Reykjavik part 3. Cafes, Restaurants and Bars

In summer, Iceland is a pot of coffee by day, bottle of wine by night kind of country and Reykjavik is famous for its cafes and its nightlife.  On Saturday morning we visited the Laundromat on Austurstraeti; a breezy, colourful cafe which pulled a young, hipster crowd in the centre of the city.  The following day we went to a more homely coffee house down a discrete stair from the capital's main shopping street; Laugavegur.  After so long away from civilization, it was great to relax with a cappuccino again; my first in over month.  Both of the cafes we visited were pretty friendly, chilled places with excellent decor.  In the Laudromat maps of Europe from the '60s and '70s ran down the walls next to signs with messages like "We like babies and boobs."  The other cafe, sadly I have forgotten the name, was more conservatively furnished in creamy whites, mint greens and wooden panelling.  It reminded me a lot of the wonderful cafe at Glaumbaer in the north that we visited three weeks earlier.

On Friday evening we dined in a restaurant by the port where we ate kebabs of Haddock, Hallibut, Potatoes, Vegetables and Mink Whale.  The fish, which came straight from the harbour, was as fresh as possible.  Of course, the shock was whale.  Though whaling is illegal in most European countries it has resurfaced in Iceland at very low levels since 2006; 30 Mink Whales and 9 Fin Whales.  Generally speaking, I believe that if you eat one animal you should eat them all irrespective of how cute or fluffy they are.  However, if ever there were an exception it is surely whales which, though neither cute nor fluffy, are a highly intelligent endangered species.  The Icelandic government are highly responsible and take over-farming seriously; this summer Puffin hunting has been temporarily banned because of concerns over depleting stocks.  Inevitably though their is some danger caused by human error or less scrupulous whalers flaunting legal restrictions.  Honestly, I don't know if I believe it is conscionable to eat Whale.  For that reason I ordered a very good but relatively unexciting Hallibut kebab, part of which I traded with Emily.  Unlike Shark, Whale meat is very tasty; it calls to mind a tender beef steak with a mild intonation of the salty sea water.

When in a new country, I believe that one should try all of the local foods.  I intensely admire Bruce Parry's willingness to eat anything.  Though the idea faintly horrified me, heads of Sheep are considered a delicacy by many Icelanders so, on Saturday evening Emily, Steff and I found a restaurant in the centre of town where we could have them prepared for us.  Sheep's heads are cooked in advance; it can take three hours or more for the meat to soften.  Therefore, we were not left too long, in a blur of dry mouths and fluttery stomachs before the heads arrived replete with all their skin, mouths and ears intact.  From empty sockets the rams stared out blindly as upwards wafted the stench of boiled skin and fat.  In death the sheep appeared looked oddly dignified and really, profoundly sad.  My hands started to shake and I tried hard not to cry genuinally uncertain of what came next.  Could I do this?  I turned to my friend, feeling filthy, and asked them to cut the head from ear to mouth and  rip the jaw apart for me.  Then, I ate my meal.  First the tounge, then the interior of the jaw and finally the small area of meat around the base of the skull.  There is very little meat actually on a sheep's head which is mostly fat, bone and other undesirable substances.  I have no idea how this fucking tradition got started.  Of course, all meat is taken from dead animals, there is no reason why it should be better to eat an animal's head but not it's body.  It is not the same though, with the face their is no illusions to hide behind, you are made aware that this is an animal, this is what you are eating and that this is what you have become.

That night, our last in Reykjavik, we decided to drink in Iceland's pubs and bars.  Of course, alcohol is expensive in Iceland because of the country's low PPP and restrictive licensing and tax laws so we headed to the cheapest place we could find along the city's main party street which happened to be a gay bar.  Barbara is an Elizabeth II themed night club in the dead centre of town.  At 400 kr the beer here was half the price of the other place we visited, a rock club a couple of doors down.  Icelanders famously party lately and when we arrived at nine their was hardly anyone there.  A couple of small groups sat beside as at the tables which lined the wall running perpendicular from the bar.  By half eleven, the music was blaring and the place was packed with dancing people.  The streets, quiet by day, thronged with inebriated Icelanders as we made our way back to the hostel.

Reykjavik part 2; Museums and buildings

Probably the bulk of our time in Reykjavik was spent in museums.  The first that we visited, Reykjavik 871 plus or minus 2, stood across the road from the Salvation Army Hostel, our crib for the weekend.  Orientated around the insitu remains of an early settlement in a dimly lit room, this museum, is a good example of how archaeology can be brought to life by good presentation.  The exhibition is spartan; some spacious displays and touchscreens cling to the outer wall so that attention is focused where it should be; on the archaeological record.  The site itself was a long turf hall occupied during the mid- and late-tenth century.  An intuitive, interactive display lets visitors view the settlement as it was and as it is at different levels of construction; fully formed, without roof, without walls etc.  Stripped down an rather simple; Reykjavik 871 was an inspiring example of what archaeologists can actually achieve with enough scraping the dirt and some moody lighting.

The largest museum in Reykjavik, the National Museum, lies in a sleepy suburb a short walk from the city center, past a picturesque artificial lake flanked by Iceland's poshest houses and the friendly ducks which live on the water.  This collection is housed in an exceptionally hideous Soviet-esque building which does no justice to the remarkable assembly inside.  Iceland was one of the last parts of the word to be colonized by humans and the museum's material is arranged chronologically from the settlement a millennia ago to the modern day.  When walking past the many beautiful artifacts on display it is clear that Iceland is a country with an exceptionally rich historic material culture.  A thread of artistic creativity running through Icelandic history is illustrated by sumptuous realia; intricately carved horns, richly embroidered clothing and painting of astounding beauty.  When in Reykjavik, I recommend setting aside a good few hours to explore this striking, starkly beautiful collection at leisure.

Below is a beautifully carved and painted representation of the time Jesus was pulled over for drunk driving:

Though the collection inside the Reykjavik Cultural House is not of so consistently high quality as the National Museum it is a relatively cheap next stop with some absolutely must see material.  Undoubtedly, the jewel in the crown of this assemblage is the exhibition of historic manuscripts on the ground floor.  Many of the most important surviving works of Icelandic literature can be seen here including a beautiful illustration of the laws of the national commonwealth and the earliest surviving copy of Njal's saga dating to the 15th c.  Both are shown below.

As in the National Museum, the Cultural House's collection is arranged chronologically.  On the first, second and third floors pleasantly folksy paintings of ships, the sea, mountains and such tried and true material give way to painfully hip modern art.  On a television screen a shaven headed yob angrily shouts "You talkin' to me?!" ad infinitum across the room from pink bean bags in the shapes of unborn children and tits.  Any trip to the Cultural House really can be considered complete without a sortie to the uppermost floor.

On Sunday afternoon we climbed to the top of the Perlan on the hill Oskjuhilo in the centre of Reykjavik.  One of the most distinctive, if not attractive, buildings in Reykjavik; the Perlan is an overwhelmingly eighties complex comprising of a high tower encircled by six cylindrical water drums.  Recently one of the water towers was emptied for a Saga-themed wax model museum which we felt looked too cheesy and expensive to visit.  However, I don't regret taking an hour out to climb the Oskjuhilo; from the roof it is possible to see right across the city to the coast.

On the path down the hill we walked past some fabricated geysers.  Quite why a person would pay to fly hundreds of miles to a country where the real things exist naturally in order to visit these I am not sure.  Nevertheless, they had attracted a small crowd of morons.  Natural geysers are incredible; I will describe them later in my blog.  The faux-geysers of Reykjavik will not be new to anybody who has noticed it is possible to adjust the water pressure of hoses.

Reykjavik part 1.

A week last Friday we bid farewell to all of the wonderful people who we had worked with at Holar and took the main road south to Reykjavik.  It seemed far longer than four weeks since we first arrived and I was said to be saying goodbye to the quiet, little town in the valley which, that summer, had been my home.  On the road we drove past the same sweeping fjords and bleak expanses of bog that we had a month before.  The landscape which had felt fresh, new and exciting before was soaked in memories and unfulfilled desires.  I knew that my time in this beautiful country was running out and that though we had seen so much there was far more still that we had not seen.  I don't believe it is ever really possible to have "done" a country.
In Reykjavik we stayed in a surprisingly swanky Salvation Army hostel in downtown.  Reykjavik is often described as a modern European capital.  This is true; the city is home to a multitude of special interest groups and one is forever turning the corner to discover an Esperanto book shop or all male leather bar.  However, the city's real charm lies in how small, even cute, it is.  This city of a hundred thousand is a place where the Prime Minister is listed in the phone book.  The streets of Reykjavik were always quiet and at night I slept like a log not five minutes walk from the city's main party street.
Undoubtedly the most famous building in Iceland is the Hallgrimskirkja, a colossal, concrete cathedral at the heart of the city which I visited twice over our weekend.  Monolithic and grey, the Hallgrimskirkja is a defiantly modern construct; a clenched Lutheran fist thrusting upwards, into the sky.  Organ festivals have been held here for the last decade and, on our first visit, Hannah, Zen and I were fortunate enough to overhear a rehearsal.  Discordant, jazzy chords reverberated off the walls complimenting the imposing atmosphere of the church perfectly.  On Saturday Zen and I decided to attend a concert where we listened to Andreas Sieling, of the Berlin Cathedral, perform pieces by Bach and Liszt.  The organ appears a ferociously difficult beast to get to grips with and this man, who turned out beautiful music, was clearly a virtuoso.

For personal reasons I did not feel able to blog during the week I spent at Kot.  However, it seems a shame to leave the Travels of a Handsome Man unfinished so I have decided to retroactively blog about the last week from Edinburgh.

How I became the King of Icelandic Archaeology

Yesterday, I was expertly removing a layer of turf with style and panache when my attention was caught by a spiral lying in the soil.  It was a small thing; something a lesser archaeologist might have missed or else disregarded.  Fortunately, I am no lesser archaeologist.  As I took the artifact in my hand I knew that Icelandic mothers would tell of this moment to their sons for generations before entoning in voices hushed "but enough talk of great men; be one".  I stood and raised the spiral in a clenched fist to the heavens.  "I have become a god" I cried and knew that it was true.
What I had found turned out to be the second silver artifact recovered from Kolkuos; a piece of Medieval currency.  In seriousness, I was very fortunate and lucky to find it.  Archaeology is, to a great extent, luck and on Tuesday I happened to be the one lucky enough to make an amazing find.

From Monday to Friday we excavate at Kolkuos or else work with material removed from the site back at the lab in Holar.  Kolkous is a natural harbor upon the mouth of the river Kolka.  It was one of Iceland's major trading ports from around 900 AD into the 16th century.  The sight developed in association with the Bishopric of Holar though it is now known to have predated the establishment of the institution.  Ships are described docking here and travelling up the estuaries in the sagas.

No evidence has been recovered at the site for permanent occupation.  Over the summer merchants and travelers lived in turf booths protected from nature by furs and leather.  Today it is their pots and flints, their whalebones and whetstones that we excavate.  It is much less common to make finds here than on my previous excavations in Italy and Slovakia or even further up the valley in Holar.  However, the material record which has been recovered is rich and varied.  Finds include a silver coin brought to Iceland from Germany in the early 12th century.  The first evidence that small Maltese dogs were brought to Iceland as pets for the aristocracy was discovered at Kolkuos.

Unfortunately, the sight is being destroyed by the river and the sea.  Long ago, the isthmus connecting Kolkuos to the island of Elinarholmi creating an ocean harbor was submerged in water.  Today, the entire sight is under threat.  It is important therefore that as much is excavated this season and over the next couple of years as possible, before it is too late.

I retired rather late on Saturday after hitting the bottle pretty hard in the lab with the other archaeologists.  Today, Zen and I woke up in time for breakfast at nine feeling pretty fragile after four hours sleep.  In the afternoon, we went to the swimming pool in the center of town where we sat around chatting in the sauna and the Jacuzzi.  In five days time we will leave Holar for Reykjavik; the sprawling, seething metropolis in the south west that is home to over 125,000 souls.  It will be sad to say goodbye to Holar, to Kolkous and to the archaeologists who work here.  I hope that this will not be my last week in the north and that one day I will come back.

Smile, you're in the promised land. Part 2.

After visiting Husavik we drove to the Myvatn area.  Solrun had told me that, to her mind, this was the most beautiful place in Iceland and I expected an idyllic lake with clear water, grassy fields and sandy beaches where handsome Nordic youths frolicked merrily in the shade of pine trees.  Instead, Myvatn is a morass of molten, sulferus pools, volcanic rock and middle aged Germans.

The first place we visited in the Myvatn area was Dimmuborgir; an expansive volcanic field formed by a collapsed lava tube 2000 years ago.  Dimmuborgir's name is translated into English as "dark castle" and the site was significant to Icelandic folklore in the Viking period as the place where hell met the earth as well as the site where Satan landed when he was forced out of Heaven.  From an overhanging cliff desolate, craggy black ridges rise up into the distance.  From inside it is impossible to see out beyond the pillars and crevasses which dominate the landscape; one is surrounded as though in a thick forest.  Today, Icelanders believe that Dimmuborgir is home to the Yule Lads, mischievous trolls whose names are scarcely single entendres; Sausage Swiper and Window Peeper, Door Sniffer and Skyr Gobbler.

Not far from Dimmuborgir is Namafjall Hverir where sulfur bubbles up from the earth in boiling mudpools and plumes of smoke.  Nothing lives on this hillside where sand and bare rock are the order of the day; Namafjall Hverir is a small piece of Mars in the Icelandic highlands.  This oddly surreal landscape is like nowhere else I have ever been.  More cheesy 80s sci fi than real life.

After everything we had done it was great to finish the day by relaxing at our next stop;  a swimming pool atop a mountain overlooking the Myvatn lake.  Despite being highly developed as a tourist resort the pool itself was all natural; lined by black rock and sand and heated by volcanic energy.  The water was wonderfully warm and I would have been quite happy to surrender all my hopes and ambitions and to lie there forever dining on food and drink brought to me by eunuchs.  Sadly, I was not able to take any photos as I left my camera in a locker.
Though I was sad to leave the pool driving through the beautiful, Icelandic scenery is always lovely.  I dozed happily on Weddle's shoulder as we drove home through lonely fields bathed in amber light watching the sun dip into the mountains.

Smile, you're in the promised land. Part 1.

On Friday we went on an epic 16 hour day trip around northern Iceland from Holar to Husavik taking in sulfur fields, the waterfall at which Paganism was symbolically renounced in Iceland over a thousand years ago and the very gates of hell.  Setting out at 8 in the morning, we drove for hours along empty, winding roads running along the Atlantic coast and through grassy valleys and fjords encircled by snowy mountains.
The first place we visited was Gasir, on the shore of Eyjafjordur.  Gasir was Iceland's most important trading post during the 13th and 14th centuries and more artifacts have been recovered there by archaeologists than from any other contemporary site in Iceland.  Recently, excavations have shown that trading continued at the site into the 16th c. until it was superseded by Iceland's 2nd city Akureyri which lies 11 km to the south.   As I have written before, turf was the building material of choice during this period because of the scarcity of forestry in Iceland.  Therefore, sadly, there is not much to see at Gasir besides stone foundations and lumps in the ground though it is always nice to experience more of this beautiful country.

Our next stop was the might waterfall of Godafoss where the waters of the river Skjalfandafljot fall 12 m from a 30 m wide ridge.  Though not the highest in Iceland, this was definitely the most ferociously beautiful waterfall I have ever witnessed.  Jets of clear, cold water cascaded over the edge into a jagged, rocky pool below.  It was here, in 1000, that lawspeaker Borgeir Ljosvetingagodi renounced the the Viking religion by throwing statues of the old gods into the water.  It is difficult to imagine a more definite statement of finality.  From this moment, Iceland would become a Christian nation.  Hannah was left quite unmoved.

After Godafoss, we drove out to the beautiful coastal town named Husavik.  Colourfully painted, wooden houses created a bright and friendly atmosphere in the old town.  Across the fjord, mountains framed in mist rose dramatically from the coast; the perfect backdrop to the traditional Viking boats in the harbour.  Of course, I am an appalling Philistine, and I had come to Husavik mainly for the opportunity to look at dicks in jars; something this quite, sunny town of a thousand catered to ably.

In a traditional, wooden house a conservatively dressed, retired headmaster named Sigurdur Hjartarson will, for the sum of 800 kr, show visitors around his collection of almost 300 phalloi.  Sigurdur's collection includes the pink bazookas of all 46 Icelandic mammals, including the modern, Icelandic man.  It is a strikingly alien ensemble.  The penises of whales, reindeer, bulls, sheep, seals and many others animals besides float in jars submerged in formaldehyde amidst otherwise tastefully furnished wooden walls, tables and shelves.  Highlights include a whip fashioned from the manhood of a pig and the tip of a Sperm Whale's phallus which, though only a fraction of its full extent, stands over 5 foot tall and ways 70 kg.  "Smile," Margret said to me.  "You're in the promised land."  Bizarre fascinating and disturbing I strongly recommend the Husavik Phallological Museum to anybody who does not place great value in their innocence.

The mountains of Skagafjordur are some of the most dramatic in Iceland and Sunday was a warm clear day so in the afternoon we decided to climb to a ledge behind Holar which the Bishop Guomundur Arason allegedly climbed to every day, in the early 13th c, to pray.
The path up to the mountain ran through one of the larger Icelandic woods.  This was astonishingly beautiful; crooked wooden bridges spanned gorgeously clear little streams and high trees grew densely enough beside the pathways for one to imagine one were in a far larger, deeper forest.  It was possible to imagine somebody getting lost in here, standing up and still being totally fucked.

Once we passed through the woods we stood at the mountain foot.  In order to better commune with nature I decided to make the assent barefooted.  The ground was cool and refreshing beneath my feet and I felt as one with the beasts of the earth and the fishes of the sea though, sadly, I was not able to take in the spectacular vistas walking up for fear of stepping on a painful stone.

From the ledge it was possible to see right across the valley and down into the ocean.  We spent a while taking it all in and frolicking merrily amongst the boulders and feeling the moss between our toes in the manner of the Bishop Arason.

Over the last couple of days I have been working in the lab in Holar, rather than at Kolkous.  On Thursday, Zen and I cleaned and processed finds from the excavation.  We were able to see some of the most exciting settlement and medieval period finds from Skagafjordur which had been returned from a museum.  These included an iron lamp. scissors, a shoe heel and whale bones.  On Friday we floated samples from Kolkous and a site near to Reykjavik.  Flotation is essentially a method of separating the heavier and lighter materials in the soil like bone and charcoal by forcing water upwards through it.  After 8 hours standing over a plastic flotation bucket feels quite a lot like being a member of a chain gang.  By the afternoon, we were all looking forward to sleeping in.  Here is a picture of a Greek man sleeping in the back of a car:

On Saturday we visited a place called Glaumbaer which is Icelandic for "fun farm".  Surprisingly, the farm of fun turned out not to be a brothel.  In a lovely, wooden cottage we piled our plates high with pancakes filled with cream and sugar, cheesecakes, sherry cakes and many others; all apparently Icelandic delicacies.  It was a moment of pure happiness which I can only compare to sex, stripped of guilt, fear, mutual recrimination and crying.

At Glaumbaer, there is a reconstruction of a traditional house decked out in old world fair.  As in most pre-modern Icelandic houses turf was the building material of choice and beams and planks were primarily made from driftwood.  The building was quite large and very cozy though it would have been very snug in use with 2 or 3 people sharing each single-sized bed.

On the road back home we stopped in a beautiful wooden church where a guide told us about the importance of side boobs to Christianity and the importance of Christianity to getting a leg over in days gone by.

There are no soils in Iceland suitable for clay production.  Consequently, all ceramics in the Viking and Medieval periods had to be imported from Scandinavia, Britain or elsewhere and traders tended to use other materials like leather or animal skin to transport goods.  Pottery is extremely rare on archaeological sites and only a couple of hundred sherds are known from the Medieval period.

Until now.

This morning, I stepped up to the god damn plate and revolutionized Icelandic archaeology by finding this:

I have mentioned earlier how constant sunlight has given me the opportunity to appreciate the magnificent view from my room at all times.  For example, at 3 or 4 pm when I am trying to sleep.  From Sunday to Friday I didn't sleep more than five hours a night.  Having taken enough of the sun's bullshit, I covered my window with tin foil on Friday evening which has helped me to catch up on sleep.

On Saturday we walked south, down the valley from Holar to a nearby lake.  The sky was beautifully clear and blue and though there snow still clung to the mountain peaks the valley floor was quite warm and gently breezy.  We passed beautiful Icelandic horses who trotted up to the road to say hello.  The lake was wonderfully chilly and refreshing and we all took turns jumping into it.
One of Iceland's most famous attractions is the thermal pools which are common to all regions of the country. Hot pools of water, which are heated naturally by volcanic energy, are a deeply surreal experience 40 km south of the Arctic Circle.  In the freezing and totally depopulated Icelandic highlands it is possible to find bodies of water 25-35 degrees all year round.  On Sunday the weather held and the day was beautiful clear and warm.  We were driven to two thermal pools north of Holar on the Atlantic coast in Skagafjordur.  After changing in turf houses, we sat in rock pools gasping at the heat against a backdrop of snow capped mountains and the Atlantic.  The experience is quite bizarre and yet, very relaxing and I almost drifted to sleep right there.