As I awake alone in my lonely island among the ocean, the foggy morning blends with the horizon and I know I was right not to wake up earlier for a sunrise because haze always blurs first hours. I buy my traditional foreign pair of socks before taking the boat; thankfully, North Wind has stopped freezing the swell, and my journey is warmer than yesterday.
I land in a blazing sunny Brjanslaekur and choose to walk to my next rendezvous along Hellalaug hot spring shores, amazed by the blue and clear water in the quiet waves. I am not yet stunned by the Fjords though, I gaze at all the Ben Bulben’s Icelandic brothers, I look into the green they are made of, understanding why Icelanders, tired of their volcanic dark land, prefer this change of scenery. I enjoy my solitude, impatient of an emotion that would rock my world in front of what my foot would face.
I reach the sea view black stones pool, relaxing my sore body in this clear millennium water, almost touchable as it softly blends with my skin. After this nice bath, I get dress in the freezing wind and choose to walk again, forgetful of absent side-roads and hitchhiking opportunities. Therefore, I have to walk my exhausted steps to the port as the sun lowers, burns my cheeks but doesn’t warm my arms. All along this chosen but tired and deja-vu promenade, I think about my nightly divagations, about the fascination that both North and Ouest trigger inside me, the wilderness they awake in my untamed heart. Iceland is made of another magic than Ireland, but mystery is here, mesmerizing. The Land of Ice questions the entire humanity… West is a call towards unexplored worlds, North is an unreal unknown, a goal to understand our planet. And my heart is always pulled towards those extremities.
Excited about my theory of life, I finally get to my morning port, ready to be collected by my first German car travelling throughout the drivers’ one year exil memories, they lead me to the corner where our life will part again. Until then, my world gets upside down, like in front of Aran cliffs, or at Sligo’s door, or along the Columbia River; I didn’t expect anything and everything happens… Ocean turquoise-blue, white sandbanks, breathtaking down from rocky tops’ to swell depth’s Fjords, and drawing shining changing green. Absolute. Unbelievable. Out of time. Out of space. A dizzy vertigo. Almost drunk. Always related to this feeling of being so small in such a giant world. In the best possible way for once. I would like my words to be able to draw how big both the landscape and my emotion are, but I can’t find my nuances nor my ink; it is so surprising, unreal, this two pieces of lands that almost kiss but not yet, thus hiding a part of the translucent ocean. Let’s blow the blue, the green, the white. The wind.
We reach our partition crossroads, I wait for Rauðisandur Beach but my second car prefers Látrabjarg cliffs. I agree with this new option, part of my plan anyway, my journey is as free as the crazy wind, as soft as the vivid breeze. Absolutely drunk of my first Fjord’s drop, my eyes don’t get enough windows to be stunned by huge white beaches that run toward multiple blues’ waters, don’t get enough pigments to understand the landscape and all its changing materials. The upper we go, th dryer it gets. As red as the secret beach. I see more moss on the top and the desert rocky fields. I only passed the next hill, the scenery completely metamorphosed. Thus feeding my curious soul, always willing to see what is hidden behind!
I sail to the unknown for longer than I thought, I feel like I am throwing myself into the end of the world. Close enough since I reach the Western point of Europe that every country claims to have… Dingle already told me that story last winter*… I face the cliffs on the edge of one world, the Czech dad and his daughter’s path slenderly intertwined with mine gets its freedom again in a blowing regrets wind. I put all my layers back on and I launch towards the cliffs. But I can’t see them; after all, cliffs are most of the time most likely to be seen feet in the water. I forgot puffins were the only Látrabjarg’s point of interest. I heard “cliffs” and I didn’t listen after that…
There I stand, on the Western point of Europe, blown by a crazy wind that drives me mad, on invisible cliffs almost forgiven by the vertiginous plateau rising in front of me, above the blue sky. And I feel awfully lonely. Like I have never felt before in my whole life. Of course, I must probably have already felt that lonely and even more, but suddenly, this burning solitude and this sharp wind are the only thing that matters, my only memory of this moment. However, curious random, as I am taken away by my lonely explosion, a blue waterproof jacket man, morning boat buddy, reaches me out and tells me how brave I am to travel on my own. Sometimes, someone else’s thoughts may hear you…
After some come and go, and more blasters on my feet, I decide to stay here for the night, downhill around the cliffs’ soft feet where the memory of a fishing campground remains and where the swell is an immortel noise that no picture nor word could reproduce. The life’s soundtrack relentless falls, boiling and never the same.
I walk along the smelly ocean and all of a sudden, again, I miss everybody. I cherish this place that only belongs to me on this empty no man’s land, the melancholia of those who are my home strikes me though, sharp and sweet. It is my evening mood, fleetingly endless, as this day comes to an end, non-perfect and wonderful, stunning and right. As the sun hides behind the green outhouse and as I impatiently wait for the horizon to kiss the sleeping beauty.
Sun rises, grey and cloudy – or, as a matter of fact, rather white – like any Icelandic morning. Ocean still rumbles in my hear and wind freezes my breath. I wait for an hour for a bumpy ride at the European Western point, sometimes under Arctic birds attacks. A German that I barely understand finally chooses me. A German that completely fit my French idea of a German: a very strong accent and a woolen sweat that looks like Bavaria. He drops me without small talks to the Red Beach’s true corner, a boat is awaiting for him somewhere. The landscape got new colors as we returned, running the same stunning scenery as yesterday, quietly standing and glowing in front of my hitchhiking spot.
Then, after a sunny windy wait of two minutes and a half, a white 4×4, loaded of Italian pastas and olive oil stops for me, Sylvia and Angelo, on a one month road trip holiday share their journey for a short moment. Time to have a glimpse on the reddish beach from the sky, time to finally glance at Látrabjarg Cliffs, time to walk along the water and the marshes without looking at the waves, and here we go again. Back and forth. It was the meeting point of our lives before they part again, forever.
Then, after an apricots and almonds snack and a longer wait (but not as long as the morning one), a new Jeep, driven by a local couple, owners of the campsite I almost chose yesterday, stops to give me a ride to Patreksfjörður. There, I wait for my new car so I can reach Reykjafjardarlaug. I eat three sour cream & oignons chips, and a fisherman picks me up, apologizing for the fish smell. He offers me a ride to Bíldudalur where I wanted to go for the knitting lady… On our way, we talk about the Icelandic political and economical crisis, and the new citizens Assembly that happens to be a myth**, and the new constitution they wrote but was put away in a drawer by politicians: “thanks but no thanks”; we talk about their failed attempt to get ride of the old system. Thus, my Icelandic ideal, my hope for a brand new world, was crushed as so many, peaceful or not, revolutions were before. This fisherman also tells me about his law studies, his student buddy that taught him how to drink wine, he explains to me his choice to be fisherman instead of debt collector; crisis started when he just graduated, fish price blew in one night, a much more glorious fate than the only accessible job considering his degree and the economical situation. All our passionate speeches freeze when I first see Bíldudalur Fjord jumping in front of my amazed eyes; he loves to pick up hitchhiker so they can remind him of the beauty of his own country.
Arrived to my destination, I look for the knitting lady, she stands at the corner, tiny and humble, with the only treasures she has left; I buy some new socks, for a friend this time. And my wait starts all over again, in front of the still Fjord, gazing at clouds drawn on flat or sharp summit. I wait for such a long time, hoping that I will eventually reach Reykjafjardarlaug hot pool, I have plenty of time though. Thankfully, a car with hilltop bikes stops, driven by Krzysztof and Łukasz, Polish that travel over Iceland because Łukasz has baked here for three years.
We linger at every viewpoint; however, I decide not to stop at Reykjafjardarlaud, disappointing. I can’t believe what runs in front of my eyes, canyons, desolate and endless snowed Fjords, hidden waterfalls sometimes, ocean lakes in between each growing land, blue water, green sometimes red. Untouched landscape. Icelandic lines seem so pure, like in North America, because there is no man’s hand behind it. I am deeply moved to think nature build such a giant beauty. Caught in my huge emotions, I finally understand what I feel: I understood what a Fjord was supposed to be, piece of land that play monster tag with the sea, but I couldn’t picture the reality of it, I didn’t expect such a thing. You could think you would get bored after a while, after the same repetition over and over up the desert plateau and down a colorful nature, down waters and lands; yet each new Fjord has its own particularity and beauty.
We finally reach our common destination: Dynjandi Fjallfoss. Once again, these endless and never-ending waterfalls are impossible to recreate with my words, from the winding entrance in between two lands so the wild water can rise as a vivid and exulted torrent to the ultimate waterfall that feeds it and quietly shines. from rocks all along the way were sculpted a long time ago, by some invisible hands, and stand like a castle’s ruins to the almost mesmerizing moss’s green, striking compared to the summit’s sharp rocks. The whole nature moves on a blue sky and sea background, while I can see in the thin earth arm another Fjord where clouds stopped for the invisible night. The sun slowly gets closer to the horizon and throws some new cold and warm colors on the landscape.
And we are back on the road again, I haven’t decided yet if I want to reach Ísafjörður tonight like my ephemeral companions will. Roads run and dance, full part of the landscape, revealing new clouds, new streams, new moves, and I want to stay the longest possible hidden in Fjords’ heart, so I can sleep nearby the soft and silent water.
Therefore, we part at Þingeyri. For a few hours, these two Polish guys’ fate and mine were inextricably linked, forgetful of our own reality, but separation brings us back to our only truth: Łukasz is the exiled father and husband of a family that still lives in Poland while he works in Reykjavik. And I am back to be an ordinary girl struggling every day with her glowing or dark thoughts. And in the golden light of my new camp, I softly question those encounters that get through your life, never casual but very fleeting while others, as random, as unexpected, change your life forever and utterly transform your being.
Exhausted of this ne endless day, I gaze at the next Fjord, sinking into a thin layer of clouds, perfect bed for this black beach sun.
I leave Þingeyri by a big blue soft morning, close to an Icelandic Indian summer, thanks to a new fisherman’s generosity, from Reykjavik as well but who decided to focus on fish. He told me about Arctic sterns’ migration: those agressive birds follow the Poles’ lights in order to only know the edge of the world’s endless days. I cross over two new Fjords with him, one is dryer as if the ocean got bored of kissing the earth’s heart. Then we go through the one way tunnel towards Ísafjörður. On the other side, it is like I changed country and hemisphere, Celsius gets down to 5. The Pole wind cooling off Iceland already reached West Wings and I freeze.
The town is trapped in between two Fjords, with only view another snowy Fjord that could stuff some claustrophobic. It is still nice though. The atmosphere is more industrial than I would think; a cruise boat pours hundreds of tourists every two hours and locals feel like they live in a doll’s village. Wooden colored houses almost overlap on the mountain side. I walk around, I swing between West Fjords museum and a small hike, I regret not to have been to Hornstrandir National Park but immediately remember boats were too expensive for me. I eventually choose the hike the visitor center guide recommended to me.
As my steps run towards the top, I can hear the raven’s message, everything ends so something as beautiful can start, I feel so tired to always be haunted by the same ghosts when my soul weakens. As sure as Látrabjarg cliffs were lonely, Ísafjörður hike will be wounded of the past. I think about I wrote the first time I traveled, that you leave a piece of your sadness or joy behind where you part. But it may only be true for a fleeting moment because time always brings you back to you deeply are, isn’t it? But it may only be true if you never come back to your sad place, isn’t it? Would a return to Scotland drown me into my ardent broken heart, or would I be able to be who I am now since I put all my pieces back together?
But I forget Iceland, my smoky theory of life; I walk my eyes to Ísafjörður surrounded by cars’ noise, I get more deeply in the mountain and humans sounds vanish. I gaze at the Fjord from up, I try to dry my salted streams and I fall with the water downhill.
It is now time to start my return to Reykjavik. My thumb raises and a black 4×4 immediately pools over to drive even further than what I asked. Lea gets the steering wheel, she is the raven encounter, the one meant to be to thoughtfully lead me to the end of my day. We share our secret and vivid wounds, invisibly healing each other.
As we drive and talk, I discover the Eastern part of the West Fjords, softer, lower, bumpier, a blurry blend of land and ocean. We meet Hólmavík whose Fjord is so big and quiet it almost looks like a lake. Landscape is changing, looking more and more like Snæfellsnes Peninsula, mountains get peculiar faces, they are covered of weird shapes, and the sun suddenly pierces the Western ocean. Lea tells me she loves this road during winter time. Ísafjörður, further North, only lies in night then, but anytime she drives to this crossroads, anytime she meet this part of the island again, she can see Reykjavik week light. For a short moment, she is relieved: sun has died yet, it only travels its winter journey still.
Lea, this special encounter, fleeting and yet meant to be, leaves our parallel paths to escape for a weekend, as I hardly get to sleep and put my weak thoughts at ease in Laugar wind.
After a blue night and a lazy morning catching up with my writings, I finish my journey towards Reykjavik. Almost immediately picked up by Whitney and Rich, Californians travelling over Europe, it is another kind of encounter, easy and happy. Whitney gives me her contacts if I want to explore Lake Taho during my American wanderings and I share my Irish advice, next destination of their trip. They drop me at the crossroad between Snæfellsnes Peninsula and the Icelandic hinterland.
After a few minutes wait, a farmer from the North, on her way to Ed Sheran’s concert, welcomes me in her warm and comforting coach, even if her breaks are dangerously tired. We talk about her Icelandic way of life, we speak about Borganes Bay’s blue lagoon water. And Reykjavik stands in front of me again, I finally recognize Mont Esja, first magic view of my arrival, rather challenged than actually blown by the winter wind. Time to buy an Icelandic saga, my last postcards for those I forgot; time to grab a last beer with Weronika… It is already time to anticipate my departure and to leave Reykjavik, as my body struggles against the cold and my camping sleepless night fatigue, as my heart hangs in trouble water.
Transcendantal atmosphere
Látrabjarg, 7/08/2019
I dig into stones’ heart
In between frozen eras
I sank into the blue sea
I tasted salty waters
All of sudden the world is huge
All of a sudden everyone is a mystery
All of a sudden the truth tumbles
beautiful and mesmerizing
in happy tears
shed between summer Fjords
Snow is blue on their feet
They give themselves away
Endlessly green
They give themselves away
with grace and moderation
to my forgotten eyes
All of a sudden, Fjords create a world that I never want to leave
* cf The Flight‘s epilogue
** The Assembly composed of drawn by lot citizens only existed for the first few months of the new Iceland, in order to propose a new Constitution. It was never supposed, as I thought, to be a new and more permanent political system.
Justine T.Annezo – Aug. 7-10 2019, West Fjords – GTM+0
Fleeting Wor(l)ds 