Greg slept poorly again due to light entering the room through the edges of the curtains. I slept well, but then had to endure Well-Sleeper's Guilt, which led me to be quite fatigued from it all by the time we ate and got in the car.
Speaking of eating, the crowded conditions of the dining room resulted us sharing a table and sitting in close quarters with another youngish Swiss couple who were traveling through as well, though in the opposite direction. I was not alert or sociable enough to make great conversation, but that's what Greg is for; he is nothing if not friendly and sociable.
The female of the duo was the one of their couple who did most of the talking back to Greg. She reminded me in appearance of Stephanie Carlile. They had traveled through the Westfjords before making their way east. They mentioned a couple of points of interest in Myvatn, where they had recently visited. It was comforting to hear both of them struggle also to pronounce places and things in Icelandic, describing one such place as "nearly unpronounceable." So we weren't the only ones with this affliction!
This day, a Sunday, was particularly grey and dreary, but it made for dramatic, cloud-enshrouded mountainous landscape. We drove along the eastern fjords (Austurland), traversing windy, narrow roads that swept along the often rocky and dramatic sea shore. Plenty of farms and lumbering, fluffy sheep were noted along the way, as usual. Maybe that's why Greg couldn't sleep: The sheep to count were busy playing in the traffic or on some steep, sloping mountainside. We have no idea how their owners are able to collect them from some of those perilous cliffs and remote mountainsides.
Something that added an element of suspense to our trip was the rural nature of our surroundings combined with the scarcity of petrol stations that were actually open. For a country with a lot of churches, this country is also known to be "not especially religious" these days. However, Icelandic folks must take their day of rest quite seriously, given how everything seems to be shut down and locked up tightly. This didn't bode well for my aching bladder, with the N1 stations and other facilities closed all along our route.
We continued driving through dramatic coastlines and small fishing towns. Along these roads, Greg summed it up nicely: "Driving around Iceland is like driving through a national park... in the off-season (due to the lack of crowds)." Eventually, we were able to find that elusive N1 that was open, just as our bladders were about to explode. Greg learned the advantages of having N1 station cards on hand, which were good for when the stations were closed but still would allow us to gas up.
The main stop of interest on this rainy day - a day in which most photos were taken from the security of our car - was a museum in a family home that consisted of a private collection of rocks, Petra's Rock Collection. It was nothing short of amazing, and I am not being facetious here: Beautiful rocks, 70% of which were from Iceland. The woman whose collection it was also collected pens, key chains, shells, and other small items, but rocks were clearly the favored theme. The residence had an amazing garden, which was also part of the rock exhibit. Flowers of every hue, garden gnomes and nick-knacks a-plenty. We would have liked to have had lunch out there, but it was misty and sprinkling. We had the place to ourselves until a tour bus full of Italian travelers arrived.
Petra's Rocks
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| Jeepers creepers - a little doll nativity scene inside a stone. |
We journeyed on, having lunch in yet another fishing town along the coast from the comfort of our car. We were spending a lot in USD on dinners; restaurant-eating was expensive. With drinks and all, it usually totaled $65-90. But, considering the complimentary breakfasts that came with our lodging and the make-our-own/bring our own sandwich lunches, we figured we were off-setting our costs and rationalized the expenses of dinner.
We checked in to our next farm stay in the 4:00 hour, again avoiding potential embarrassment by arriving early. This place was newer and appeared as though it was designed to primarily be lodging, instead of hastily converted lodging. In other words, it was nicer; more like a motel with shared bathrooms in a dorm-like feel. We were greeted by a young, friendly Scandinavian sort of fellow who was very personable. In spite of the dreary weather, this was my favorite lodging so far.
We went out again to check out a highly-recommended little town. This involved driving over and through snow-capped mountains. We watched the thermostat in our car go from 6 degrees C to 2 C. Dressed in many layers due to the rain and chill in the air, the coziness of the car inevitably led to me nodding off.
We arrived at the little town to find, like most things on a Sunday, that the Visitor's Center was closed. However, the town's highly-lauded coffee shop/bistro/art gallery, Skaftfell, was both well-marked (yay for good signage) and open! It was both a hipster haven and a friendly place. We were greeted by a (what else?) bohemian transplanted French guy who offered suggestions to us as far as what to have, including just to sit and have some water if we'd like. We settled on coffee and a caramel latte for me. Sitting by the window, Greg read travel guides and I surfed the web. We stayed on to dine there as well, eating what Greg pronounced to be his best dinner yet, while watching the mist and rain outside.
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| Skaftfell, the Little Eutopian Coffeehouse in the Clouds |
Our dinner was curried lamb, barley, a surprisingly good salad of beets and pistachios, and a mini-bottle of chardonnay. The alcohol served in Icelandic restaurants (the ones we experienced, any) was interesting. Wine selection was often offered with a "whatever we have around here today" ambivalence, and instead of an emphasis on presentation and expertise, the wine was often served from mini-bottles.
Greg tells it better, but there is also the "Pilsner Loophole." Iceland (understandably) has very strict no "drink-driving" (as they call it) standards; sometimes all it takes would be one drink to put you over the legal limit. This made Greg quite wary whenever we stopped for dinner, since he was always the driver. Greg also noticed that there were 'pilsners' listed on the drink menus with the sodas (and separate from the beer/wine list, which was also on the menu). He asked a waitress what that meant, and she confirmed that a pilsner is a lighter beer, in that it contains less alcohol than those listed as "beer." It also costs less, so Greg was all about the pilsner! We were out another night, and Greg asked the waitress if they had any lite beer (meaning pilsner), and she told us "yes." She brought Greg a couple of glasses of the (assumed) pilsner over the course of dinner, and when we got the bill, he noticed he had been overcharged for his drinks. When the waitress went over the receipt with him, he reminded her that he had had light beer, which was cheaper. As it turned out, there was a true beer that was actually named "Lite," so when he ordered a light beer, that was what he got -- more alcohol by volume than he meant to have and more money than he meant to spend.
But back to the little coffee shop/bistro/art gallery: We took a look around in the upstairs art gallery before we left. The current exhibit was a project that featured stories of the residents of the small local town. The exhibit curators posted videos of the citizens sharing stories and responding to interviews. The participants' pictures were posted on a large wall, and clearly there was room for more residents. Much of the information posted was written in Icelandic, to our loss.
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| Scenes from the Skaftfell gallery |
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