Chapter VI

“The palaces of nature whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow.”

BYRON.

It is considerably after midnight before we reach Laugerdal, and after a short halt on the plain we remount our ponies and set out for Zog, taking a southerly direction, a little to the east of Lake Thingvellavatn. We have been on the march with an interval of rest at the Geysirs, from about eleven o’clock in the forenoon; but the ponies step out bravely, and we do the distance from Laugerdal to the Zog in better style than any previous portion of the journey, though in many places the road is rough and stony, the country around being simply a howling wilderness.

About three a.m. we knock up the ferryman, who, after rubbing his sleepy eyes, accompanies us with perfect good nature, for about a mile, to the spot where his boat lies. I cannot help thinking that if he were either an Englishman or a Scotsman he would neither look so pleasant, nor be so good-tempered under the circumstances. To be roused out of bed at such an untimely hour, to row a couple of wandering Englishmen and their guide across the swift rushing stream, would try the patience of many a man! The Icelander, however, makes no difficulty about it, but, on the contrary, shews every disposition to oblige, and behaves generally with the greatest courtesy and civility.

On the right, on the way to the ferry, we have a splendid view of the river Zog, which here rushes down a long, precipitous incline, in such volume, and at such a rate of speed, that it is one oft-broken sheet of foam from its first fall till it finds its level and broadens out towards the waters of the lake. It is said to be the finest fishing stream in Iceland, and is therefore a favourite resort of anglers. One of our friends, who camped on its banks for a week, had excellent sport, killing, with his own rod, as many as fifty pounds of trout and char daily.

On the left a smaller torrent, called the “Kalda”—(Cold Stream)—leaps from rock to rock till, near the ferry, it mingles its waters with those of the larger stream.

The name “Zog” means “the act of drawing a long breath,” and is applied to the river to indicate the noise made by it in its steep descent.

While we are unsaddling the ponies, and removing the bridles, to prepare them for their long swim to the opposite shore, the ferryman rows across to his nets, hauls them in, and returns with a few fine trout. I then seat myself in the stern of the boat, the saddles and bridles are laid at my feet, the boatman bends to his oars, and the little white pony, which I hold by a halter that has been tied round its upper jaw and nostrils, takes the water under compulsion, and strikes out bravely. His six companions, which are perfectly free, plunge in after him without hesitation, and with dilated eyes, and much snorting, keep well up with their tethered leader.

On reaching the further shore, which rises almost precipitously from the stream, they at once make tracks for the hilltop in search of grass, and I find full occupation for my time, while my companion and our guide are being ferried across, in climbing after them in order to turn them back, and keep them from wandering. It is after three o’clock in the morning; we have been in the saddle at least ten hours, and still have to travel a few miles to reach the house where we propose to sleep; and it would, therefore, be a serious misfortune if any of the ponies were to succeed in making their escape. Fortunately, the natural goodness of their disposition prevents them from doing so, and in a short time, with the assistance of the ferryman, we manage to collect and saddle them.

It is the general custom for tourists, when travelling in the interior of Iceland, to take with them, in addition to the guide, a man whose sole duty is to keep the spare ponies in the track, and prevent them from straying in search of grass, which they invariably do whenever they have the slightest opportunity. Having neglected to provide ourselves with this necessary rider, we are obliged to perform the duty ourselves, and thus cover a good many extra miles over country that would astonish an Irish fox-hunter, and tax the powers of a Montana cow-boy.

By this time I am beginning to feel thoroughly at home in the saddle, nor have my powers of endurance been unduly strained by the hard work of the past three days. But I want sleep, and am glad, between four and five a.m., to see on a little eminence ahead of us, on the other side of an extensive meadow, the farm of Villingavatn, at which our guide has arranged to stop.

A few minutes after our arrival the farmer makes his appearance, and bids us welcome, and presently we are ushered through the long, low, narrow passage, common to Icelandic farm-houses, and past the doors of several dingy, peat-smelling rooms, into the best sleeping-chamber, where we lie down on beds which, we have every reason to believe, have just been vacated by three or four girls and women—whom we see peeping round the edge of one of the doorposts—one of whom, a buxom, good-looking lassie, in a few minutes enters our room with a large basin full of new milk, which we find very refreshing.

It is considerably after ten o’clock before we awake, and the first thing that catches my eyes on opening them is a portrait engraving of Sira Halgrimur Petursson, who is staring down upon me with the severe melancholy of a sacred poet, such being his claim to distinction. The little room in which we are lodged contains the two beds which we occupy. These are placed end to end along the right hand side of the wall, and fill one-half of the floor space. The rest of the furniture consists of a table, a chair, a common American clock, and a dilapidated tarnished looking-glass. Light is admitted through one small window so constructed as not to open, and there is consequently a decided want of ventilation.

The beds, as well as the coverlets commonly used in Iceland instead of blankets, are filled with the down of the Eider duck, highly esteemed in the country and largely exported. The annual supply in 1870, according to Bunsen, was 7,909 lbs., worth about as many pounds sterling. An inferior class of feathers, obtained from the “puffin,” is also exported, the quantity sent out of the country in 1870 being 32,081lbs. I am told that it takes about a pound and a half of feathers to make a good bed. The eider duck is bred and carefully farmed for the sake of its feathers only. It plucks its own breast of the finer down in order to make its nest, which is appropriated by the farmer as soon as finished. The bird then makes a second nest, which is also removed, and even the third is sometimes taken, though generally left. By this time the breast of the little creature has become quite bare, and like man it may almost be called an “unfeathered biped.”

As soon as we are dressed breakfast is placed upon the table in our sleeping apartment, and includes hot milk, skyr (curd), hardurfiskur (dried fish), kaka (cake), rugbrand (rye bread), skonrug (rusk), in addition to tinned meats, white bread and cocoa from our own supplies. The “skyr” resembles curded milk, in the condition in which it is put into the press to be made into cheese, and is a very common article of diet in Iceland. So is the dried fish, which is eaten uncooked, and is considered exceedingly nutritious. The rye bread, commonly used, is very black and rather sour, the cakes and rusks being much more palatable to an English taste.

While at breakfast, haunted by the eyes of Sira Halgrimur Petursson, which seem to follow us everywhere, we question our guide about the literature of Iceland, and obtain a smattering of information on the subject. He furnishes us with the following names of the great authors;—Snorri Sturlusson, author of her greatest historical tales, and regarded as the Shakespeare of Iceland; Bejarni Thorarensen, her greatest poet; Jonas Halgrimmson, John Thoroddsson, and Steingrimur Thorsteinsson, also poets. He tells us that the greatest historian—Thorkall—is still living, and that the greatest living poet is Matthias Jochumsson.

There is no theatre in Iceland; but she has had playwrights whose works have been performed in Reykjavik upon stages erected for the occasion.

Through our interpreter we cross-question our host about his farm, which is a tolerably large one, and forms part of the church lands. He says that he pays an annual rent of one hundred kroner—equal to £5 12s 6d of our money—and that he grows a few potatoes and turnips, but that the bulk of his land is under natural grass.

The great summer work of the Iceland farmer is “haymaking,” which occupies most of his time, and is a task of some difficulty on account of the unevenness of the land caused by the frost mounds, which, as I have said before, are never levelled by the plough, and therefore impede the action of the scythe. Fifteen years ago there was not a pair of shears in Iceland, and wool was not clipped, but pulled off the sheep’s back at the time when it was shedding its coat naturally.

Some persons have referred to this practice as a cruel one; but we are assured that it is not so, as the wool comes away in the hand without difficulty, and without causing any pain to the animal. Shearing is now becoming general, indeed if the sheep are in good condition it is necessary to clip, for we are told that the fact of the wool “sloughing” is a sign of the poor condition of the animal on which it grows.

Manure though not often used by the farmer, is sometimes during winter placed upon the snow that as the latter melts the tillage may sink down upon the land.

Farms are of different sizes—and as my informant stated, must be reckoned not by acres, but by square miles—a small one supporting two cows and about sixty sheep, a large one ten cows, and from five hundred to six hundred sheep. Where held as freeholds the prices vary from three thousand to ten thousand kroner,—more or less,—according to extent and quality of the land.

I ask our guide who is the richest man in Iceland? He replies “The Bishop,” though the income of his lordship—if I am correct in thus styling him—is less than a tithe of that of the poorest of his Episcopal brethren in England. A man is considered well off if he possesses 10,000 kroner, that is between £500 and £600, and very rich if he has ten times the amount.

Shortly after noon we start on our way back to Reykjavik by way of Hengill, and have not been long in the saddle before I begin to pity the ponies, for the road which lies over the mountains is both precipitous and rough.

On reaching the summit of the first high hill we cross—which rises from the grey lava-plain that extends a short distance inland from the shores of Lake Thingvellavatn, which we have to skirt to reach it—we have a magnificent view of the Lake, its mountains and islands, and also of the snow ridges beyond. We are even able to distinguish Thingvellir in the distance, including the upper fall of the Oxara, which, like a thread of silver, divides the Almannagja in the centre, and deepens the shadows in the clefts of the surrounding rocks which are clearly visible to the naked eye.

The spot on which we halt for a few minutes to look upon this panorama is one of the dreariest and most desolate that could be imagined, the mountain summit being literally covered with tremendous crags and boulders, which rise like islands out of the sea of stones that everywhere surrounds them.

From this point we push on towards Hengill, whose snow-streaked sides tower above us on the left. On a little slope, considerably higher than the path along which we are travelling, are several hot sulphur-springs, the steam from which can be seen issuing from the ground. Here the path descends almost precipitously to a fine grass-covered plain, on which, however, not a single animal can be seen grazing.

Having given the ponies a short rest, we commence another ascent, and shortly reach a scene of desolation wilder and more weird than anything that has as yet come under our notice. Rocks, rent by some Titanic convulsion, and split up into huge, blackened, sharp-peaked masses, hang over our head on both sides of the track, and shut us out from the brighter world beyond—from lake, plain, and glistening snows—by an encircling wall of mountains so bare, barren, and fire-blasted, as to remind us instinctively of that place which is “filled with the blackness of darkness for ever.”

Through a ravine, called “Dyravegur” or “Door Way” we make our way out of this gloomy scene to a slope, whence, away beyond an extensive plain, we can once more see the blue waters of the distant ocean. On reaching the plain we halt for our evening meal, over which, however, we do not linger as we have still several hours’ journey before us, and cannot hope to reach Reykjavik much before midnight. Plodding steadily on, across bog and meadow, along winding rain-channels, and over miles of frost hummocks, we find ourselves about ten p.m., much to our satisfaction, once more upon a high road, on which from time to time we have opportunities of again seeing a few of our fellow creatures, as we are frequently passed by men and women driving long trains of ponies.

At Heimaey, with her kind permission, I photographed an elderly lady who was riding astride of her pony in man-fashion, and I took it for granted—no doubt correctly—that she was not the only woman in the country who occasionally did so. The general custom, however, is for women to use a side-saddle, which differs from our own in having a circular support for the back, like that of the armchairs familiar to frequenters of bar parlours.

When walking, it seems to be the invariable custom of women to muffle up their heads in shawls, thus almost entirely concealing their features, and when on horseback they generally wear in addition a many-coloured scarf which crosses their chest like the double shoulder-belts worn by our soldiers in “good King George’s golden days.”

Shortly before midnight we arrive in the outskirts of Reykjavik, and being almost as tired as our wearied ponies, are glad when the familiar outline of the Observatory rises upon the horizon like an old friend to welcome us back. At midnight, “that hour o’ nicht’s black arch the keystane,” we ride past the windows of the Island Hotel, from which we receive the smiling salutations of our worthy captain, several of our shipmates and other friends, whom I presently join in the mazy dance.

We learn that a great ceremony has taken place during the afternoon, the Camoens having been publicly presented with a portrait of Sugersson, the Liberator of Iceland, as he is called, and that a ball was extemporised after the speeches were over.

Having supped and had a chat with our friends I turn into bed, thankful once more to have an opportunity of enjoying a good night’s rest in a comfortable bed, but at the same time highly satisfied with the experiences of the past four days, and by no means indisposed to rough it again, even under less favourable conditions, should another opportunity present itself.

The following itinerary is given for the benefit of any who may make the trip:—From Reykjavik to Thingvellir, the distance is about thirty-five miles; from Thingvellir to the Geysirs, forty-three miles; from the Geysirs to the Zog, at least forty-five miles; from the Zog to Reykjavik, forty miles. I am satisfied that these figures are by no means over stated, and to them must be added the extra miles covered in driving the ponies back to the path when they strayed, as they did scores of times during the journey, in search of a mouthful of grass.

On the first day we were in the saddle from 10.30 a.m. till 8.30 p.m., with a rest of about an hour; on the second day from 4 p.m., till 3 a.m., with two rests of about three-quarters of an hour each; on the third day from 11 a.m. till 5 a.m on the following morning, with a halt at the Geysirs of about four hours, and a rest at three subsequent stages of the journey, one of half-an-hour, and the other two of three-quarters of an hour each, the stages referred to being the Bruara, Efstaydalr, and Laugerdal; and on the fourth day from 12.30 p.m. until midnight, with two stoppages of about three-quarters of an hour each. We have therefore been actually in the saddle altogether in the course of the four days for upwards of forty hours out of eighty-five, and have had about fifteen hours’ broken sleep during that period.

At noon on the morning after our return from the interior we sail from Reykjavik for Akureyri, but before we leave the Island Hotel are introduced to Mr Jonsson, a leading merchant. He is a nephew of Sugersson, the Liberator of Iceland, a man who holds a high place in the hearts of his grateful countrymen as the patriot to whose untiring efforts and powerful eloquence the granting of Home Rule in 1874 is universally attributed.

Mr Jonsson is himself a well-known political speaker, and is the leader of the young Iceland party. He informs me that the Danes do not associate with the Icelanders, regarding themselves as a superior race, and consequently holding themselves aloof from intercourse with those of their fellow-subjects who are natives of the country in which they have made their homes. He says that so strong is this feeling that even on board ship Danes and Icelanders, although travelling together, and free subjects of the same Power, do not fraternise as other people do. On this point, however, there is a difference of opinion among Icelanders, some of whom speak much more kindly of their Danish compatriots.

Mr Jonsson tells me that he has a small farm outside Reykjavik—bought for one thousand kroner (£56 5s),—which supports two cows that would cost him two hundred kroner (£11 5s.) per annum for grass if he had to buy fodder. These figures prove that good grass land will pay a splendid interest as an investment, and confirm me in the belief which I have formed that by sowing grass, as has been done in New Zealand, and by the extensive use of the plough, the stock-raising capacity of the country can be enormously increased in spite of climatic disadvantages.

Mr Jonsson also states that the best ponies, and the best farms are undoubtedly in the northern portion of the island, and mentions that some more enlightened men are actually beginning to drain their land. This fact, and the sight of one solitary iron plough, which was lying idle on a farm near the Geysirs, are the only indications of agricultural progress we have as yet seen or heard of.

Shortly after weighing anchor as we are steaming across the Faxa Fiord, we sight Snaefellsjökull, (4713 ft.) one of the highest mountains in Iceland. We keep it in view for several hours both on approaching and after leaving it, and the sky being perfectly clear and blue have a splendid opportunity of seeing it to perfection. The little cones at its apex shine out with peculiar brightness in the afternoon sun, contrasting even in this respect with the white snow-covered slopes below, which extend well down towards the black surf-beaten rocks at their base.

The coast line on each side is wild, rugged, and hilly, and utterly destitute of vegetation of any kind. Along the water’s edge are numerous fine specimens of basaltic columns, some of which, in the Bay of Stapi—so a fellow passenger informs me,—have been graphically described by Jules Verne in one of his interesting romances.

In this neighbourhood we observe several French fishing-smacks and sight a French war vessel, which we expect to signal us respecting letters. She does not do so, however, but steams away north.

Our captain says that there are sometimes as many as ten thousand Frenchmen engaged in fishing in these waters, which they do by means of long lines, to which baited hooks are attached. The French Government, with the view of making the fishing industry a nursery for the navy, grants a bounty of from thirty to forty shillings per month to every man who pursues this occupation afloat. In addition, the fisherman receives a proportion of the value of the “take.”

The fish are salted as they are caught, the centre of the boat being used to work in, while the chambers fore and aft are utilised to store the fish after they are salted, a mode of preparation which in the case of herrings accounts for the superiority of the Dutch brands over our own.

The vessels employed in this important industry are ordinary two-masted schooners, and carry a crew of from twenty to thirty men. There is a duty on dried fish imported into France, in foreign bottoms, and the Icelander exports chiefly to Spain, the Mediterranean, and South America.

This afternoon in the course of conversation we discussed the war in the Soudan. Speaking of Suakim, from which he recently returned—the “Camoens” having been engaged by the Government as “No. 82” in the Medical Transport Service—our captain said that the heat was so excessive that the water in which his ship there lay at anchor shewed a temperate of 90 degrees when tested by the thermometer. How different the atmospheric conditions that now surround us!

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PLATE VII.

1 The Bruera and Bridge.
2 Washing clothes in the “laugs,” or hot springs.
3 Tourists’ tents at the Geysirs.—4 The Great Geysir.
5 The Strokr in the sulks.—6 The Strokr in action.
]

The general opinion on board which I gather from both officers and crew, is that the campaign would probably have lasted longer had the climate been even tolerable; but the discomforts and miseries of camp life on the shores of the Red Sea were so many and so unendurable, that neither soldiers, sailors, nor civilians were sorry when the wretched business collapsed, and released our army of occupation.

All on board speak of the Australian contingent with unstinted praise. The men who composed it are represented as having been fine specimens of British bone and muscle; courageous, and soldierly; thoroughly amenable to discipline; and animated by a spirit of the staunchest loyalty and patriotism. This is only what any one who has visited our Australian colonies would have expected to hear, for nowhere in the whole world is the old flag held dearer than among our fellow-subjects at the Antipodes.

The navvies—who were employed by Messrs. Lucas and Aird in laying down the railway—were a wild lot, and caused a good deal of trouble and annoyance to the authorities. On Lord Wolseley’s arrival they were mustered and drawn up in line, that he might address them, which he did in strong terms, animadverting severely upon the disgrace they had brought upon their country and themselves by their misconduct. In the middle of his harangue he was completely “flabbergasted” by a broad-shouldered Yorkshire navvy who broke the ranks, stepped to the front, and with the remark, “Look ’ere we aint no bloomin’ soldiers,” turned on his heel and walked off amid the sympathetic applause of his fellow-labourers. The Commander-in-Chief had not another word to say and rode off in disgust.

The same evening the stores having been removed from a shed in the outskirts of Suakim, the navvies were ordered to occupy it, which they did. One of them—evidently a witty fellow—succeeded in getting possession of a telegram-form, and wrote out the following message which he managed to deliver at head-quarters—“Navvies ordered to the front; Guards retreating.” It is needless to say, that although it created a good deal of amusement in high circles this despatch travelled no further.

When passing Snaefell I am reminded by a remark of one of our fellow-passengers that the name first given to Iceland was “Snaeland,” or Snowland, a very much more appropriate designation than its present one, for as yet, save of course on the distant glaciers, we have seen no ice either on land or sea.

“There she blows” is becoming quite a common cry amongst us, for we are now in waters in which whales “do congregate,” and have therefore frequent opportunities of seeing them spout as they rise to the surface for air. The discovery of mineral oils has no doubt seriously affected the prosperity of the whale fisheries everywhere, not only in Scotland, but in the Southern Seas. There is still a small fleet of whalers, however, belonging to the port of Dundee, which annually braves the dangers of the Arctic Circle in search of blubber. It seems to me, therefore, that the Icelander who has the advantage of being so much nearer the fishing ground, ought to have turned his attention to this, as one among other industries, which he might follow with profit to himself and advantage to his country, for as Dr. Hjaltalin says, “the sea round the coast might be an inexhaustible mine of wealth, if the fisheries were not carried on in the most primitive fashion.”

We are not more than 250 miles from the ice-bound shores of Greenland, another colony of Denmark now used as a penal settlement. In the course of conversation this afternoon, the fact was mentioned that it was accidentally discovered about the year 1000 by an adventurous Icelander, called Eirikr the Red, who settled there, and in order to attract settlers called it “Green” Land in contradistinction to the “Snow” Land or “Ice” Land, from which he had migrated.

It is asserted, on what is considered undoubted evidence, that not only did Icelanders in these early days succeed in getting as far north in the Arctic regions as the most adventurous explorers of modern times, but that, during “the first decade of the eleventh century they also discovered the mainland of America and made several unsuccessful attempts to settle on the east coast, south of Newfoundland.” It is also believed that it was from Iceland that Columbus originally obtained the information which induced him to sail to the West in search of the New World.

The origin of the name Iceland is thus related by Dr Hjaltalin—“Between the years 860 and 870 the island was visited by two Norwegians, called Naddoddr and Garthar, who were driven to it by stress of weather, and thus discovered it accidentally.” It was subsequently also visited by Floki, a Norwegian, “who sailed with the object of discovering a new land, the existence of which was rumoured among the Scandinavians.” Floki prepared for the voyage by entertaining his friends at a great feast, and by consecrating three ravens to Odin. These ravens were to be his compass and pilots. “He went first to the Shetland, and then to the Faroe Islands. When he had sailed a considerable distance he liberated one of the ravens, which flew back in the direction of the Faroes, from which he concluded that these were still the nearest land. After some time he sent forth the second raven, which returned to the ship. The third raven which was set free, flew towards Iceland, and was followed by Floki, who sailed round the south coast into a bay in the north-west, where he found abundant fishing, both in sea and rivers. He had brought some cattle and sheep with him; but these perished during the winter for want of food, which he had neglected to provide for them in the summer. One day, in winter, having ascended a mountain near his temporary dwelling, he discovered in the north a firth filled with Polar ice. This firth he called ‘Isa Fjorthr,’ or ‘Ice Firth,’ and the land ‘Is Land,’ or ‘Ice Land.’ On his return to Norway he gave a poor account of the country; but was contradicted by one of his companions, who said ‘it was a land flowing with butter.’

It is generally believed that the island in the ninth century had more attractions for the settler than it has in the nineteenth.” Dr Hjaltalin says, however, that “there was a stronger reason than choice which made the colonists go to Iceland. It was necessity.” They were compelled to leave Norway in search of liberty, that priceless blessing for which all men who have real manhood in them have ever been willing to dare, and to sacrifice, so much.

The national flag of Iceland to-day represents a raven on a blue ground, and has been selected in reference to the historical circumstance abovementioned.

Fortunately, we have none of the hardships to endure which were experienced by Floki and his companions. Our good ship is both well-manned and well-found, and as she steadily ploughs her way through the dark waters round her, we find ourselves admiring her excellent sea-going qualities.

Even when she rolls—as all ships do when they encounter storm or swell—she does so gracefully and easily, and having had an arm broken last year in mid-ocean in consequence of the vicious lurching of a crack Atlantic liner, I think I am qualified by painful experience to express an opinion on the subject.

Fortunately, too, we are able to rely upon more certain guidance than that of the ravens of the ancient Norwegian voyagers, and should we escape being hindered by the fogs which so often surround vessels in these latitudes, and render navigation both difficult and dangerous, we hope to round the North Cape early to-morrow morning, and to reach Akureyri late to-morrow night.

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