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COLD COMFORT

“For sheer excitement it was hard to beat.  Only a steamy night in the arms of some exotic new lover could have come near.” 

Floating on water so deep in colour as to defy belief, there they were.  Cold, raw cliffs shimmering high above deep luminescent turquoise.  Icebergs.  Most pure white, others streaked with black volcanic debris scraped out in an on going ice age.  Imagination fashioned the rest ….. animals, shells and mushrooms where the water had undercut.  Cartoon characters, caterpillars, cacti.  All these and more, together with tiny floaters not unlike those you’d find in the iced water jug.  And beyond that spectacle, the glacier that spawned all of this.  Full of crevasses, a river of ice pushing, creaking ever downward from the icecap at a rate of up to a metre per day, only to have great chunks, some as big as houses, factories even, float away in the lake to finally melt and join that incredibly short river to the sea beyond. 
          Wisps of cloud settled over the icecap.  Evening sun picking out snow covered peaks.  The quiet, for even the wind had died off, broken randomly by great splashes as lumps of ice melted off and tumbled into the lake.  All of this right outside my tent, up on grass at the top of the embankment not a stone’s throw away from such splendour.  Memories that will be with me for all time.  Surely a place to contemplate one's soul.  The sense of space, of nature in the raw, nature in charge, crept in the more I looked on the scene.  Every shade of turquoise reflected in the fading light, cobalt blues and near greens melded, their gently rippling colours mirrored on giant white forms above.
          My imagination was still hard at work as I crept into my sleeping bag for a disturbed, if relaxing night.  For sheer excitement it was hard to beat.  Only a steamy night in the arms of some exotic new lover could have come near.  But that is the stuff of dreams.  Back down to earth, quite alone in the calm of that half lit northern night, drifting between sleep and what passed for being awake, I dreamt of shapes.  Of gruyere cheese, tail of a plane, pulled teeth and more.  Yet sharply conscious of ice noisily crashing into the water beside me.
          Back to my sojourn by the breakfast table.  It was here in the ferry port of Seydisfjordur that my journey round Iceland had started all those weeks ago.  Outside, mountains mirrored on the fjord rippling gently in the morning sun.  Inside, the book simply leapt out from the shelves, asking to be opened.  Landscapes - Images of Iceland ….. amazing images that provoked instant recall and a powerful rush of emotions.  It's how Alice must have felt.  I, too, was in Wonderland, and risked a flood of tears, delving further into memories of my journey.  Looking back over the trip, feelings about it had changed almost by the minute, an emotional roller coaster at the mercy of challenging landscape and weather alike, yet rewarding beyond imagination for all of that.  To say that I was on high emotional alert is to understate my feelings.   
          The night by icebergs had to be a highlight.  But what of the others, the people, amusing incidents, trips down memory lane?  And the low points.  For without them no reflection would be complete.  In no particular order a whole bunch of images flashed before me.  In moments I was back making preparations for the journey.  Then it was the train journey, the sea crossings, stopovers, and snapshots of just what a body is capable of doing, given opportunity and determination.  I had ridden on roads that thought they were river beds, waded through fast flowing real ones with bike aloft, crossed fearsome sand desert, battled with tearing winds and pedalled through the night to avoid them.  In more than 1200 miles of riding I had wrecked tyres, buckled wheels and carried out endless roadside repairs.  But I got to walk amongst hot mud pools, spouting geysers and glaciers, drink in Reykjavik’s bars, and bathe in the world famous Blue Lagoon.  Engaging with countless travellers and local people alike, souls had been bared, doubts, disappointments aired, thrills and humour shared.  The region's colourful past had unfolded as the lid lifted on ancient democracies, and medieval soaps that are the Icelandic sagas.
          The beauty and majesty of what I had seen brought to mind so many images from the past it was difficult to know where to start.  But returning to the present, the important issue of considering what was to follow came next.  Tomorrow I would sail on to The Faroes, an eighteen island nation of 46,000 set in the North Atlantic Ocean half way between Iceland and Norway.  Complete with its own language and currency, the country has a reputation for spectacular green slopes sweeping down on deep water, turf roofed buildings, fishing, fishing, and fishing.  And weather.  But that aside, using fine roads, ferries and tunnels I planned to see much of what was on offer.  Then for dessert there would be the Shetland and Orkney Islands.  And a little ancient culture.   
          But enough of anticipating the end.  That would be then.  This was now.  And there was a whole lot of mileage left in the tank.  Time to get the show back on the road.

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