The Frozen North of Ultima Thule

Steve and Lauren visited last Thursday; they were staying for a week and we had planned on a road trip to the north. Lauren, being the Goth she is, wanted to see Dimmuborgir. They arrived pretty late on Thursday bearing gifts of Rum and a 'Yorkshire Tea' milk jug and apron, sent from Andrew Chamberlain of Sheffield University. After a quick cup of tea we headed into town only to find everything shut, so we couldn't have a celebratory drink for their arrival. We came back to my gaff and Lauren and I gossipped about everyone we know, so if you know Lauren and you know me, then we talked about YOU, yes YOU. For some God only known reason they wanted to spend Friday checking out the fishing camp that is Reykjavik, so I took them to my site first of all. As we walked away I could hear Atli asking why all my friends are so short. We went round some of the museums, first the National Museum, then the Settlement centre where the enthusiastic guide enthused over horse fighting, telling us specially trained Icelandic fighting horses go for the jugular. He told us the horses were sent into a frenzy of fighting because of the presence of a mare. I suggested it was like most towns on a Friday or Saturday night. The Manuscript Museum was excellent and I hadn't been in there before so that was good for me at least. We headed out for a few drinks on Friday night with Jo, Roz and Duncan.

After picking up a car on Saturday morning we headed out on the well trod path of the Golden Circle, after first of all going around the Reykjanes peninsular to see the bridge between continents, then getting the car stuck in the only patch of snow in the south-west of Iceland. After about an hour of attempting to dig the car out with the jack handle, three burly Russians appeared in a 4X4 and pushed the car out for us, completely emasculating Steve and I in the process. The rest of the Golden Circle tour occurred without incident except for Lauren and I standing upwind of Geysir and getting soaked. Neither of us were expecting that to happen. We thought better of visiting Þingvellir due to the failing light and the sideways snow being blown by a 100mph wind. Instead of going to Duncan's housewarming party (Roz ad Jo refused to have anything to do with it...) we crashed out early, ready to set off north in the morning.

After a quick tour around Þingvellir in far more agreeable circumstances than the previous day, we struck out north stopping at Borganes and the fantastic Egil's Saga Museum which turned out to be a brilliant but basic guide to Egll's Saga through the medium of wood. The best things were the Scorn Pole and the werewolf statue of Egil's Grandfather.

Egil, probably...

It took a while to find because the simple girl at the garage drew us the most random map of how to get there, then failed to even give us the map. The journey north continued and despite Steve's misgivings about the 'Road of Death' we arrived in Varmahlið alive. The hotel was empty except for us three and with the snow laid thick around outside it threatened to turn into a scene from The Shining. I'm sure I was woken up by someone scratching on the door whilst muttering 'Red Rum, Red Rum...'

Here's Johnny!!

Monday brought us to Akureyri and even further north to Húsavík, so Lauren could see the biggest collection of penises (penii?) in Iceland in the the Phallological Museum. She's always gasping for cock, that one. It turns out that the museum is shut for the winter, it must be something to do with the cold weather and the exhibits shrivelling up...

Lauren and Steve outside the Phallalogical Museum, closed due to Shrinkage

With a loss for anything else to do in Húsavík we visited the excellent Whale Museum which was being used by the local Derby & Joan (Derbyson & Joandóttir?) Club for their golf tournament. We learnt all about whaling, whale spotting and whale biology whilst dodging golf balls.

Golf? In a museum? Only in Iceland...

Om Nom Nom

Leaving the many varied sites of Húsavík behind (if I were in charge of the tourism in Húsavík, I think I would go with the town logo; 'Húsavík, at least it's not Olafsvik') we headed back south and took a wrong turn that dropped us outside of Dimmuborgir. We left the car on the road and began the descent into Hell. The snow was still very thick and was covering even the site gate when we arrived. The place was empty except for us three and we trudged through waist deep snow to try to reach the formation known as the Church. After exhausting ourselves just like Scott of the Antarctic we decided it would be best to turn back as Icelandic weather is not something to take for granted. Also, trolls can be a very real and present danger in a place like Dimmuborgir and I didn't fancy trying to outrun one knee deep in snow.

Lauren and Steve get ready to outrun Trolls at Dimmuborgir

With a late meal of Pizza in our bellies we headed to a bar for a drink, where Lauren was accosted by a farmer who liked her accent. I asked him if he was a snow farmer, which didn't go down very well. I crashed out in the semi-luxurious surroundings of the Hotel Akureryi and woke to a massive breakfast of cereals, toast and waffles. Well, you've got to gorge yourself when it's free.

It took us ages to build this snowman and I still don't know where Lauren got that massive carrot from...

A quick wade through more waist deep snow at Goðafoss and the pseudocraters at Skútustaðir, we called in to book a chalet at the Dimmuborgir Guesthouse. Promptly getting the car stuck again, this time in Volcanic ash rather than snow, we needed the assistance of the owner of the guesthouse to pull us out, whilst his dog ran around our toes with a log it seemed fixated on.

Not again Steve...

Hverir and it's otherworldly appearance were next on the list. After wondering what the fuck was going on at Hverir we spent the rest of the afternoon in the relaxing nature baths at Jarðböðin which we had to ourselves for the most part. The snow even lay thick around the baths, so Steve and I had fun rolling about in it then throwing ourselves into the 42 degree hot pots. The evening was spent eating pasta, playing cards and seeing how bad a loser Lauren is.

Om nom nom...

Lauren tried calling the Phallological Museum on Wednesday morning to see if the owner was back from Reykjavik yet. She told him she was gasping to see his Penis(es), but he wouldn't be back until late that day, so we decided to begin the long drive back to Reykjavik via Reykholt. We got to Reykholt late on, but the nice lady at the reception allowed us to stay as long as we wished after she found out I was an archaeologist. She even showed us the library upstairs and the apartment that students can use when staying there. She finished the personal guide with a quick tour of the church. all this and she didn't even charge me the entrance fee. A quick look at the hot springs at Deildartunghver later we headed back to Reykjavik only stopping for some food shopping. After a massive meal Duncan and Jo headed out to meet us in Dillon for a couple of drinks and we all fell into a deep and drunk sleep.