and toasty. And Storm had his double coat of Icelandic hair. 

  

In the afternoon we had new horses. I'll call him Blackie. 

Blackie was a bit of a boy! Not as sure-footed as Storm, not willing to tolt, prone to getting left behind. It was a little nerve-wracking, especially since the afternoon ride was through a fast-flowing icy river and up and down some steep paths.

I started to get anxious. I am good at anxious, anxious having been my constant state for many years.

And then I thought, relax and let it be.
And so when the others got too far ahead and Blackie's bouncy trot was too hard on my back and he got so fast he stumbled, I let him him have his head and he cantered and instead  of being tense and stressed we caught up with the end of the ride with him doing a good impersonation of a rocking horse and me laughing and happy.

And that was a major lesson for me.
The letting go and trusting.

So, seven hours in the saddle over some pretty challenging terrain, a fantastic first day!

Reykjaik Rocks...

The airport seemed to be full of young people, adventurous young people with tons of outdoor gear and some serious hiking boots, and I felt a little old and out of place, until I reminded myself that my own luggage comprised serious riding boots, and my hat, and new chaps, gloves, thermals and waterproofs. 

I had also come to Iceland for an adventure.

The trip to Reykjavik was fun. You buy a ticket for the FlyBus from the booth near the exits and then wander out to the bus where a burly chap loads the luggage and a nice lady driver enquires where you are going. And then you set off, driving into the sunset, over lava fields, with tantalising glimpses of the seashore and little house lit up with Christmas lights, and snowy mountains in the distance, until you reach the city.

The driver will then tell those staying at city-centre guesthouses to get off and transfer to a minibus for the remainder of the journey, so it's all out with your luggage and into the minibus whose driver has a wicked sense of humour and calls each passenger he drops off his 'favourite new friend'. I was the last favourite new friend to be deposited at my guest house which would, in the past, have made me nervy and sitting on the edge of my seat, but I was in Iceland and I was taking things as they came.

The Sunna guesthouse is spotlessly clean and located right near the church whose spire towers over Reykjavik, which is excellent for a person such as me who has no sense of direction and can easily get lost in a large room. It's also an eco-guesthouse, committed to cutting down on waste and not over-using resources. My room was on the ground floor which, with that church nearby and a busy, busy road outside was noisy and that would, a few days ago, have had me scuttling to reception to ask to move somewhere quieter but, hey, Iceland, chill-out, no problem. I had earplugs.

And so to find somewhere to eat.

There's a place nearby called the Loki Cafe; in the evenings the upstairs is where you go for authentic Icelandic food, It's really friendly, perfect for a single diner who is prone to being shy.

The menu is limited, which makes choosing your meal simpler and a bit more interesting because you can;t chicken-out and stick to the familiar. Even so, I think. I was a tad cautious because I chose the fish and potato gratin.

I declined to try the shark fermented in urine. Yes, seriously, the Icelanders eat this, or so they assured me, I watched a Japanese guy try one mouthful, it did not seem to have been a happy experience.

And then desert, a pancake filled with skyr and topped with a caramel sauce and cream.

I kind of got the feeling I'd be eating a lot of fish during the trip.
That suits me but I had to smile at the sign on the wall, it would have made my non-fish-loving ex-husband's heart sink.

And so back to my guesthouse to prepare for bed.
I know that Icelanders like to rock and roll that the city comes alive at around midnight, that out there there would be some serious partying going on, but I'd had enough excitement for one day. It was time for a cup of herbal tea and bed.

So earplugs in and lights out and time to sleep.