tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8240841085953371742024-03-28T05:18:20.100-07:00Writing in Ice: A Crime Writer's Guide to IcelandMichael Ridpath's blog about writing a detective series set in IcelandMichael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-55025447316033252372024-03-26T07:30:00.000-07:002024-03-26T07:50:46.391-07:00Major Wise: Britain's dodgy Head of Intelligence in Iceland in World War II<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJu6xz7TNv3whFJ5kzYQQZai2xDIipIroc6-NPx5fknEi5CyPkjbWB1sA0CHBpH8CB2JqLNjWqpxwwFv3HCLNcv6JFb3_gj6QElO6GRdkFmZ8Xj1NpFwyUA0iZYtKt5s63Seh3OxTFk0wZk6PbrgosW5zgwlk8o0fxL69q3g5OEuB3YeOzYM4bGrAz2vbc/s487/Major%20Wise.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Major Wise, Britsih Head of Intelligence in Iceland in World War II" border="0" data-original-height="487" data-original-width="419" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJu6xz7TNv3whFJ5kzYQQZai2xDIipIroc6-NPx5fknEi5CyPkjbWB1sA0CHBpH8CB2JqLNjWqpxwwFv3HCLNcv6JFb3_gj6QElO6GRdkFmZ8Xj1NpFwyUA0iZYtKt5s63Seh3OxTFk0wZk6PbrgosW5zgwlk8o0fxL69q3g5OEuB3YeOzYM4bGrAz2vbc/w275-h320/Major%20Wise.png" width="275" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Those of you who have read my recent novel, <i><a href="https://michaelridpath.com/whale-fjord.html" target="_blank">Whale Fjord</a></i>, will have come across an unpleasant character named Neville Pybus-Smith, the head of British military intelligence in Iceland during the British occupation in 1940-41.<br /><br />Well, Pybus-Smith is loosely based on a real character named Major Wise.<br /><br />One of my most fortunate discoveries when researching Whale Fjord, was an Icelander named Jökull Gíslason. Not only is Jökull one of Iceland's leading experts on the country's history in World War Two, he is also a police inspector. And helpful. The perfect source for me!<br /><br />He has written an excellent book, <i><a href="https://shop.grapevine.is/products/iceland-in-world-war-ii?variant=42482446270687" target="_blank">Iceland in World War II</a></i>, which I referred to frequently while writing <i>Whale Fjord</i>. He also wrote a fascinating article, entitled <i>Spymasters</i>, about the dodgy Major Wise. He has permitted me to reproduce it here.<br /><br />"Major Alfred Roy Wise was the British spymaster in Iceland. He is a confusing character, described by his subordinates as pleasant and amiable while he was considered aloof by Icelanders. He was certainly a product of the old British Empire. His father was a judge for the Supreme Court of Hong Kong. He went to public schools in England and then was Assistant District Governor in Kenya.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />When Wise returned to England he was a staunch conservative and a member of the Carlton Club. He was elected a member of Parliament for Smethwick in 1931, the seat previously filled by Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists. Initially part of the appeasement group he later joined Churchill's dissenters.<br /><br />When war came Wise joined the Army and was commissioned as a captain even though he had no special training or qualifications other than being upper class. Wise was sent to serve with the British garrison in Iceland in command of the Intelligence section. In this capacity managed public relations between the British Army and Icelanders and dealt with matters of espionage. <br /><br />Jón Múli Árnason, then 19 years old, was a translator for Major Wise. In an interview, he mentioned that not only did Wise have him translate his conversations with Icelanders, but he also had Jón translate conversations with British soldiers who spoke with working-class dialects, especially those from the north.<br /><br />Wise dispatched his duties in an overzealous manner. He arrested and deported several Icelanders to England on charges such as owning wireless sets and the like. Wise even decided that one person, although he had done nothing wrong, exhibited behaviour that could lead to espionage and should be detained. Wise screened the passengers of the Esja, a ship carrying Icelandic refugees from Denmark, and took an active part in the arrests of the members of the left-wing newspaper Pjódviljinn.<br /><br />Wise saw potential spies in every corner, even going so far as suspecting the Reykjavik chief of police. In fairness, the chief of police had been the guest of Heinrich Himmler in Germany in the years leading up to the war. <br /><br />Many British were terrified that there were fifth columnists in Iceland. They blamed the disastrous campaign in Norway in part on Norwegian Nazi sympathizers – Quislings – and expected the same to be true of the Icelandic population. They also seriously overestimated the ability of the Germans to invade Iceland. In reality, there were very few Nazi sympathizers in the Nordic countries. <br /><br />Major Wise's approach made him few friends in Iceland and his ambitions were too great for this posting. Wanting to do his part in the war, he only secured a minor role, and that he was ill-suited to. His overzealousness would have dire consequences for Icelandic-British relations."<br /><br />Jökull says that Major Wise's successor, the affable American of Icelandic heritage, Lieutenant Colonel Dori Hjalmarson, was much better liked and consequently much more effective. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It's difficult to get hold of Jökull's book outside Iceland, but if any of you are interested, there is a great <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6UFoCCDEwE" target="_blank">Webinar on YouTube</a> featuring Jökull on the subject of Iceland in World War Two. Otherwise, you could try <a href="https://shop.grapevine.is/products/iceland-in-world-war-ii?variant=42482446270687" target="_blank">this link for the Reykjavik Grapevine</a>. It may/should work! <br /><br /><i>Whale Fjord</i>'s sales have been pleasing. Thanks to all of you who bought a copy of the book, especially those who reviewed it on Amazon or Goodreads. On Amazon, the book has 217 reviews, with 4.5 stars, which makes me happy. Not that I look at reviews, of course!<br /><br />If you haven't yet read it yet, and would like to, <a href="https://mybook.to/whalefjord" target="_blank">here is a link</a>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books,<a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank"> sign up here.</a></i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-91948881370753317552024-02-27T07:32:00.000-08:002024-02-27T07:32:00.140-08:00New Magnus crime novel out: Whale Fjord<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRp_q55vzD9vhTnhGoqZnmnJvbPJA9wfTG52mEFZmXcfhfZkoPLuAfQhzV3Wrv8Qy4tsKVCKHGQmjtC1YlB3KxF-vAZilXWfJIeWAbc96Utq-qTYsxTWq0R34tTbDopL_k9wunz_TsrLg_7EDf2CU7BrjgKjQGpjDKjK1LWIVkv9MPVqVq0rHUYvQXmU4f/s2339/Whale-Fjord-Kindle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Whale Fjord: A Magnus Iceland Mystery by Michael Ridpath" border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1523" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRp_q55vzD9vhTnhGoqZnmnJvbPJA9wfTG52mEFZmXcfhfZkoPLuAfQhzV3Wrv8Qy4tsKVCKHGQmjtC1YlB3KxF-vAZilXWfJIeWAbc96Utq-qTYsxTWq0R34tTbDopL_k9wunz_TsrLg_7EDf2CU7BrjgKjQGpjDKjK1LWIVkv9MPVqVq0rHUYvQXmU4f/w208-h320/Whale-Fjord-Kindle.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><p></p><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">My new Magnus novel is published! It's called <a href="https://mybook.to/whalefjord" target="_blank">Whale Fjord</a> and is number 7 in the series after Death in Dalvik.<br /><br /><b>Iceland 1940</b>. Britain invades Iceland. Lieutenant Tom Marks is a British officer tasked with defending Whale Fjord. He meets Kristín, a young widow from a nearby farm, who has a small son. Tom is smitten.<br /><br /><b>Iceland 2023</b>. Inspector Magnus Ragnarsson is called to the shores of Whale Fjord where the skeletons of a man and a woman have been discovered, both shot with British wartime bullets. Magnus uncovers a web of anger and revenge that stretches back eighty years and forward to a shocking murder in Reykjavík.<br /><br /><i>'Magnus is a complex and totally compelling character, fitting perfectly into the bleak and intimidating settings of Ridpath’s Iceland.’</i> – New York Journal of Books</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />The book will be available worldwide, in paperback or as an ebook through Kindle (only). The ebook price is £2.99/$3.99 for the next week or so, but will go up to £3.99/$5.99 after that. <a href="https://mybook.to/whalefjord" target="_blank">This is the Amazon link</a>. <br /><br />If you want to buy a signed and dedicated copy, then please get in touch with my local bookshop, <a href="https://landrbookshop.co.uk/" target="_blank">Lutyens and Rubinstein</a>, who will send you one once I have come by and signed it.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">If you do buy it, I hope you enjoy it!</span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-88726100964009479222024-02-06T06:30:00.000-08:002024-02-06T06:30:00.137-08:00World War Two in Iceland: the Subject for a New Book<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52LzrkWIeF5VTMqNMWTlYOGnOX2H8JVb4SEaSMnbwKPUzUY9ZKwl4XfUzCCR0BEj_x85fe3Mh0JbD1VOpLCbZTeTxbLHQGCUgikfMFH96dmLh85RjD7LQ81lmTxADgmCIKxOfBaSBcS8bsAtec5sI2engdA5KhCOUwvZNOCsTowOa9I_DQJ-EngxuoN28/s2339/Whale-Fjord-Kindle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Whale Fjord by Michael Ridpath A Magnus Iceland Mystery" border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1523" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52LzrkWIeF5VTMqNMWTlYOGnOX2H8JVb4SEaSMnbwKPUzUY9ZKwl4XfUzCCR0BEj_x85fe3Mh0JbD1VOpLCbZTeTxbLHQGCUgikfMFH96dmLh85RjD7LQ81lmTxADgmCIKxOfBaSBcS8bsAtec5sI2engdA5KhCOUwvZNOCsTowOa9I_DQJ-EngxuoN28/w138-h217/Whale-Fjord-Kindle.jpg" width="138" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Very few people outside Iceland realize that Britain occupied the country in 1940; I certainly hadn’t heard of it until I started writing novels set there.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Royal Marines landed in Reykjavík in May that year and they were soon relieved by the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/49th_(West_Riding)_Infantry_Division" target="_blank">British territorial 49th Division from Yorkshire</a> – nicknamed ‘the Polar Bears’ – and a Canadian brigade including the exotically named Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa and Les Fusiliers Mont-Royal. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">At its height, at the end of 1940, there were over 25,000 British and Canadian troops defending the country. This has always seemed odd to me – I would have thought they could more usefully have defended Britain from the Germans just across the Channel. But Major-General Curtis, the commanding officer in Iceland, was adamant they were needed. No one thought to check with the Royal Navy, who were equally certain the Germans could never have transported an invading force to Iceland and, more importantly, supplied it once it had landed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">In the summer of 1941, the Canadians and the British left for Britain, and handed over the defence of Iceland to the Americans. While the Allied soldiers never did anything more than fire at a few Luftwaffe aeroplanes flying overhead, aircraft from Iceland harried German U-boats in the North Atlantic, and Hvalfjördur was the mustering point for many of the Arctic convoys to Russia. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Life in Iceland for the occupiers was tedious – the main enemies were boredom and the weather. But many fell in love with the country, and some fell in love with its people. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The same troops landed in Normandy in June 1944 and fought their way through France, so in retrospect their time in Iceland was a period of peace and quiet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The Icelanders’ reaction was mixed. No one likes to be invaded, and many were concerned about the conquest of their women, a situation known in Icelandic as <a href="https://grapevine.is/mag/feature/2016/03/04/slut-shaming-and-state-sponsored-persecution-in-situation-era-iceland/" target="_blank">“The Situation”</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">On the other hand, there was plenty of money to be made, especially once the Americans arrived. The occupying soldiers generally behaved well. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Many, if not all, of the population might have agreed with the Icelandic MP Árni Jónasson when he said: ‘It was practically a unique example in history of an occupying army which was better liked on the day of its departure than on the day of its arrival.’ </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I have always wanted to write about this period in Icelandic history, but I couldn’t work out how I could link a murder in 1940 with a detective investigation in the 2020s. Any character still alive in 2023 would have been a small child in 1940. Very tricky. But, after several years of mulling over various ideas, I found the solution. And I was able to write the novel.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It’s called <a href="https://mybook.to/whalefjord" target="_blank">Whale Fjord</a> and it’s out on 24 February. More details later. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here.</a></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> </span></p>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-88138998449746095012024-01-11T06:30:00.000-08:002024-01-11T06:30:00.137-08:00Winter in Iceland<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZOdppO7VcI9lei0FxzYtw01MOK78HdXhOMY5QNqP69Jq3NbvNPG15NLz6mx3pnVlaSc9pH5Y66PhYvf71Ou5XL-nW2zomQGB_BQSqFadG8lyFsX32Ev3Nt2Ua-4t-KRMiZ4hxNDAOr8EHiZpon31c-at7VbdxWALfV9l4Ex6Qhm4EYjPcq5WGbCRujRc/s4000/View%20from%20Borgarnes%20in%20winter.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="View from Borgarnes in winter. Photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ZOdppO7VcI9lei0FxzYtw01MOK78HdXhOMY5QNqP69Jq3NbvNPG15NLz6mx3pnVlaSc9pH5Y66PhYvf71Ou5XL-nW2zomQGB_BQSqFadG8lyFsX32Ev3Nt2Ua-4t-KRMiZ4hxNDAOr8EHiZpon31c-at7VbdxWALfV9l4Ex6Qhm4EYjPcq5WGbCRujRc/w320-h240/View%20from%20Borgarnes%20in%20winter.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The higher the latitude, the greater the difference between summer and winter. Iceland is only just below the Arctic Circle, so in midwinter it is dark nearly all the time. Daylight is only a few hours. In practice dawn turns into dusk at lunchtime. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As you can imagine, this has a depressing effect on locals. They go to work in the dark; they come home in the dark. It was even worse in the old days when most Icelanders lived on isolated farms. They essentially stayed indoors all winter in their living quarters above the animals whose heat kept them warm. They knitted, they read, they milked the cow, they moved hay about. They hibernated.<br /><br /> Because of its proximity to the Arctic Circle, in theory, the sun is visible for a short period every day in Iceland, even at midwinter. But that is not true for the town of Ísafjördur in the West Fjords, which is wedged between high mountains. There they last see the sun on 16 November and it returns on 25 January. They have <a href="https://www.icelandair.com/blog/serenading-the-sun-with-solarkaffi/" target="_blank">sólarkaffi</a> - coffee and pancakes - to celebrate on the 25th. <br /><br /> But there are many good things about Iceland in winter. Icelandic houses are nothing much to look at from the outside, but they are cosy on the inside: small, warm, often lit with candles. Iceland can look beautiful under snow, especially if the sun manages to peek out between or below the clouds. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">In my opinion, the best time to visit a hot pot at an outdoor swimming pool or the world-famous Blue Lagoon is in winter, where your body is warm, your nose is cold, and steam billows up from the water through which you catch glimpses of snow-covered rock. Admittedly, you have to endure the bracing dash over the few short yards from changing room to pool.<br /><br /> Then there are <a href="https://www.icelandtravel.is/northern-lights/" target="_blank">the Northern Lights</a>. This phenomenon is present in winter and summer, but you can only see them when it is dark, so winter is much the better season than summer. And you need clear skies, which in Iceland requires optimism and good luck. The lights, also known as the aurora borealis, are the result of solar wind disturbing the magnetosphere and altering the trajectories of charged particles in the upper atmosphere causing them to emit light.<br /><br />The Northern Lights come in many different forms: at their weakest they are thin trails of white; at their strongest they take the form of shimmering curtains of green, yellow and red, which drape the whole night sky. They don’t perform every night - their strength varies. It’s not the case that they are strongest near the North Pole; in fact, there is a band that surrounds the earth close to the Arctic Circle where they are at maximum strength, and the centre of this band passes right over Iceland, which suggests the country is a good place to see them. If it isn’t cloudy.<br /><br /> There have been magnificent pictures taken of the Northern Lights, but not by me. You need to be clever with a camera. Yet no camera can do the aurora justice. You need to be standing underneath the black of the night sky stretching from horizon to horizon all around you. Then the lights play, shifting, shimmering, disappearing and reappearing, first in one part of the sky and then another. It’s all about swivelling your neck and dropping your jaw.<br /><br /> There are a number of festivals to relieve the tedium of the long night-days. Christmas is as big a deal in Iceland as everywhere else. <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/meet-the-thirteen-yule-lads-icelands-own-mischievous-santa-clauses-180948162/" target="_blank">The mischievous ‘Yule lads’</a> come in the days before Christmas to place gifts in children’s shoes. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Like much of Northern Europe, Christmas Eve is more important than Christmas Day. There is a tradition of everyone giving each other books; I thoroughly approve of this. Carols are sung, board games are played, the Christmas tree glimmers. A traditional Christmas Eve dinner might be thick rice soup mixed with cinnamon and sugar, dark ptarmigan with red cabbage, and frothy pineapple mousse. There is a lot of hangikjöt around at this time of year, delicious smoked lamb.<br /><br />Then, a few days later, comes New Year’s Eve. The entire nation watches a satirical comedy show on TV and then emerges to launch their elaborate arsenals of fireworks at each other. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">In January or February, the Icelanders <a href="https://www.inspiredbyiceland.com/life/thorrablot-a-table-full-of-tradition" target="_blank">celebrate thorrablót</a>, a feast of all the traditional foods: putrefied shark, ram’s testicles, congealed sheep’s blood wrapped in a ram’s stomach and boiled sheep’s head, all washed down with ‘black death’. Yum yum. Eventually, Icelanders display their elevated sense of irony with ‘the first day of summer’, which takes place in a snowstorm some time in April.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://mybook.to/whalefjord" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Whale Fjord by Michael Ridpath cover" border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1523" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqV1YO_uqsfNCxO_Iv8apT3Lf9FijHqV41s02REA93jCr6g76McgEw3CNIbC-YrYNd5QONf4PCcQwvf0PA1xEjydpIACXkCXF7JSfWobLx3mjE-4EYCKecr14ygLHDB3L7LPTN5uXx7lJeJF_sd42nwKKBo67IIit-cwYHjuwhJB8QDBqCCqCB_GeWQLP/w208-h320/Whale-Fjord-Kindle.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://mybook.to/whalefjord" target="_blank">Whale Fjord</a> is out in February! It's the next Magnus novel set in Iceland. Two skeletons dating from Britain's occupation of Iceland in 1940 are discovered on the shores of Whale Fjord. Magnus investigates. More details soon.</span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-35721249394398760552023-12-29T06:19:00.000-08:002023-12-29T06:19:00.136-08:00Iceland blows its top. Again.<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_jOpHNtX2Nd150_SGbp05_VDIj_I5OEgLUeRj1aonXsIm9QspUKrixoH0olUyFNKBzSTFUAT672UbXNaSx-fafne6zW2QckdL2MfRkLhmkdkL0JnFK54oAxNmuzXoFu_LZtBUF1cUP_rbv1lDlx_ggCOO8VGXbTc7DTwrPWBFe35xwpORNQXd1CCs1g1/s900/Photo%20lava%20at%20night.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Grindavík volcano" border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="507" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_jOpHNtX2Nd150_SGbp05_VDIj_I5OEgLUeRj1aonXsIm9QspUKrixoH0olUyFNKBzSTFUAT672UbXNaSx-fafne6zW2QckdL2MfRkLhmkdkL0JnFK54oAxNmuzXoFu_LZtBUF1cUP_rbv1lDlx_ggCOO8VGXbTc7DTwrPWBFe35xwpORNQXd1CCs1g1/w184-h200/Photo%20lava%20at%20night.jpg" width="184" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Iceland blew its top last week. And then it calmed down.<br /><br />This was the third eruption on the Reykjanes Peninsula in the last three years. It was the most spectacular – and the briefest – to date.<br /><br />The volcano erupted on the evening of 18th December. Rather than a classic conical volcano, this eruption site is a four-kilometre-long fissure which threw a wall of fire into the air and spewed lava over the mountainside.<br /><br />Within twenty-four hours the ferocity of the eruption had diminished and it was declared over after only three days. The first eruption, <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2022/11/the-prettiest-volcano.html" target="_blank">at nearby Fagradalsfjall</a>, lasted months.<br /></span><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGoKwtMEPyqnU_tIk2xrT90iUwDbkvxtuZ97f47Gb0UkrYdWA660AHBXeSogiIsoq0hR-QH7pibTp_5Df0lS4s4P45iyw1KB7ER6aTgW8-_rgvzMOtwuaIKTJSYjk2IXr4M5dBbYHWaqdtcGX7bG7Jglx45mVWYTUKJI4mljeMI9o7n03GdF6lZds2WRK/s680/Photo%20volcano%20AFP%20Viken%20Kantarci.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Volcano near Grindavík photo AFP/Viken Kantarci" border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="680" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzGoKwtMEPyqnU_tIk2xrT90iUwDbkvxtuZ97f47Gb0UkrYdWA660AHBXeSogiIsoq0hR-QH7pibTp_5Df0lS4s4P45iyw1KB7ER6aTgW8-_rgvzMOtwuaIKTJSYjk2IXr4M5dBbYHWaqdtcGX7bG7Jglx45mVWYTUKJI4mljeMI9o7n03GdF6lZds2WRK/w320-h213/Photo%20volcano%20AFP%20Viken%20Kantarci.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">photo AFP/Viken Kantarci</div></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Grindavík</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The site is only three kilometres from Grindavík – see photo above. The fissure actually stretches under the centre of the town and for a couple of days in early November, it looked as if Grindavík itself might erupt. That doesn’t mean lava flowing down onto the town like it did at Herculaneum, say, but rather lava bursting up from beneath the streets and houses.<br /><br />Scary if you are a resident. The town and the nearby Blue Lagoon tourist destination were evacuated in early November. By last week, the threat seemed to have diminished and residents were allowed back into town for brief periods during the day. <br /><br />On Sunday the Blue Lagoon opened up again to tourists, and the following evening a hotelier who had defied the authorities and spent the night in Grindavík appeared on TV to declare that the emergency services were a bunch of wusses. The volcano erupted that night.<br /><br />I was in Grindavík in October. The town is about 50 km from Reykjavík on the south coast of the peninsula that sticks out into the Atlantic to the west of the capital, and 15km south of the main road to the airport, just beyond the Blue Lagoon. The town has a population of about 4,000 people. It is not exactly picturesque – it’s a serious fishing town with many storage and processing sheds and equipment. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It’s also where Gunnhildur lives, the police officer in <a href="https://graskeggur.com/books/" target="_blank">Quentin Bates’s excellent crime novels</a>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Evacuation</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Back in November, the residents were told to evacuate in the middle of the night with no warning. Although they have been allowed back briefly, the situation does not look good. Their town might erupt again at any moment. From 23 December, residents were allowed back overnight over the Christmas period, but now the authorities think there may be another eruption on New Year's Eve. I can't help feeling very sorry for the Grindavíkers. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Needless to say, Icelanders pulled together to provide accommodation for the evacuees, including foreign workers who have no local support network of friends and relatives.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />Amazingly, there have been no deaths directly resulting from the three eruptions so far. But it isn’t surprising that <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/dec/20/iceland-volcano-tourists-told-to-think-four-times-before-getting-too-close" target="_blank">one hiker had to be airlifted to safety</a> after hiking to the volcano and becoming disoriented.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Tongue Twisting</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">You thought Eyjafjallajökull was bad! This one is called Sundhnjúkargígaröd. I am practising. <i>Snood–hnurr–gigglegarod</i>? I’ll get it eventually.<br /><br /><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.<br /></i></span><br /></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-56914490527071737462023-11-28T12:28:00.028-08:002023-11-28T12:28:00.151-08:00A Five-Day Iceland Itinerary<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxM9PQulEzCijha3GKWARynvnBCEtSk-a8FAkeOIWaomb10S_6M1VTlf_OqdSbAb8uMrcPEmXNSGMyylOwy6MPg0p5o4LIE7hil-_T1p5tPA4OlMVZr8NS927zoaeZ5GD_kw2HXrBtQbKdjGFqYnHAhJeh19U1jCluXtpnKbwtZTWFknloB-PGKVTFhLbc/s1024/0117e0db-2bcf-4af2-80b5-cdbd72a4b188.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Michael Ridpath in Iceland" border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxM9PQulEzCijha3GKWARynvnBCEtSk-a8FAkeOIWaomb10S_6M1VTlf_OqdSbAb8uMrcPEmXNSGMyylOwy6MPg0p5o4LIE7hil-_T1p5tPA4OlMVZr8NS927zoaeZ5GD_kw2HXrBtQbKdjGFqYnHAhJeh19U1jCluXtpnKbwtZTWFknloB-PGKVTFhLbc/w320-h240/0117e0db-2bcf-4af2-80b5-cdbd72a4b188.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="mcnTextBlock" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; text-size-adjust: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody class="mcnTextBlockOuter"><tr><td class="mcnTextBlockInner" style="padding-top: 9px; text-size-adjust: 100%;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; text-size-adjust: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="mcnTextContent" style="color: #606060; font-family: "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.5px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-size-adjust: 100%;" valign="top"><p style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-size-adjust: 100%;"></p></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">For years, a group of old friends, who have also been loyal readers of my books, have been asking me to show them around Iceland. I promised I would one day, and this year I decided to take the plunge. If not now, when?<br /><br />So I drew up an itinerary for the eight of us – four couples - and we went at the beginning of October.<br /><br />The trip worked very well. And since readers often ask me to suggest places to visit in Iceland, I thought I would share the itinerary with you.<br /><br />There were some important decisions to be made first. <br /><br />When to go? Iceland gets very crowded in July and August and the weather isn’t very good anyway. It’s dark in winter. For a land with no trees, <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/08/summer-and-autumn-in-iceland.html" target="_blank">the autumn colours can be quite spectacular</a>. So we chose early October. <br /><br />How long to go for? There would be plenty to see on a two-week trip to Iceland, but it would also be expensive. So we settled on five days.<br /><br />What about Reykjavik? Once again, there is plenty to see in Reykjavik, but we decided since we had limited time, we would spend most of it in the Icelandic countryside. The centre of Reykjavik is quite small, and you can get a little bit of a feel for it walking around for 3 hours or so.<br /><br />Where to go? The Snaefellsnes peninsula has featured heavily in my books and there is plenty to do there. It’s also only three hours from Reykjavik. So that, plus the three big sights of Thingvellir, Gullfoss and Geysir seemed a good choice.<br /><br />Here is the itinerary:<br /><br /></span><h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Day 1</span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Arrive in Iceland.<br /><br />Dinner <a href="https://apotekrestaurant.is/en/" target="_blank">Apotek</a>. A good restaurant just off the Austurvöllur square in central Reykjavík.<br /><br />Hotel: The <a href="https://reykjavikresidence.is/" target="_blank">Reykjavik Residence Hotel</a>. Rooms are in a series of old houses full of character in the city centre.<br /><br /></span><h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Day 2</span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Walk around Reykjavik. <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2021/08/favourite-places-mokka-kaffi.html" target="_blank">Cafe Mokka</a> on Skólavördustígur; the Hallgrímskirkja including view from the tower; walk downhill through residential streets of old brightly coloured metal-clad houses; the Tjörnin pond; the Reykjavík City Hall with large relief map of Iceland; the Austurvöllur square outside Parliament; Baejarins Beztu Pylsur hot dog stand; the Harpa opera house; walk along the bay to the Viking longship sculpture.<br /><br />Afternoon. Drive to Snaefellsnes.<br /><br />Hotel. <a href="https://hotelbudir.is/" target="_blank">Hótel Búdir</a>. My <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2022/07/favourite-places-hotel-budir.html" target="_blank">favourite hotel in Iceland</a> in a spectacular location. View of the mountains, the Snaefelsjökull volcano, a lava field and the black church. Good food too – lamb and fish recommended.<br /><br /></span><h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Day 3</span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The Snaefellsnes Peninsula, as featured in a couple of my books, especially <a href="http://viewbook.at/SeaOfStone" target="_blank">Sea of Stone</a>. Pretty fishing village of Stykkishólmur; Helgafell the "holy mountain" of the sagas; the Berserkjahraun and the <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2022/04/favourite-places-berserkjagata.html" target="_blank">Berserkjagata</a> (a path cut through the lava field by two berserkers a thousand years ago); the shark museum at Bjarnarhöfn; lunch in Grundarfjördur looking out on the photogenic Kirkjufell mountain; Hellnar and a 2km walk along the cliffs to Arnarstapi and back<br /><br />Hotel. <a href="https://hotelbudir.is/" target="_blank">Hótel Búdir</a><br /><br /></span><h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Day 4</span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Drive to Hvalfjördur – "Whale Fjord" – and along the south shore of the fjord, where my next book Whale Fjord is set. <a href="https://hvammsvik.com/" target="_blank">Hvammsvik hot springs</a> - an amazing series of hot pots by the side of the fjord with a wonderful view. Worth the expensive entrance, but you need to book online in advance.<br /><br />Afternoon. <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2020/12/favourite-places-thingvellir.html" target="_blank">Thingvellir</a>, the open-air Parliament set next to a dramatic gorge between the two continental plates.<br /><br />Hotel: <a href="https://bluevacations.is/" target="_blank">Blue Hotel Fagralundur</a> in Reykholt. Well run and not expensive. Dinner at the good <a href="https://mika.is/en/">Mika restaurant</a> next door.<br /><br /></span><h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Day 5</span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Morning. Geysir – the geyser – and Gullfoss– a waterfall of magnificent power. <br /><br />Afternoon either Reykjavik revisited or Kleifarvatn and the Seltún hot springs to the south-west of Reykjavík.<br /><br />Hotel: Cheap hotel by the airport, but don't choose the one we stayed in!<br /><br /></span><h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Day 6</span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Morning flight home. <br /><br />There are countless other ways of seeing Iceland, but this trip worked well. It is amazing how much variety you can squeeze into five days! If you have any questions about this itinerary, just ask me in the comments section.<br /><br /><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>. </i><br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="mcnTextBlock" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; text-size-adjust: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody class="mcnTextBlockOuter"><tr><td class="mcnTextBlockInner" style="padding-top: 9px; text-size-adjust: 100%;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; text-size-adjust: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-61323974348451192242023-10-24T11:30:00.004-07:002023-10-24T11:30:00.167-07:00Snow in Iceland<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IYOgNuoJ6ADILW4YI3V2lA52l4e1g6c0HoTgm5TDfUKOowb1nou4_-NOQmyZh38r6sN9t43ONhRRxhF9-E4E3eqCaxTeX5p0gWwiZhFP-Y1AUSN2_acRwwcEeg8F7OP4bPW5P-iPStE2s6EvpqcCNI6ZVxeAd1fhF00V6LKCrmAtyQVNJB_d3woPVPnH/s4000/House%20in%20snow.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><img alt="House in the snow in Iceland photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IYOgNuoJ6ADILW4YI3V2lA52l4e1g6c0HoTgm5TDfUKOowb1nou4_-NOQmyZh38r6sN9t43ONhRRxhF9-E4E3eqCaxTeX5p0gWwiZhFP-Y1AUSN2_acRwwcEeg8F7OP4bPW5P-iPStE2s6EvpqcCNI6ZVxeAd1fhF00V6LKCrmAtyQVNJB_d3woPVPnH/w320-h240/House%20in%20snow.jpeg" width="320" /></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The weather in Iceland is terrible. But then it changes.<br /><br /> A perfect example of this was <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/03/polar-bears.html">my research trip to Saudárkrókur</a> in northern Iceland in November 2016. It was snowing hard in Reykjavík. I only had four days to get to Saudárkrókur and back, a distance of about three hundred kilometres there and three hundred kilometres back, and I was worried. According <a href="https://umferdin.is/en" target="_blank">to the government website</a>, road travel was not recommended. You don’t argue with Icelanders on the subject of snow: if they say it’s too bad to drive, it’s too bad to drive.<br /><br /> I lost a day, spent in the snow in Reykjavík. The following morning, at about 10 a.m., the website advice changed to a go. So I went.<br /><br /> The first hundred kilometres along the Ring Road were fine. I passed the windy headland by Borgarnes successfully, and drove north through the snow. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Then the road climbed to the notorious Holtavörduheidi, the highlands between the west and the north of Iceland. People lost their way and died trying to cross this on foot or horseback well into the twentieth century, and the weather hasn’t improved since then. Sure enough, I entered cloud and never left it for another hundred kilometres. I drove along at thirty kilometres an hour, both hands on the wheel, staring hard at the road ahead. <br /><br /> There are beautiful lakes and mountains on either side of the road here. So I am told. I didn’t see them. But the snowfall had eased off, the road had been cleared, and I made it to Saudárkrókur.<br /><br /> I didn’t have much time. I visited <a href="https://guidetoiceland.is/connect-with-locals/regina/glaumbaer-in-skagafjorur-in-north-iceland" target="_blank">Glaumbaer</a> in the snow. Glaumbaer is where <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gudrid_Thorbjarnard%C3%B3ttir" target="_blank">Gudrid the Wanderer</a> lived after she returned to Iceland from Greenland, and it was where a body was going to be found on page one of my next book, The Wanderer. In August, without snow, when it would look decidedly different. I then visited the local police station, saw <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/01/ravens.html" target="_blank">two slightly sinister ravens</a> circling in the middle of town, and stayed the night at the <a href="https://icelandictimes.com/search_page/hotel-tindastoll-arctichotels/" target="_blank">Tindastóll</a>, one of the oldest hotels in Iceland. And yes, a discussion with the chambermaid confirmed that there was a ghost in that hotel.<br /><br /> I wanted to give myself plenty of time for the trip back to Keflavík to catch my flight, and so I set off from Saudárkrókur early, while it was still dark. The snow had stopped, the roads were clear, and the sun rose to reveal a sight of pristine beauty. The following hours I drove through some of the most beautiful landscape I have seen in my life.<br /><br /> It wasn’t any one mountain, or any one view. It was a combination of thick newly fallen snow, smooth lakes, dramatic mountain slopes and desolate emptiness, with only the odd, tiny hut showing any sign of habitation. <br /><br />And the light. During his visit in 1936, W. H. Auden wrote: ‘Iceland is the sun colouring the mountains without being anywhere in sight, even sunk beyond the horizon.’ It’s still true.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRgBSFqS3QEurCXqpNfeNGXtj2gYhNxKJSyLOnnQ86BHnvmFgvU1uzODyIUZ7XQmJ4RORwviF4yftlPT4RKDpWs_TKmaxC2xfOc1EXCOok9n5DpMd5iGgntaPxNcGA5Rd88EJFl9bFAkMotZiIN-0RS_1T1u-dxs16cmmPPUwEn2M9PTmR7OQOUBxx0KSt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Frozen river at sunset north Iceland. Photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRgBSFqS3QEurCXqpNfeNGXtj2gYhNxKJSyLOnnQ86BHnvmFgvU1uzODyIUZ7XQmJ4RORwviF4yftlPT4RKDpWs_TKmaxC2xfOc1EXCOok9n5DpMd5iGgntaPxNcGA5Rd88EJFl9bFAkMotZiIN-0RS_1T1u-dxs16cmmPPUwEn2M9PTmR7OQOUBxx0KSt=w320-h240" width="320" /></a></div><br /> The sun in Iceland is always low, but in winter it is particularly low. It appears above the horizon at about ten o’clock, brushing clouds, water and mountainsides pink. Then it rolls along the horizon before sinking in another glorious inferno of orange and red. As I drove, the sunlight reflected off the clouds in a diffuse pink, even at midday, shifting to yellow, grey and purple as it brought the shape of the towering cloud formations into dramatic relief. Patches of clear sky were light blue and pure. The rivers were pink or a burnished copper, depending on the angle the sun struck them; in shadow they were a ruffled black. Ice shifted colour from white to black, via grey, yellow and brown.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> That day the scenery was constantly changing, and I was constantly pulling over to take photographs. As I approached the town of Borgarnes, billowing steam was added to the mix, as the vapour from geothermal pools condensed in the cold air.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wAWbVfqHXA3rpml0hsAY_H929HtGfoBaQ0NGlHsl23uMDn61v-oI1wVJMnRFinLA_eM7o5ZQaGrsO50dMJgG-4jPwX-35ZJzdMFRnLMLuwM6hZZjNQ50WEFNa4yhs9Y_BohUs4_rGjoOcoVomLSXt8Wj0X87stGoN8JqoyGGGh_NKd5AEvZ1W1nPYrBE/s4000/Hot%20spring%20nr%20Borgarnes%20in%20snow.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Hot springs near Borgarnes. Photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wAWbVfqHXA3rpml0hsAY_H929HtGfoBaQ0NGlHsl23uMDn61v-oI1wVJMnRFinLA_eM7o5ZQaGrsO50dMJgG-4jPwX-35ZJzdMFRnLMLuwM6hZZjNQ50WEFNa4yhs9Y_BohUs4_rGjoOcoVomLSXt8Wj0X87stGoN8JqoyGGGh_NKd5AEvZ1W1nPYrBE/w320-h240/Hot%20spring%20nr%20Borgarnes%20in%20snow.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /> It was all glorious.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-51328019284378488302023-09-26T11:12:00.019-07:002023-09-26T11:12:00.146-07:00Weather in Iceland: If you don't like it, wait ten minutes and try again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HgCMtonCQLERJVyk6RHLCLkAEEKckV9nSlWy1nvLBTY03sQWefVo9UQNolrEfnUV2qoSSnNhYSHX0AdEPWfpuXsDuecRqBrTFaNKVr_tmHExAlXS9tgOkDQkRBWfsM-WggiLUqiZIC1PHidM52SE_GW158AdDrCNkAhty5kPMzNIDGJOU8HlEJScNY2l/s1544/Family%20in%20Berserkjahraun.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The Berserkjahraun under clouds. Photo by Laura Ridpath" border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1544" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HgCMtonCQLERJVyk6RHLCLkAEEKckV9nSlWy1nvLBTY03sQWefVo9UQNolrEfnUV2qoSSnNhYSHX0AdEPWfpuXsDuecRqBrTFaNKVr_tmHExAlXS9tgOkDQkRBWfsM-WggiLUqiZIC1PHidM52SE_GW158AdDrCNkAhty5kPMzNIDGJOU8HlEJScNY2l/w320-h212/Family%20in%20Berserkjahraun.jpeg" title="Ridpaths on holiday in Iceland" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br /> The weather in Reykjavík is uninspiring. Winters are about the same temperature as Hamburg, but summers don’t get as warm. It is milder than you would think in winter: the temperature only dips a few degrees below zero, nothing like the freezes felt in Chicago or Moscow, which are much further south. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate_of_Iceland" target="_blank">Trouble is, it doesn’t get that warm in summer: temperatures rarely rise above 15 °C - the average high is only 13 °C in July.</a><br /><br /> The real problem is the wind and the rain. Rain comes in many different forms. When it rains hard, it can feel like someone pouring a bucket of water on your head. Or it can feel like someone throwing a bucket of water at you from the pavement, if it’s windy. No umbrella has been known to survive in Iceland: <a href="https://twitter.com/elizajreid/status/1658612102255325184" target="_blank">they die rapidly</a>, torn to shreds by the wind. There are two ways of dealing with the wind. One is to face directly into it and lean. The other is to stay inside and read a book.<br /><br /> However, they say that if you don’t like the weather in Reykjavík, just wait ten minutes and try again. That wind blows a series of weather fronts in from the Atlantic, where the warm water of the Gulf Stream creates small angry balls of low pressure, which sweep through Iceland, bringing dark clouds, heavy rain, but then crystal-clear skies, puffy clouds and rainbows. Lots of beautiful rainbows, many of them doubles.<br /><br /> They say there is no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. I’m not convinced by this. Icelanders mock tourists in Reykjavík for walking around their capital in cagoules or bright ski jackets. Icelanders <a href="https://www.66north.com/us/women-jackets-and-coats" target="_blank">own stylish dark-coloured coats, waterproof and windproof with warm padding and hoods </a>for walking around the city. I suspect these are expensive. They have another wardrobe of expensive outdoor gear for prancing around the countryside in blizzards. Their fancy city coats would make no sense in Milan or Madrid, or even London or Paris, so I am with the tourists. If Thor, or whoever, is chucking buckets of water down on Reykjavík, then wear your bright orange rain jacket and be damned. Just don’t rely on an umbrella to protect you. <br /><br /> Reykjavík is in the south-west corner of Iceland and receives the brunt of the Atlantic weather. To the north, in Akureyri, the weather is slightly better. On the mountains - and much of Iceland is mountainous - the weather is naturally worse: the wind stronger and the temperature lower. Large areas of the highlands in the uninhabited interior of the country lie in rain shadow and don’t receive any rainfall at all. They are effectively deserts. Deserts with rivers, as meltwater from glaciers fifty kilometres away rushes through them on the way to the sea.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The photograph above is of three Ridpaths enjoying the weather in Iceland.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /> </div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-69772999150538238132023-08-15T06:50:00.000-07:002023-08-15T06:50:00.140-07:00Summer and Autumn in Iceland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1bO8l-SVt4sqOf7Zohw6LN9CYxIjTnTBukwr5tIbgIABY6BxiOkUL9lKU4OKmXHskf9Mf0BopAB-HxqlmTlUqgDhNyJQk8IH-HM5K0F_4s6Q4m1s3Qi_zEimK7xCvoiWdKVgBWFb3T7kLocDyDboB-QMk50nzAli7wzNj2I8xxb-wAxd8I6ebnOnMEdO/s4032/Midnight%20sun%20in%20dalvik.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Midnight sun in Dalvík. Photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1bO8l-SVt4sqOf7Zohw6LN9CYxIjTnTBukwr5tIbgIABY6BxiOkUL9lKU4OKmXHskf9Mf0BopAB-HxqlmTlUqgDhNyJQk8IH-HM5K0F_4s6Q4m1s3Qi_zEimK7xCvoiWdKVgBWFb3T7kLocDyDboB-QMk50nzAli7wzNj2I8xxb-wAxd8I6ebnOnMEdO/w320-h240/Midnight%20sun%20in%20dalvik.jpeg" title="Midnight sun in Dalvík" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />Nordic countries are often depicted as being dark, gloomy and depressing. But that is only half the story. The other half is summer, when the sun shines for twenty-one hours – the photo above was taken in Dalvík at midnight. It is light at 11 p.m. in Reykjavík on a Saturday night when the crowds are going into the bars and it is light at 2 a.m. when they are leaving. It is an extraordinary sight to see so many drunk people so early in the morning.<br /><br /> Icelanders become manic. Their eyes sparkle bright blue, but there are red rims around them. On the farms, if winter was the time of snoozing, summer was the time of eighteen-hour days. A whole year’s farming had to be crammed into a few short months. In particular, the hay had to be harvested to feed the livestock over the winter. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Today Icelanders are still busy eighteen hours a day in summer. Eight o’clock in the evening feels like mid-afternoon. It can be difficult trying to go to sleep at ten thirty when your body is telling you it is early evening.<br /><br />Then comes autumn. Despite the lack of trees, there are autumn colours in Iceland. Various berries and dwarf willows and birches change colour, and the lava fields and heathlands glow in purples and oranges. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Autumn is also the time of <a href="https://www.icelandair.com/blog/celebrating-rettir/" target="_blank">the réttir</a>, the annual round-up, when the members of a farming community get on their horses and spend three days scouring the mountains with their sheepdogs rounding up their sheep. The beasts are brought down to pens, sorted by the farmers, and put in barns for the winter. The farmers and their children get very excited at seeing their sheep again, all of whom have their own names, and a good time is had by all. I have no idea what the sheep think about it. I once wrote a short story called <i>The Super Recogniser of Vík</i> about a farmer who was expert at recognizing sheep and was dragged to Reykjavík by Magnus to look at CCTV to find a burglar. <br /><br /> So when is the best time to come to Iceland? Most people come in July and August: these are the two warmest months, and of course children are on school holiday. Personally, I avoid these two months. I’d rather spend the summer months somewhere where the temperature exceeds 20 °C. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">More importantly, Iceland is crowded. Tourist numbers are rocketing: from only a few hundred thousand at the time of the <i>kreppa </i>in 2009 <a href="https://www.theglobaleconomy.com/Iceland/tourist_arrivals/" target="_blank">to over two million a year now</a>. Despite a construction frenzy in Reykjavík, the infrastructure can’t keep up. It’s hard for locals to rent accommodation in Reykjavík because most apartments coming on the market are rented out on Airbnb. More worryingly, there are not enough public toilets, especially out in the countryside. This infrastructure is at its most overstretched in July and August. <br /><br />The Icelandic landscape is much more delicate than it looks; hordes of tourists’ walking boots can wreak havoc on moss and lichens trying to establish themselves on new lava. The paradox of travelling a thousand miles to a desolate spot to enjoy the isolation is highlighted when dozens of others are doing the same thing. Summer is also the time when volunteer search-and-rescue teams become fed up with rescuing tourists who have wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. <br /><br />I see I have mentioned the <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/05/favourite-places-beach-and-cliffs-at-vik.html" target="_blank">idiotic acts of tourists </a>a number of times in this blog. It’s not that all tourists are stupid - clearly, most are not - but the moronic minority gives the rest of us a bad reputation with the locals. <br /><br /> So I would visit in the slightly quieter months of May and June, or September to November. In September the grass is still green, the snow has yet to fall and it’s beginning to be possible to see the Northern Lights. In November, you can experience winter and yet still enjoy a little daylight. Go expecting bad weather; that way you won’t be disappointed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I have a trip planned myself in the first week of October this year – I'm really looking forward to it. It will be nearly two years since I last visited Iceland.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-51010924987723536462023-07-18T08:18:00.030-07:002023-07-21T05:00:13.211-07:00My Icelandic Crime Novels: How are They Different?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_RmHEr9Ah4tu0p2oVsBndi22Q3vZMmpwgrNapGsc5VJtkFIA-k2Wy6qb3_0552gfHAgFmV_23wrmd_P7e8BUypxBRV7TfFXusLQ5hfRWZPBovqtvXXCDxN-m2d_Vo1E7rSVxGn2LfMJlt7srM6_eF0oyNwq14nLpdJp9XU1hejN3oSWcmVqvN8kLhg/s3264/Michael%20Ridpath%20Magnus%20books.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Michael Ridpath's Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR_RmHEr9Ah4tu0p2oVsBndi22Q3vZMmpwgrNapGsc5VJtkFIA-k2Wy6qb3_0552gfHAgFmV_23wrmd_P7e8BUypxBRV7TfFXusLQ5hfRWZPBovqtvXXCDxN-m2d_Vo1E7rSVxGn2LfMJlt7srM6_eF0oyNwq14nLpdJp9XU1hejN3oSWcmVqvN8kLhg/w239-h320/Michael%20Ridpath%20Magnus%20books.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">In <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/06/icelandic-crime-writers-wave-of.html" target="_blank">my last blog post</a>, I gave you a brief survey of the amazing crime writers working in Iceland at the moment. Where do my own books fit into this crowded field?<br /><br />Well, they are different. Right from the beginning, with my first novel, <i>Where The Shadows Lie</i>, I wanted to deal with how Iceland connected to the rest of the world, to examine issues that affect the globe beyond Iceland.<br /><br />This was partly because I thought this was a good approach to take, but mostly because that’s the way I have always written my books.<br /><br />My financial thrillers were about the international tribe that beavers away in international finance. The characters came from many different countries, and the novels were rarely stuck in one setting. I have never yet written an entire book set in England.<br /><br />This simply reflects my own dreams from an early age. I was brought up in a tiny village in Yorkshire. I wanted to escape to see the world. I had an uncle who was a naturalist in the bush in northern Australia, and I thought he was very exciting.<br /><br />When I left university, I joined an international bank, partly so I could travel for work and partly because there was a training programme in New York for six months. Which is where I met my American wife and met fellow trainees from all over the world, many of whom became my friends.<br /><br />My Magnus novels have always included foreigners, just like all my other novels. Magnus himself, <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2021/01/my-detective-magnus-or-magnus.html" target="_blank">as I have explained before,</a> although born in Iceland was brought up in America and learned his detective skills there. I don’t know as much about Icelandic society as the other crime writers who write about Iceland, but I think I can write about the way that Iceland interacts with the rest of the world.<br /><br /><i><a href="http://viewbook.at/WhereTheShadowsLie" target="_blank">Where The Shadows Lie</a></i> is about how a lost saga got to Tolkien while he was writing<i> Lord of the Rings</i>; <i><a href="http://bit.ly/66DegreesNorth" target="_blank">66 Degrees North</a></i> is about the global financial crash and how it affected Iceland; <i><a href="http://viewbook.at/Meltwater" target="_blank">Meltwater</a></i> is about how a volcano traps foreign whistleblowers in Iceland; <i><a href="http://viewbook.at/SeaOfStone" target="_blank">Sea of Stone</a> </i>is about how a murder in Magnus’s own family spans America and Iceland; <i><a href="http://viewbook.at/TheWanderer" target="_blank">The Wanderer</a></i> is about a hoax taking in Italy, Greenland, Nantucket as well as Iceland.<br /><br />My most recently published book, <i><a href="http://viewbook.at/deathindalvik" target="_blank">Death in Dalvik</a></i>, about the damage cryptocurrencies can do to a small village, is, I suppose my most Iceland-only book, although the cryptocurrency in question is brought to the country by foreign cypto-evangelists.<br /><br />And the book I am working on at the moment is about that glorious moment in British history, May 1940, when we invaded Iceland. So glorious, almost no one in Britain knows about it.<br /><br />The Icelandic saying<i> glöggt er gests augad</i> means something like <i>clear is a guest’s eye</i>. I hope my eye, as a guest of Iceland, is clear. Magnus himself is a guest and very aware of it. In my books, Magnus wrestles with the problem of being neither Icelandic nor American. In a similar way, his partner, Vigdís, struggles with what it is to be a black Icelander. As an observer of people who live in countries that are not their own, these are the kind of issues I think about a lot. <br /><br />I said my books are different from those of the other writers of Icelandic crime fiction, but if you look closely at their books, they too reflect their own individual backgrounds. Which is part of the joy I’m sure they find in writing their novels, and the joy we have in reading them.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i><br /></span><br /> </div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-24125083399158823232023-06-20T00:08:00.009-07:002023-06-20T06:10:36.447-07:00Icelandic Crime Writers: a Wave of Fictional Murders Overwhelms a Small Peaceful Country<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tdQL18wgOa1OJXtYGL0tLwfoCdyEZkRRiySy_EArJNowsvAIelryIhqFzHFszUNeeiBg9szXF3-NkfS-EaohXlEx6rvB5MYPkN0NNvuwGjeE7Ihp0am7Qoqjadh4ueqOVOwxx_xhXs8T8g-vGokTJP3Hnz3my5_TMJ4-hpedBzqqFfLvtyFyu1s9yw/s3264/Icelandic%20authors%20books.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Books by Icelandic authors: photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tdQL18wgOa1OJXtYGL0tLwfoCdyEZkRRiySy_EArJNowsvAIelryIhqFzHFszUNeeiBg9szXF3-NkfS-EaohXlEx6rvB5MYPkN0NNvuwGjeE7Ihp0am7Qoqjadh4ueqOVOwxx_xhXs8T8g-vGokTJP3Hnz3my5_TMJ4-hpedBzqqFfLvtyFyu1s9yw/w240-h320/Icelandic%20authors%20books.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">When I started writing crime novels in Iceland, I assumed I would have the country entirely to myself. Idiot. It turns out that plenty of Icelandic writers were thinking the same thing at the same time.<br /><br />There are now an extraordinarily high number of extremely good crime writers in Iceland; why this is so would make a good subject for another blog post. Here is a brief survey of them, starting with the big four who have been published widely abroad, and have reached bestseller lists all over the world.<br /><br />A caveat. I haven’t read all of the books of all of these authors. And I am friends with a number of them.<br /><br /></span><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.penguin.co.uk/authors/202670/arnaldur-indridason?tab=penguin-biography" target="_blank">Arnaldur Indridason</a></span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Arnaldur’s detective, Erlendur, is a policeman of the old school. He yearns for the farm of his childhood in the east of Iceland and he enjoys a sheep’s head for lunch. Arnaldur’s books examine the conflict between the old and the new in Iceland’s society, as well as solving some fascinating crimes. <i>Silence of the Grave</i>, about the discovery of bones dating from the Second World War, won the British Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger in 2005, so I have no excuse for my assumption that I would have the country to myself. I’m not sure whether that is my favourite or <i>Tainted Blood</i>, also known as <i>Jar City</i>, a novel about genetic research, which was made into a film.<br /><br /></span><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.salomonssonagency.se/yrsa-sigurdardottir/" target="_blank">Yrsa Sigurdardóttir</a></span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Yrsa’s first crime novel translated into English was <i>Last Rituals</i>, featuring a young, disorganized lawyer, Thóra. She followed up with several more Thóra books, and then another series featuring the child psychologist Freyja, as well as a few suspense novels. Yrsa is not afraid of ghosts, or at least writing about them. Her wonderful, wry sense of humour creeps into her books in the most unlikely places, leavening her darker subject matter. <i>I Remember You</i> is deeply unsettling. I think my favourite is <i>The Legacy</i>, one of the Freyja series.<br /><br /></span><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.ragnarjonasson.com/" target="_blank">Ragnar Jónasson</a></span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Ragnar was obsessed with Agatha Christie as a child and started translating her novels into Icelandic at the age of nineteen. He loves the concept of the locked room mystery: often his characters are stuck in a snowed-in town, or an isolated island, or a hut in a blizzard. His first series featured the naïve detective Ari Thór. His more recent series is about Hulda, a detective coming up to retirement. I would recommend <i>Outside</i>, a fiendishly clever story about a group of friends stuck in a snowstorm in a mountain hut. <br /><br /></span><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.liljawriter.com/" target="_blank">Lilja Sigurdardóttir</a></span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Lilja has written three novels about Sonja, a desperate single mother driven to drug smuggling: <i>Snare</i>, <i>Trap</i> and <i>Cage</i>, and a political thriller, <i>Betrayal</i>. Sonja’s problems include her lesbian love life, her bankster ex-husband and assorted unpleasant types. Original and absorbing, Lilja’s books have won worldwide acclaim. The French, in particular, seem to like them. She has embarked on a new series which ostensibly features her Anglo-Icelandic heroine, Árora, but I like to think is actually about her nice British accountant friend, Michael.</span><p></p><p></p><h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://graskeggur.com/" target="_blank">Quentin Bates</a></span></h4><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Quentin’s detective is Gunnhildur a no-nonsense detective with a complicated family. Although English like me, Quentin knows much more than me about Iceland: his wife is Icelandic and he spent many years working on Icelandic trawlers. He depicts the chaos of Icelandic life: the messy family structures of half-brothers and step-sisters and he is good on the criminals, especially of the hapless variety.<br /><br />There are plenty of other excellent authors to choose from.<br /><br />I have not yet read any of <b><a href="https://www.dhhliteraryagency.com/eva-bjorg-aeliggisdoacutettir.html" target="_blank">Eva Björg Aegisdóttir</a>’s </b>books, but her debut, <i>Creak on the Stairs</i>, won the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger and I hear her novels are very good. <br /><br /><b>Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson’s </b><i>The Flatey Enigma</i> is set in 1960 on the tiny island of Flatey, home of the famous saga collection the Flateyjarbók. It’s a murder mystery with a literary puzzle included. A different flavour from the other crime novels on this list. His day job is to write <a href="https://safetravel.is/icelandic-road-signs" target="_blank">the traffic signs in Iceland</a>.<br /><br />I have also read excellent books by <b>Árni Thórarinsson</b> (set in Akureyri in the north), <b>Solveig Pálsdóttir</b> and J<b>ónína Leósdóttir</b> (who have both featured in guest posts on this blog) and <b>Óskar Gudmundsson</b>.<br /><br />Credit should go to two publishers – <a href="https://orendabooks.co.uk/" target="_blank">Orenda Books </a>and <a href="https://corylusbooks.com/" target="_blank">Corylus Books</a> – who have brought most of these authors to the English-speaking world and to Quentin Bates for translating many of them into English so well. I am impressed at how he manages to convey the very different voices of each writer.<br /><br />If you would like to read some novels about crime in Iceland, there is plenty to choose from here.<br /><br />In my next post, I will talk about my own crime novels. They are different from these. Not better, not worse, just different. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, sign up <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></span></p>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-37990190994716293942023-05-23T06:30:00.005-07:002023-05-23T06:30:00.149-07:00Favourite Places – The Beach and Cliffs at Vík<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHa-ulbwpRKatH8-SIXGy0Mzq-K8evnXfVTrsolBGzru_Ku7uKbSIqCJtPz4_GBsabNhhACwSQi3vYxXnyEjNxqEuaL7Yb45Su4qWqGisBS2XrgNnKQSHPfNgmFKLqp1qo2vZmFfDcBP9FwAJj1G-E0hgzDcSutXRZfXOgXXvB9dkESVLWvfAkdDznaQ/s4000/Vik%20beach.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The Beach at Vík Photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHa-ulbwpRKatH8-SIXGy0Mzq-K8evnXfVTrsolBGzru_Ku7uKbSIqCJtPz4_GBsabNhhACwSQi3vYxXnyEjNxqEuaL7Yb45Su4qWqGisBS2XrgNnKQSHPfNgmFKLqp1qo2vZmFfDcBP9FwAJj1G-E0hgzDcSutXRZfXOgXXvB9dkESVLWvfAkdDznaQ/w320-h240/Vik%20beach.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Vík is a pleasant little town crammed between the beautiful glacier of Mýrdal and the sea, at the southernmost point in Iceland halfway along the south coast. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It has no harbour, just a long stretch of black beach. To the east lies the Mýrdalssandur, the sandy desert created by Katla’s jökulhlaups. Spectacular cliffs rear up to the west, alongside beaches and dramatic rock formations. It’s well worth exploring these.<br /><br /> You can see the rock formations from Vík: a line of tall rock spires just offshore, one of which is purported to be a petrified ship grabbed by a troll (of course).<br /><br /> You can get closer to these stacks, driving out of town and inland around the headland to the black Reynisfjara beach. On one side of the beach a cluster of basalt columns rises like a giant church organ on cliffs crowded at nesting season with birds: kittiwakes, fulmars and puffins. Out to sea, the extraordinary rock formations slosh through the waves as if approaching the land from the Atlantic. And to the west, the spectacular rock arch of Dyrhólaey, Iceland’s southernmost point, juts out into the ocean.<br /><br /><a href="https://icelandmonitor.mbl.is/news/nature_and_travel/2022/06/13/a_fatal_accident_at_reynisfjara_black_beach/" target="_blank">This beach is notoriously dangerous</a>. Medium-sized waves wash against the black sand, and it is tempting to go within a few yards of them to look at the sea and the rocks, even to dip a toe in the water. Don’t. Seriously, don’t. The currents and the undertow are very strong here. But most deceptive are the ‘sneaker waves’, larger waves that very occasionally stretch up the shoreline to suck away the loose sand under the feet of people who are too close. Tourists die here: by my count of the press reports, two died in 2015, two in 2016, one in 2017, one in 2018 and one in 2022. <br /><br /> If you drive back to the Ring Road, go west a few kilometres and then turn off again, you cross a causeway and reach the top of the cliffs of Dyrhólaey. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The views from here are truly spectacular: of the basalt columns and the offshore rocks, but also of the outstandingly beautiful Mýrdal glacier to the north - thick white cream flowing between mountains. And to the east, you can see right along the southern shore of Iceland. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Birds nest here, <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/02/blog-post.html" target="_blank">including puffins</a>, which means it’s possible that the cliffs are closed during nesting season (I didn’t notice any closure when I visited in May at 9 p.m., but perhaps I just missed a sign). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP">sign up here.</a></i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-59159648615328731072023-04-25T06:30:00.001-07:002023-04-25T06:30:00.145-07:00Chapter 1: The Polar Bear Killing<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5WL5kTvRG0CEnYh7lkcUE3HqHvgqqHGeKGCqZ86xrlMpyis21BarRT9Zb5-q39ufz99MfVJZG9NxirLXPfnu4rvpFCc36Enhzvt2WfwBVBqZgUjdWnrTMmJmJqTYRuOBLWZMcREvAMnHSjSGPHFgNUT0aYXDjAIoqx8M8xmRe1dvRb5ZWkgwgl0j3A/s2745/The%20Polar%20Bear%20Killing%20cover.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5WL5kTvRG0CEnYh7lkcUE3HqHvgqqHGeKGCqZ86xrlMpyis21BarRT9Zb5-q39ufz99MfVJZG9NxirLXPfnu4rvpFCc36Enhzvt2WfwBVBqZgUjdWnrTMmJmJqTYRuOBLWZMcREvAMnHSjSGPHFgNUT0aYXDjAIoqx8M8xmRe1dvRb5ZWkgwgl0j3A/w215-h320/The%20Polar%20Bear%20Killing%20cover.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><i>Following <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2023/03/polar-bears.html" target="_blank">my previous post on polar bears in Iceland</a>, here is the first chapter of my novella The Polar Bear Killing.</i><br /><br />This was going to be the most important day of his life. He knew it. He could feel it. This would be the day when he left his mark on the world.<br /><br />Constable Halldór’s fingers tightened on the wheel of his police 4x4 as it hurtled through the fog towards the farm by the river where the polar bear had been sighted. The professional hunters in their souped-up Super Jeep were at least ten kilometres away. He would get there first. He would have only a few minutes to make the shot.<br /><br />The polar bear had been spotted on a beach six hours before by some fishermen, who had immediately called the coastguard. Polar bears were not native to Iceland, but once every couple of years one would pop up along the northern coastline, usually having ridden sea ice that had drifted eastwards from Greenland. Often they swam the last few miles to shore. By the time they reached Iceland, they were tired and hungry. And dangerous.<br /><br />The fishermen had only caught a brief glimpse because of the poor visibility. But it had been enough for Halldór to organize a couple of parties to scout for the bear, including the two professional hunters armed with the kind of rifle that could kill a reindeer at a thousand metres. Halldór had been following on behind when he had been alerted by the call from a young girl – a farmer’s daughter – who had said she had seen the bear. Her mother was shopping in town, and her father was out with the other scouts.<br /><br />The girl was alone with her little brother on the farm, and Halldór was closest to her. In the back of the police car was his .22 rifle. It was much too small a calibre to kill a big bear under normal circumstances. But many years before, Halldór had read the story of some hikers in the West Fjords in the 1970s who had come upon a polar bear while carrying only a .22. One of them had waited until the bear had approached really close and then shot it through the eye. That had taken real nerve. And marksmanship.<br /><br />Halldór had nerve. And he was one of the best shots in the north of Iceland. As a policeman in Reykjavík, he had applied twice for the Viking Squad – the Icelandic SWAT team – but been turned down each time. The problem wasn’t his ability to handle firearms, but his physical fitness. And now, aged forty-nine, and after seven years driving his car around and around the small town of Raufarhöfn in north-east Iceland, his girth had grown even greater. But he still knew how to shoot. And he still had nerve.<br /><br />After a lull of several years, there had been a spate of polar bear invasions from the sea. Each time the bears had been shot, and there had been an outcry from urban do-gooders (people like his daughter Gudrún) for a national polar bear policy. Anaesthetic darts had been stockpiled, and experts flown in from Denmark. But even then, when the next polar bear had shown up, it too had had to be shot before it harmed any of the sightseers who had driven out to gawk at it. And so the new polar bear policy had been determined: shoot on sight. It was too expensive and too dangerous to do anything else.<br /><br />The road sloped downward and the police car emerged from the fog into a shallow valley with a fast river tumbling down its middle. A cluster of prosperous farm buildings, with white concrete walls and red corrugated metal roofs, appeared. The farmer made a little money from sheep and quite a lot from leasing fishing rights on the river.<br /><br />Halldór scanned the fields and pasture surrounding the farm. A flock of sheep were scattering in all directions; something had spooked them. And then he saw it – a dirty white bear loping along towards the farmhouse. And in front of it, a little girl standing still, staring at it.<br /><br />Jesus! <br /><br />Halldór leaned on his horn, swerved off the road and onto the grass, accelerating towards the girl. The bear stopped to look at the new arrival. The girl, too, turned towards him.<br /><br />He pulled up between the girl and the bear, which was now only about a hundred metres away. <br /><br />He lowered the window. ‘Jump in, Anna!’<br /><br />The girl opened the passenger door and climbed in.<br /><br />‘What do you think you were doing?’ Halldór said.<br /><br />‘I wanted to speak to the polar bear,’ she said.<br /><br />‘Those animals are dangerous!’ Halldór said. ‘He’s come a long way and he’s hungry.’<br /><br />‘He’s not dangerous. Egill told me about polar bears. They are friendly. They help people.’<br /><br />Egill was the old man who lived in the run-down farm – now barely visible at the base of the cloud – on the slope on the other side of the river. He was about eighty and had long ago lost his marbles. <br /><br />‘They are not friendly, Anna; they attack people, believe me. Now where is your brother?’<br /><br />‘Back in the farmhouse,’ said the little girl.<br /><br />‘Good.’ Halldór looked at the bear, which was staring at the vehicle. ‘OK, sit tight, Anna.’<br /><br />Slowly he climbed out of the car and went around to the back to take out his rifle. The bear watched, but the girl couldn’t see him. Once the gun was loaded, Halldór made his way around the car, rested his elbows on the bonnet and aimed at the bear.<br /><br />It was smaller than he had imagined it would be, and thinner; he could see its ribs. But it was still a magnificent animal. <br /><br />It was also a hundred metres away, and had turned its rump towards Halldór.<br /><br />A .22 bullet in the arse would do nothing to a polar bear apart from make it really angry.<br /><br />‘You’re not going to shoot it!’ shouted Anna.<br /><br />‘This is a dart gun,’ said Halldór. ‘I’m going to put it to sleep.’<br /><br />‘It’s not a dart gun,’ the girl said. ‘My dad has a gun like that that he uses to shoot foxes. I’m not going to let you kill the lovely bear.’<br /><br />What happened next would be etched in Halldór’s brain for the little time that remained of his life.<br /><br />Anna jumped out of the car and ran towards the bear, shouting: ‘Look out, polar bear!’<br /><br />The bear turned and, after a second’s thought, ambled towards the girl.<br /><br />Halldór’s instinct was to run after the girl and pull her back. But if he did that, the bear would escape and run off into the mist. Sure, it would be shot eventually by one of the professional hunters. But not by him.<br /><br />The girl stopped, suddenly aware that a very large animal with teeth and claws was approaching her. She was only a few metres from the police car, there was still time for her to turn and run, there was even time for Halldór to drag her back, but she froze.<br /><br />Halldór took careful aim. The bear was coming directly towards him, its eyes two round black holes staring straight ahead.<br /><br />At last, the girl screamed and turned. The bear was nearly on her, only twenty metres away.<br /><br />Halldór took his time. He could make this shot ten times out of ten as long as he kept his nerve. He inhaled, then exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. The bear dropped to the ground as the bullet tore through its eye and into its brain.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />The two young men – a German and an Icelander – breathed heavily as they climbed the hill. The sky was a pale blue, and there was no sign of the thick low cloud that had settled over the area during the previous five days.<br /><br />The Icelander, a thin man with straggly long hair, wearing jeans and an Extinction is Forever T-shirt, paused to raise the binoculars that were hanging around his neck to scan the ponds and marshes of the Melrakkaslétta – the ‘fox plain’ – that stretched out to the north of the town. <br /><br />‘Nothing,’ he said.<br /><br />‘She must have drowned,’ said the German in English. He was a few years older than the Icelander, and a few years neater.<br /><br />The bear that had been shot four days before was not yet fully grown, and the theory was that its mother might have landed as well. But now that the weather had cleared up and it was possible to see more than a couple of hundred metres, that seemed increasingly unlikely.<br /><br />‘I’m afraid you have wasted your trip, Martin,’ the Icelander said, turning back up the hill.<br /><br />‘Yeah,’ said Martin, following him. ‘It would have been cool to actually see a polar bear. And to stop those bastards shooting it.’<br /><br />‘Here it is,’ said the Icelander, whose name was Alex. ‘The Arctic Henge.’<br /><br />On the crest of the hill above them stood a half-built giant stone circle, designed in the manner of Stonehenge, with four tall stone gates at each point of the compass rising to a point. The low sun painted geometric shadows down the eastern slope of the hill.<br /><br />‘Cool,’ said Martin again. It was his favourite English word. ‘You say it acts like some kind of sundial?’<br /><br />‘Apparently.’ <br /><br />They walked around the site, trying to figure out what it all meant. Alex had brought with him a drawing of what the finished henge would look like. The layout was based on an ancient Icelandic poem, but he was confused about what signified what, and Martin’s questions were just confusing him more.<br /><br />‘Well, let’s ask that guy,’ Martin said.<br /><br />‘What guy?’<br /><br />Martin pointed to a black-clad leg sticking out from behind one of the stone pillars of a gate.<br /><br />As the two men approached the gate, more of the figure came into view. <br /><br />‘<i>Mein Gott!</i>’ <br /><br />It was a man, wearing a black police uniform. He was slumped against the pillar. And where his right eye should have been was a bloody mess.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to read the rest of The Polar Bear Killing, you can download it for free <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">by signing up here</a>. You will also receive occasional emails from me about my books.</i><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /> <p></p></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-4314542125539111492023-03-28T06:30:00.000-07:002023-03-28T06:30:00.239-07:00Polar Bears<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzu4AtjJ3v1KF1RCPIyRHyFdmFJw3-C4-gC8gjmcSEuQttTer0aKfKW02OIubJ4HKB_Vk9FAKYOprOlAEjf7TGzfLAyhTE-QAnCbCiw5qyO0lyz5U5hZOM9KxnRouecJKtxbFIPGl-78DcVHcbEDA-j-LtIkH0FhV24zPoupxI9T1CrSkrow1oJO8W9Q/s4272/Polar%20bear%20on%20floe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Polar Bear photo by Hans-Jurgen Mager via Unsplash" border="0" data-original-height="2848" data-original-width="4272" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzu4AtjJ3v1KF1RCPIyRHyFdmFJw3-C4-gC8gjmcSEuQttTer0aKfKW02OIubJ4HKB_Vk9FAKYOprOlAEjf7TGzfLAyhTE-QAnCbCiw5qyO0lyz5U5hZOM9KxnRouecJKtxbFIPGl-78DcVHcbEDA-j-LtIkH0FhV24zPoupxI9T1CrSkrow1oJO8W9Q/w320-h213/Polar%20bear%20on%20floe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br />In November 2016, I travelled to Saudárkrókur, in the north of Iceland, researching my book <i><a href="https://michaelridpath.com/the-wanderer.html" target="_blank">The Wanderer</a></i>. As is my habit, I dropped into the local police station to speak to the chief constable. On his wall, I couldn’t help noticing a photograph of a polar bear charging down a hill.<br /><br /> The bear had arrived on Iceland’s shores eight years earlier. It had first been spotted by a farmer’s daughter, who was in the sheep shed when she heard her dog barking and running across a field towards a bear, which was busy eating eider ducks’ eggs. The dog was rescued, the alarm was raised and all hell broke loose. Vets from Denmark were summoned with tranquillizer guns and a cage, but the bear was hungry and it was dangerous. <br /><br />And no one could see it. The weather had turned foggy, and a hungry predator was on the loose. People from all over Iceland drove towards Saudárkrókur to see the bear. It was spotted by a main road, and a crowd of fifty to sixty people gathered to watch. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The local police carefully approached a hill, behind which they believed the bear was lurking. But not carefully enough: whereas the police thought they were stalking the bear, actually the bear was stalking them. The bear charged down the hill towards the crowd of onlookers, and the police shot it.<br /><br />The bear always gets shot.<br /><br />At irregular intervals, bears show up on Iceland’s shores. They are swept out to sea from Greenland on ice floes, and when they are in sight of land, they swim ashore. They are tired and they are hungry and occasionally they are accompanied by a cub. Polar bears are dangerous at the best of times; in these circumstances they are very dangerous. They end up getting shot, usually by the local policeman. <a href="https://www.museumguide.is/natural-history-museum-in-bolungarvik/" target="_blank">The town museums of Bolungarvík</a> on the northwest coast, and <a href="http://www.visithusavik.com/museums-in-husavik" target="_blank">Húsavík</a> in the north, contain stuffed polar bears, shot soon after they came ashore.<br /><br />Bears have been coming to Iceland in this way for centuries. The first was spotted in 890, sixteen years after Ingólfur arrived on the island, by a farmer in Vatnsdalur.<br /><br />According to a local folk tale, a helpful polar bear once drifted near to the island of Grímsey, which is just off the north coast of Iceland, bang on the Arctic Circle. <br /><br />One day all the fires went out on the island. It was in the days before matches, and so three islanders had to cross to the mainland to bring back embers to rekindle them. The sea was iced up, so they had to walk across the ice. One of the men got lost and drifted out to sea on an ice floe.<br /><br />The next morning, the man was cold and hungry and thirsty, but he was still a long way from land. His ice floe drifted towards another chunk of ice, on which there was a mother polar bear trapped with her cubs. The man was scared, but there was nothing he could do to steer his ice away from the bears. Soon they collided. But the mother polar bear didn’t eat the man: she allowed him to suckle her milk with her cubs and kept him warm. When the man had regained his strength, she swam over to the mainland with him on her back. He gathered some embers and then returned on her back to Grímsey, and all the fires on the island could be rekindled. The man was so grateful, he gave the bear cow’s milk and two slaughtered sheep, and the bear swam off back to her cubs.<br /><br />People like polar bears. Many people don’t like the police shooting them. In Canada and Alaska shooting polar bears is forbidden. Some say it should be possible to keep a helicopter, a cage and a tranquillizer gun on alert to sedate the invading bears and take them back to Greenland. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">This is not as easy as it sounds, partly because of the tendency of fearless Icelanders to run around the countryside looking for a bear every time one is seen. The chief of police at Saudárkrókur genuinely regretted having to shoot the bear, but in a number of accounts of polar-bear killings it seems clear to me that the guy pulling the trigger was excited by it, even if he didn’t admit it. I can imagine the thrill of the chase, big-game hunting with a real purpose, namely to protect local citizens. And I can imagine the outrage afterwards. People get really upset about this. Possibly upset enough to kill?<br /><br /> The idea for my novella <i>The Polar Bear Killing</i> was born.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">By the way, if you would like a free copy of <i>The Polar Bear Killing</i>, and quarterly emails about my writing, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Photo by Hans-Jurgen Mager via Unsplash</span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-35301445940590135972023-02-28T06:30:00.001-08:002023-02-28T06:30:00.216-08:00<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5Of9Jg2uo1V34DmrC1_Msje2TjEW8UTOPd-32l-lNppZtWO8aUkRmI4qmignrNh9V9v6i53ouT8ilT6iFRs58p_53V7lXFNjKaD3qrDGMIy2kckxbnjrsuLwq2FM5YMai_HME4YCuDVQmpg4K2gjazaqj4Csxe22tBLSpv5YA0KvJy_6MKt2vJuWVg/s3362/Puffin.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Puffin photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="2026" data-original-width="3362" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ5Of9Jg2uo1V34DmrC1_Msje2TjEW8UTOPd-32l-lNppZtWO8aUkRmI4qmignrNh9V9v6i53ouT8ilT6iFRs58p_53V7lXFNjKaD3qrDGMIy2kckxbnjrsuLwq2FM5YMai_HME4YCuDVQmpg4K2gjazaqj4Csxe22tBLSpv5YA0KvJy_6MKt2vJuWVg/w320-h193/Puffin.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />When you are describing a landscape, it is important to describe movement. Things that move bring a scene alive. And the things that move most obviously in Iceland are birds.<br /><br /> These aren’t birds that sit quietly waiting to be ticked off birdwatchers’ lists. These are birds that do things.<br /><br /> The most common bird in Iceland is the puffin, which looks like a cross between a penguin and a parrot but can both fly and swim. The Icelandic word for them is <i>lundi</i>, but they also go by the rather lovely nickname <i>prófastur</i>, which means ‘provost’ or ‘dean’. They live in burrows, often on cliff faces, in large communities. They arrive in Iceland to nest in April or May. Puffin is frequently found on the menu in Icelandic restaurants - it’s tasty if cooked well. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">One of the largest colonies in Iceland is on the Westman Island of Heimaey. In August the eggs hatch, and the baby puffins, known as pufflings, waddle forth. These are extremely cute: grey and fluffy and a little clueless. They often get lost and wander into town, but <a href="https://www.cbsnews.com/news/a-childrens-puffin-rescue-squad-heimaey-island-iceland/" target="_blank">teams of local children</a> are allowed to stay up late in the evening and rescue them. The children take the chicks home for the night. The following morning they find a spot near the sea and throw them high in the air. The pufflings glide down to the water and swim off. You have to put some effort into the throw, apparently, or the pufflings won’t catch the breeze and will splat into the ground.<br /><br /> I most often associate swans with St James’s Park, or perhaps the River Thames, gliding peacefully in sedate surroundings. In Iceland, you can suddenly happen upon small lakes surrounded by lava, in which up to twenty swans paddle. God knows what they are doing there.<br /><br /> Many Icelanders’ favourite bird is <a href="http://www.iceland-nh.net/birds/data/Pluvialis-apricaria/pluvialis_apricaria.html" target="_blank">the golden plover</a>. People eagerly listen out for its distinctive and persistent ‘peep’, which means that the plovers have arrived in Iceland and spring is here. It is a fine bird, with a royal coat of gold, black and white, and it lurks in the heather.<br /><br /> The word ‘eiderdown’ comes from <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/jul/19/eiderdown-harvesting-iceland-eider-duck" target="_blank">the down of the eider duck</a>. The males are black and white and the females dun-coloured. They spend the winter at sea, and then nest close to the shore, often on a farmer’s property. They pluck down from their breasts and leave it out to dry, before lining their nests with it to keep their chicks warm. For centuries, eiderdown was an important source of income for Icelandic farmers, who would watch over nests to keep gulls and ravens away.<br /><br /> There are so many spectacular birds in Iceland, all of them doing something: soaring white-tailed eagles, darting gyrfalcons, dive-bombing arctic terns, paddling harlequin ducks, black cormorants splaying their wings, gannets and fulmars diving into the sea, skuas mugging other birds for food, great northern divers or ‘loons’ gliding over lakes with their eerie cry, ptarmigans strutting their stuff in the heather, geese formation-flying in the evening sky.<br /><br />All right, I can’t deny it: and chickens, or kjúklingar, as they are rather charmingly known in Iceland. Clucking in ugly metal Eimskip shipping containers in a farmyard.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i><br /></span><br /></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-29552972120300590982023-01-30T06:30:00.001-08:002023-01-30T06:30:00.226-08:00Too Much to Write: Guest Blog from Jónína Leósdóttir<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br /> <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-2dFfSZrTOTkjd4uC_duLzAmpdzrJAVkAJzAVxGtZ0vRyL_yzspXfBXahKPrzKO0BEcVGLou338vU3aE__gqRFtNQkAmqculJ8mUPGriMf72YF1nVU6i-ZcSNAJGFjaai4URDhCSRcq3TjiEWbculu6jVVmuV2PoKskjZiTqEVT9NwR5fA5pq7kjxg/s2048/Jonina%20photo.png"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-2dFfSZrTOTkjd4uC_duLzAmpdzrJAVkAJzAVxGtZ0vRyL_yzspXfBXahKPrzKO0BEcVGLou338vU3aE__gqRFtNQkAmqculJ8mUPGriMf72YF1nVU6i-ZcSNAJGFjaai4URDhCSRcq3TjiEWbculu6jVVmuV2PoKskjZiTqEVT9NwR5fA5pq7kjxg/w320-h180/Jonina%20photo.png" /></a></div><br /><i>Time for another guest blog. This one is from Jónína Léosdóttir, an Icelandic novelist who has turned to crime, and the wife of a former Prime Minister of Iceland. </i><br /><br />Life changed dramatically when my wife, Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir, became Prime Minister of Iceland at the beginning of 2009. But not in a particularly good way for me, personally.<br /><br />You might think that being married to a PM must be glamorous and fun, even in a small country like ours. At least some of the time? Well, that might be true in ordinary times (if, indeed, there is such a thing as “ordinary times”), but that is definitely not the case when a country’s economic situation is extremely perilous and the International Monetary Fund is breathing down your neck. <br /><br />The biggest and most immediate change in our household was that my spouse more or less disappeared from home, often spending twelve to fourteen hours a day at work. And when she was home, she was either on the phone, reading through stacks of papers or watching the news. What this meant for me was: Goodbye quality time, goodbye social life, hello computer, my old friend. Yes, I had plenty of time to write books and, admittedly, that was a slight bonus, as I absolutely love my job. (OK, I’ll own up: I’m a hopeless workaholic who writes one book per year.) But in 2009 I discovered that you really can have too much of a good thing.<br /><br />I also had to take on some roles that I wasn’t prepared for or particularly suited for. Strangers started stopping me in the street or at the supermarket and even phoning me up to discuss economic policies and the best ways to stop a country becoming bankrupt. Yet, I am a simple book person with A-level Latin and a degree in English and Literature. And, at college, I opted out of anything to do with figures as soon as I possibly could. I couldn’t run a lemonade stall, let alone a country, in good times or bad.<br /><br />But, of course, all those amateur economists, who were so keen to tell me about new and wondrous ways to save our country’s economy, didn’t really want to discuss their brilliant theories with little old me. What they wanted, was for me to relay it all to the PM, so that she could wave a magic wand, and all would be well again.<br /><br />Naturally, I tried to be polite to all those well-meaning people, whether at the cheese counter or on the phone. Sometimes, I even took notes to be able to pass the messages on, but when it came to attempting that, I invariably messed it up.<br /><br />I was much better at another role that I had to take on because of my spouse’s new job and busy schedule. Overnight, I became a stylist, without any qualifications except my mother’s genes. (My mom was a natural-born stylist.)<br /><br />As we have already established, my better half didn’t have time for anything other than her job. Therefore, there was no way she could go clothes shopping, any more than she could come with me to the theatre etc. But she needed clothes and accessories. A Prime Minister, at a time of crisis, is in constant demand for media interviews, and a female PM can’t turn up in the same outfit and earrings for weeks on end. (Although Liz Truss might disagree.) So, what could be done? Enter, the multitasking wife/writer/cleaner/cook/sympathetic listener to economic magic solutions … now turned stylist, too.<br /><br />I contacted the managers of a few clothes stores and shops that sold accessories, and they lent me stuff to take home for my wife to try on. That made things easier for her and turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable for me. I had loved dressing my dolls when I was a girl, and now I could play a grown-up version of that game with a full-scale “model”.<br /><br />Amazingly, this worked out so well that no longer did I only get unsolicited phone calls about economics. People (well, women) also contacted me for information on the PM’s outfits. <br /><br />Sometimes, however, it was a bit depressing to get a call, right after an important television debate or interview and be asked about the make and number of the PM’s lipstick. <br /><br />Just in case you are wondering if the shops gave me the clothes etc. free of charge, I must disappoint you. There were no Hollywood-red-carpet-deals involved. Everything was paid for in full. And, naturally, no glamorous shopping bags for me. You don’t need fancy clothes when you sit around writing all day.<br /><br />I think, in all honesty, that my brief period as a stylist was the only part of being married to a Prime Minister that I enjoyed. <br /><br />My wife’s taking on that role not only put her under enormous pressure, due to the state of Iceland’s economy, it also put our private life in the spotlight. Before, we had led a rather quiet existence, mostly just working and spending our spare time with our nine grandchildren. Then suddenly we were getting requests for interviews (as a couple) from around the globe. That was both surreal and uncomfortable, but, of course, we understood the media’s interest in the first out LGBT+ leader in the world. And we knew that it was important to stand up and be counted. But dealing with the economic crisis didn’t allow Iceland’s PM time to also become a worldwide LGBT+ poster girl.<br /><br />However, as soon as she retired from politics in 2013, having brought Iceland’s economy back from the brink, we published a book about our relationship. The book, called Við Jóhanna (Jóhanna and I), was her idea, but, as I was the writer in the family, I penned it. <br /><br />In the book, I describe our turbulent 15 years in the closet, the long-awaited moment when we finally set up home together in 2000 … and how the global media came knocking on our door in 2009. And for a few years after publishing that book, we travelled to several countries to speak at LGBT+ events.<br /><br />That is all behind us now. My wife has retired and enjoys life with no official engagements or demands. And I can concentrate properly on my writing, which has become even more exciting since I “turned to crime” a few years ago. My 20th book – and 7th crime novel – has just been published in Iceland – and now I also have a crime novel in English, Deceit, translated by Quentin Bates. <br /><br />I couldn’t ask for anything more and certainly wouldn’t want to turn back the clock to those hectic days of 2009-2013.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Deceit-J%C3%B3n%C3%ADna-Le%C3%B3sd%C3%B3ttir-ebook/dp/B0B8KZTW42" target="_blank">Deceit</a>, the first of Jónína's novels to be translated into English, came out recently, published by <a href="https://corylusbooks.com/" target="_blank">Corylus Books</a>. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The interplay between the sleuthing partnership – a fussy English psychologist and his ex-wife ‘The Bulldozer’ Soffía – is both an absolute joy and very perceptive.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The translators are the ever-reliable Quentin Bates and Sylvía Bates.</span></span></i></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-7507280257406606512023-01-10T06:30:00.000-08:002023-01-10T06:30:00.234-08:00Ravens<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmRFw8aPXe6NGH1KS1Gt4wnTk-0lVfW1Rhgm54erai3an6WDyxF4VkgpxDL-nTAYOQqUdwWAdLp_F_59RvVwHKx_sBMG0smebT4QYIFhc4jGugZqIaBiYNMzZWDzDeS732MMD9NkIAjt0VabsRoIb7t3kQTaHG470k5I3Ga4rYyogShugKSclXFsz_A/s4000/arnarstapi%20raven%202.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Raven at Arnarstapi photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmRFw8aPXe6NGH1KS1Gt4wnTk-0lVfW1Rhgm54erai3an6WDyxF4VkgpxDL-nTAYOQqUdwWAdLp_F_59RvVwHKx_sBMG0smebT4QYIFhc4jGugZqIaBiYNMzZWDzDeS732MMD9NkIAjt0VabsRoIb7t3kQTaHG470k5I3Ga4rYyogShugKSclXFsz_A/w320-h240/arnarstapi%20raven%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /> I sometimes think that the ravens own Iceland and humans are allowed to live there only with their permission. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Remember, it was a raven that led Flóki to Iceland in the ninth century. There are loads of them in Iceland. Huge birds that look much like crows, but often act like eagles, they are extremely intelligent. They usually operate in pairs, exclaiming in their distinctive loud croak that can sound like human speech, although ravens produce a wide range of other cries. They seem to be watching you, whether they are soaring high above, or skipping between stones and fence posts. They circle over corpses, of birds, of sheep or of people.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">This one above, I spotted while walking along the cliffs in Snaefellsnes.<br /><br />This being Iceland, there are of course plenty of folk tales about ravens. Odin kept two ravens, <a href="https://norse-mythology.org/gods-and-creatures/others/hugin-and-munin/" target="_blank">Hugin and Munin</a>, who served as scouts for him, flying off to gather intelligence. Ravens predict death or weather changes; one even led a girl away from a landslide. Some grandmothers can converse with them.</span><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ubwvQjpKxLKvLsZztLxIcJce22JZggU6uVaSxxDp3yUGvs8sp8IRm0AxffWZctdZ0GUkImcGn7Znm5-yC01IPaxS92O1knrlb7d_tQN0OQpGAnORZjXDTHD4ljD7a3JPE44X4KNk9NDNduYFUHgyMwyM_XazJZfaJrdzXDBIw1KOV4xm-Hd2HiwVeA/s4000/Raven%20at%20Surdarkrokur.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Raven on church at Surdarkrókur photo by Michael Ridpath author of Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ubwvQjpKxLKvLsZztLxIcJce22JZggU6uVaSxxDp3yUGvs8sp8IRm0AxffWZctdZ0GUkImcGn7Znm5-yC01IPaxS92O1knrlb7d_tQN0OQpGAnORZjXDTHD4ljD7a3JPE44X4KNk9NDNduYFUHgyMwyM_XazJZfaJrdzXDBIw1KOV4xm-Hd2HiwVeA/w200-h150/Raven%20at%20Surdarkrokur.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I visited the town of <a href="https://www.northiceland.is/en/destinations/towns/saudarkrokur" target="_blank">Saudárkrókur</a>, on a research trip for <i><a href="https://michaelridpath.com/the-wanderer.html" target="_blank">The Wanderer</a></i>, in November. There was snow on the ground. The police station is in Church Square, and the whole time I was there, two ravens circled and croaked, often perching on the church tower (see photo above). They owned the town. I had to put them in the book.<br /><br /> I always show the first draft of my books to an Icelander to weed out the mistakes, and I gave <i><a href="https://michaelridpath.com/the-wanderer.html" target="_blank">The Wanderer</a></i> to the author <a href="http://www.liljawriter.com/" target="_blank">Lilja Sigurdardóttir</a>. The book takes place in August, and Lilja told me that ravens only come into town in the winter when they were hungry. It would be very strange to see them in town in August, but if they were there, the local inhabitants would believe that they were foretelling a death. Which was perfect. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">This being one of my books, the ravens were pretty much correct. </span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and receive occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></p></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-56172202613035647802022-12-20T06:30:00.000-08:002022-12-20T06:30:00.215-08:00Favourite Places – Jökulsárlón<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yoA6h-6ltCijiTC1_-oI49RqXn_AF2uV3yxzAm2y9MmbN70Xk4tiMQNvjZ-DYTYeDMXf6HvGxoPw4GS1-ltH3cjvxjWrx9lJsd52dYfRUpYq2MPabtJryHmJdkBAMaY9Zus3W-veL2e9O-kDuw4VdDSVZupnSCOxEiGS5FCAe5dta5Gd0QVZ1EoQbQ/s1280/Jokulsarion2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Jökulsárlón Photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yoA6h-6ltCijiTC1_-oI49RqXn_AF2uV3yxzAm2y9MmbN70Xk4tiMQNvjZ-DYTYeDMXf6HvGxoPw4GS1-ltH3cjvxjWrx9lJsd52dYfRUpYq2MPabtJryHmJdkBAMaY9Zus3W-veL2e9O-kDuw4VdDSVZupnSCOxEiGS5FCAe5dta5Gd0QVZ1EoQbQ/w320-h240/Jokulsarion2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />If you travel all the way to Iceland, you want to see some ice. And the best place to do this is Jökulsárlón, literally ‘Glacier River Lagoon’, an astoundingly beautiful lake of icebergs in the far southeast of the country.<br /><br /> It’s a long way from Reykjavík, nearly four hundred kilometres along the Ring Road on the south coast, past the Westman Islands, past Hekla and Eyjafjallajökull, past Vík, and on the other side of that great flood-plain desert. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The lagoon is at the foot of a tongue of the massive <a href="https://guidetoiceland.is/travel-iceland/drive/vatnajokull" target="_blank">Vatnajökull glacier</a> that reaches down towards the sea. It tumbles in extreme slow motion into the lagoon, as large icebergs calve and then drift through the mouth of the lagoon to the Atlantic.<br /><br /> There are tours; there are tourists. But the thing to do is escape them, walk back along the road from the main car park, climb over the high bank and scramble down to the shore of the lagoon. Wear warm clothes, arrange for the sun to be out - not quite sure how you do this - and just sit and watch and listen.<br /><br />The lake is a bright blue and is crammed with icebergs of all shapes and sizes. They are white, grey, green and in some places blue with varying degrees of translucence, and they drift imperceptibly towards the mouth of the lagoon. Every now and then a loud crack echoes across the water as ice melts, and in the distance, over the mound behind you, you hear the crash of surf on the nearby shore. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But as you sit, you listen to a gentle song of tinkling and dripping. The water is completely still: black with a blue sheen. I caught sight of a fish slithering between icebergs. Behind the lagoon, the tongue of ice rears high up towards the largest glacier in Europe. Stay. Let your mind wander in one of the most soothing, peaceful places on earth.<br /><br /> The ice squeezes through a channel to the sea, where waves crash onto a beach strewn with sweating icebergs, and wetsuited windsurfers navigate around the blocks of ice. It’s tempting to try to climb onto one of the chunks of floating ice - <a href="https://grapevine.is/news/2017/11/27/police-clear-tourists-off-the-ice-in-jokulsarlon/" target="_blank">yet another dumb thing tourists sometimes do in Iceland.</a><br /><br /> It’s a long way to Jökulsárlón, but it’s worth it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-62265677629871234032022-12-02T05:30:00.000-08:002022-12-02T05:30:00.223-08:00Re-igniting the Creative Passion: Guest Post from Solveig Pálsdóttir<div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0sVXKx9cal003ySayqIxg8RB9dONA6VrZ8E9hHBoVZJEEiz8Yv36fDYB24rjCe6LyHpg0iOgXWAaKLWsWl_2A2_UInvdn9Yn1CRsNGGYfWDVBG9u5xhI513i5z8AeOkqbVW0OkRe1WBK4uAk-f-es0fqMAY4ujBLniww7etWRQ7qLlFmPIzUvxFKXMw/s938/Solveig-Palsdottir.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0sVXKx9cal003ySayqIxg8RB9dONA6VrZ8E9hHBoVZJEEiz8Yv36fDYB24rjCe6LyHpg0iOgXWAaKLWsWl_2A2_UInvdn9Yn1CRsNGGYfWDVBG9u5xhI513i5z8AeOkqbVW0OkRe1WBK4uAk-f-es0fqMAY4ujBLniww7etWRQ7qLlFmPIzUvxFKXMw/w256-h320/Solveig-Palsdottir.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Another guest post – this time from the Icelandic crime writer, Solveig Pálsdóttir. Solveig is an actor. I have often wondered whether actors have an insight into character that would help in writing a novel. Here is Solveig’s answer!</i><br /><br />This morning I started reading <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Harm-Ice-Crime-Book-3-ebook/dp/B0B6CB738Q" target="_blank">Harm</a></i> for the Icelandic audiobook edition. When the studio session was over, I switched on my phone, and up popped a reminder to send my contribution to <i>Writing in Ice</i>. Michael had asked for an account of what it’s like to be an actor in Iceland, and how my experience in the theatre might have influenced my writing.<br /><br />The reminder couldn’t have been better timed, as it’s when I read out loud that I get such a feeling for every single character I have created. I sense so clearly each one’s peculiarities and what went into moulding these personalities. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I put a great deal of emphasis into creating characters, and in doing this I dig deep into my theatrical training. I’ve sometimes described this as having to search for the person inside myself, the touch of their skin and their inner thoughts... To be truthful, sometimes I play the characters I’m creating, acting out conversations and improvising short scenes to work out for myself whether the characters and the interplay between them work out. That’s how I bring the theatre into my writing.<br /><br />I started writing late in life. Looking back, it seems that everything I had done up to writing my first book had been preparation for the work of a writer. As a child and a young teenager, I was a huge reader but from the age of fifteen, acting captivated me. Every weekend and one evening each week were spent with around thirty other youngsters taking part in theatre courses with some of Iceland’s best-known actors, and at nineteen I completed a three-week induction test and was subsequently accepted by the Icelandic College of Theatre Arts (now the Iceland University of the Arts), and studied there for the following four years.<br /><br />After all the effort that had gone into fulfilling my dream, I wasn’t a full-time actor for long. I played some roles at the National Theatre, others with independent theatre groups and some on television and radio. But after ten years and three children, I took a conscious decision to leave acting behind. I turned down some offers, as by then I’d had enough of financial insecurity, irregular working hours and not least because I had become aware that my passion for being on the stage had faded. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I went to university, and graduated after studying literature and training as a teacher. I taught at a school for students of eighteen and over who struggled due to illness, emotional difficulties or social problems.<br /><br />Alongside teaching, I took on cultural work and was active in local politics. <br /><br />The following seventeen years flew by and my salary appeared punctually in my bank account on the first of every month. These were good times, and no less important a way of building up the experience bank than the theatre years had been. I had learned a great deal in my student years at university, but guiding people, helping them build themselves up and break out of vicious circles of tough circumstances taught me so much more about the diversity of everyday lives and personalities than any classroom training had. Literature and theatre show us the way into new worlds and if they do their job well, they broaden our horizons. But the years spent with my students in educational rehabilitation taught me most of all. This was where I gained a real understanding of how diverse life can be, and knowledge that I frequently call on in writing.<br /><br />But why start to write books? Well, a few years after retiring from acting, I had a call offering me a small part in a popular TV serial. I was surprised, as it was so long since I had left acting, and quickly replied ‘no thanks, not interested!’<br /><br />My family didn’t have words to describe how crazy I had been to turn down such an offer and after some discussion, I called the casting director and said I’d like to change my mind. To cut a long story short, filming <i>The Day Shift</i> (one of <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1141747/" target="_blank">the <i>Night Shift</i></a>, <i>Day Shift</i> and <i>Prison Shift</i> series that have achieved cult status) was great fun and it was enjoyable to act again. Since then I have played roles in some television dramas and advertisements, two or three a year, and some years none at all. I have no desire to go back to being a working actor, but it’s always fun to drop back into that world now and again, without needing to do so. The theatre is a branch of the arts in which you do nothing alone, and are constantly subject to the decisions of others. That doesn’t suit my personality.<br /><br />What happened was that my natural need to create, to be an artist, had been re-ignited. I enjoyed performing for the cameras and dropping back into the world of performance, but found that the passion for this art was no longer there, so instead of taking the opportunity to return to acting, I started to write.<br /><br />I took a course in creative writing, and the teacher, a well-known writer who passed away long before his time, encouraged me to use my improvisation skills in my writing and to take the plunge into creation. This was where I found the passion once again, and haven’t stopped. It’s now around ten years since my first book was published. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Altogether, I have written six crime novels and one book based my childhood memories. I grew up with and around people who had a gift for narrative. I was told tales and even a mundane coffee break could become a wonderful storytelling session. Stories are constantly being told in the theatre, as they are in the classroom as the teacher tries to engage students with narrative, and that’s what this is all about. It’s having something to say and telling a story well. That’s where my passion lies.<br /><br /><i>Three of Solveig’s novels have been translated into English: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B08H12RMTC" target="_blank">The Fox</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B08Y5KZ98J" target="_blank">Silenced</a> and now <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Harm-Ice-Crime-Book-3-ebook/dp/B0B6CB738Q" target="_blank">Harm</a>, all translated by Quentin Bates. They are published by <a href="https://corylusbooks.com/" target="_blank">Corylus Books</a>, a small British publisher that has done an excellent job bringing Icelandic crime writers to English-speaking crime readers.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Would you like to receive an email of these blog posts every time they are published? <a href="http://eepurl.com/hBrYl1">Sign up here</a>.<br /></i></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /></span><br /><br /><p></p></div></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-37997219834710782262022-11-08T11:30:00.005-08:002022-12-01T02:23:35.605-08:00The Prettiest Volcano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePH4rNlGsWVQobxh4KJGPjqr6jAb8e6NivnYq0FZE1VUYP5w6ZU5Vs8-9027S5ApbVChurIA5KSh7anFICSCmuKI9qnQUruKoCQuWSQB8ZaLBkMkyRORsovzMsk05HU54IT4lkDXsRw5LHNSkavPg4-aOT94i3d3Mk4tobzWrbGayNbWNzPZAC_p2Xg/s3648/Fagrad%20volcano%20by%20Lee%20Anne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Fagradalfjall volcano photo by Lee-Anne Fox" border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePH4rNlGsWVQobxh4KJGPjqr6jAb8e6NivnYq0FZE1VUYP5w6ZU5Vs8-9027S5ApbVChurIA5KSh7anFICSCmuKI9qnQUruKoCQuWSQB8ZaLBkMkyRORsovzMsk05HU54IT4lkDXsRw5LHNSkavPg4-aOT94i3d3Mk4tobzWrbGayNbWNzPZAC_p2Xg/w320-h240/Fagrad%20volcano%20by%20Lee%20Anne.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> During 2021, Reykjavik was entertained by a small, pretty volcano at Fagradalsfjall, between the capital and Keflavík international airport. It tossed fire safely into the sky like an overgrown firework, grew a new little mountain and spilled black spongeous lava down a mountainside (see photo above taken by Lee-Anne Fox). <br /><br />It should have been tourist gold, but COVID-related lockdowns made it difficult to reach. I managed to get there in June of 2021. At that stage, the eruption had calmed down, and sadly the day I visited, the new volcano was covered in cloud. I did manage to hike to the foot of the lava flow: black foamy rock in the process of freezing, with red glowing through its cracks, and sulphurous smoke leaking out.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-EDc2ZHclCZDVR6V7or879Su7J3XHak4H1ilhy_sPnAsE6cBE588AjKwx1tCQpYwlwBfP4CxAjtaP0W2pDgS0AJLdJdlTOdIppzUKQn5r4du9UsNwJep4Tc3qXTFUv1POtCQq5wN8lz8CIWu42VdFC_LCAmnUXKeR4aRpmUSYS6E2HkWMOZKltwOEw/s4032/Lava%20at%20Fagradal.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Lava at Fagradalsfjall photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-EDc2ZHclCZDVR6V7or879Su7J3XHak4H1ilhy_sPnAsE6cBE588AjKwx1tCQpYwlwBfP4CxAjtaP0W2pDgS0AJLdJdlTOdIppzUKQn5r4du9UsNwJep4Tc3qXTFUv1POtCQq5wN8lz8CIWu42VdFC_LCAmnUXKeR4aRpmUSYS6E2HkWMOZKltwOEw/w320-h240/Lava%20at%20Fagradal.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />The volcano took a little nap and then reawakened in August 2022 at the nearby Meradalir. Once again, Icelanders and hardy tourists were entertained by spumes of bright red lava. This time, it was a five-hour round-trip hike from the road to see the eruption. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It's a difficult hike and many tourists kept the search and rescue teams busy with their poor choice of clothing and footwear. Also, they had to be told not to walk on the lava, on account of the chance of a fiery, excruciating death. Somehow nobody died, but the Icelanders’ suspicion of the woeful lack of intelligence of the rest of the world's tourists was only confirmed.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />After a couple of grumpy weeks, the volcano has now fallen asleep again, whether for months or for centuries, no one knows.<br /><br />Valur Grettisson of the Reykjavík Grapevine did some excellent reporting from the eruptions in his Reykjavík Grapevine newscasts. He gets a little overexcited <a href="https://grapevine.is/news/2022/08/04/rvk-newscast-203-new-volcanic-eruption-in-iceland/" target="_blank">in this episode right after the eruption</a> of the second volcano.<br /><br />While researching a forthcoming book about Iceland during the Second World War, I came across an interesting fact about Fagradalsfjall. Apparently, in May 1943, a US Air Force Liberator called Hot Stuff, which had completed 25 missions bombing in Europe, was returning to America with General Andrews on board when it crashed into Fagradalsfjall in bad weather, with the loss of everyone on board. Andrews was one of the USAF’s most important generals – it is he whom Andrews Air Force Base near Washington is named after.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I've seen the lava, but I have yet to witness an actual volcanic eruption myself. I am sure Iceland will oblige before long.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>Would you like to receive an email of these blog posts every time they are published? <a href="http://eepurl.com/hBrYl1" target="_blank">Sign up here</a>.</i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-33683513878798674052022-10-18T11:30:00.021-07:002022-11-08T11:09:29.684-08:00The Holy Mountain: Guest Post by Nancy Brown post<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br /> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3X_IVIsal_Gs6E9Ww5cfQ0yK8eaP0RTZqXR2MwzLXHGzAeZnGzLbHxI7aGtXN74fqLTMS-LWl6d021e4h6LteOEhVVwXeEGpLfWLmboHbCSb_BNAPtiszG7yHJPSqERa6vYyChWRMrLzBXJnOVvLwS6pV3EHN8aUf8VQBkVnDgktahZZHdhJpkmJ_g/s616/NMBxBjarney924_web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="616" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3X_IVIsal_Gs6E9Ww5cfQ0yK8eaP0RTZqXR2MwzLXHGzAeZnGzLbHxI7aGtXN74fqLTMS-LWl6d021e4h6LteOEhVVwXeEGpLfWLmboHbCSb_BNAPtiszG7yHJPSqERa6vYyChWRMrLzBXJnOVvLwS6pV3EHN8aUf8VQBkVnDgktahZZHdhJpkmJ_g/s320/NMBxBjarney924_web.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><i>Time for another guest post. This one is from American author and horsewoman <a href="https://www.nasw.org/users/nmb/index.html" target="_blank">Nancy Marie Brown</a>.<br /><br />When I wrote a recent post on elves in Iceland, Nancy’s publishers sent me a copy of her upcoming book </i>Looking for the Hidden Folk<i>. <br /><br />Like me, Nancy has fallen in love with Iceland, and also like me she has quite a hard-headed, sceptical view of superstition. A rational person might ask how can so many people in a modern well-educated society like Iceland entertain the concept of hidden people or elves? This book is her answer, and it’s fascinating. It’s also a wonderful evocation of Iceland, its people and its countryside.<br /><br />Here is an excerpt, about an early visit to Helgafell, Iceland’s “Holy Mountain”, very close to where my detective Magnus’s grandfather’s farm at Bjarnarhöfn.</i><br /><br />I was a graduate student in medieval literature when I first went to Iceland in 1986. I wanted to see the farm of Helgafell, site of the Icelandic saga Eyrbyggja—a saga Michael Ridpath, my host on this blog, used to great effect in his fourth Magnus Iceland Mystery, <i><a href="https://michaelridpath.com/sea-of-stone.html" target="_blank">Sea of Stone.</a></i></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />My husband and I took the bus from Reykjavik to the town of Stykkishólmur, then backpacked the four miles back to Helgafell. There’d been an inch of snow that morning. In my journal I reduced the walk to “rain, bones, sheep dung, mud; some birds: Iceland gull, snipe, geese low overhead.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvG_evih7TPAudDzWRVqrdoD7eKEhW2HI3Ei_SZy3BecqFWT-16DijL68ltPBm5qtVP6_BgW1XOHrpkMw_-GhRIO_w5EorihCdBAUt2N75qiecJrSD2xvO4W0OtJzuoICAnkJEklhH92KHvqBxBw82JeYbhdppf9u7lEpH0SJj0pR0kmXnGgQE501C-A/s1280/Helgafell%20Nancy%20Brown.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvG_evih7TPAudDzWRVqrdoD7eKEhW2HI3Ei_SZy3BecqFWT-16DijL68ltPBm5qtVP6_BgW1XOHrpkMw_-GhRIO_w5EorihCdBAUt2N75qiecJrSD2xvO4W0OtJzuoICAnkJEklhH92KHvqBxBw82JeYbhdppf9u7lEpH0SJj0pR0kmXnGgQE501C-A/s320/Helgafell%20Nancy%20Brown.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: trebuchet;">Helgafell: photo Nancy Marie Brown</i></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Helga Fell means Holy Mountain. According to the saga, the hill was named in 884 by Thorolf, a chieftain hounded out of Norway by King Harald Fair-Hair. Iceland was nearly empty at the time—there were no indigenous Icelanders—so Thorolf, in the first wave of settlers fleeing Harald’s unification schemes, had his choice of house site. Sailing up Iceland’s west coast, he’d reached a broad bay when the wind failed. Throwing overboard a wooden post bearing an image of Thor, he declared he’d settle wherever the Thunder God came ashore. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">That turned out to be the peninsula on which Stykkishólmur sits. Thorolf named it Thor’s Ness. “On this ness,” says the saga, “stands a hill.” To Thorolf, this hill was so holy that no one should even look at it without washing first. Nothing on the hill was to be killed, neither animals nor humans, unless they came down from the hill of their own will. Thorolf named the hill Helgafell and believed that he would go into it when he died.”</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />He may have been right. His son Thorstein Cod-Biter, it’s said, “ran a magnificent farm” at Helgafell. “He always had sixty free men with him and was generous with food, so they were constantly rowing out to fish” among the uncountable islands in the Breidafjord, the broad bay to the peninsula’s north. <br /><br />One evening, his shepherd “saw the whole north face of the hill open up. Looking inside, he saw great fires burning. He heard a drinking bout going on, amid raucous merriment. And as he listened, trying to catch what they were saying, he heard someone greet Thorstein the Cod-Biter and his crew, and tell him to take a seat on the bench opposite his father.” The news came from the islands the next morning: Thorstein the Cod-Biter had drowned.<br /><br />In 1986, when I arrived, Helgafell was a dairy farm. Dropping my backpack in the dirt of the lane, I went up to one door of what turned out to be a duplex and knocked. To the formally dressed old man who answered, I said, “<i>Snorri goði búa hér</i>?” He understood, despite my grammatical fault, that I was asking about a former tenant—the grandson of Thorstein Cod-Biter—who had moved out in the year 1008. <br /><br />I did not understand what the old man answered, but at that moment his son stepped out of the cow barn, his coveralls streaked with cow dung, a stocking cap tight over his ears. With the younger man, my husband tried a more practical approach: “<i>Tjalda</i>? Tent? Here?” The farmer nodded and led us back up the lane to a large stack of fertilizer bags, which he made us understand, using gestures and easy words like <i>vindur</i> (wind), would provide a windbreak. He pointed out walking trails up the hill and around it and out between the fields, introduced himself as Hjörtur, son of Hinrik (the old man I had originally approached), shook both our hands, and went back to work. <br /><br />We traipsed all over the farm in a drizzle, up the hill (without remembering to wash first), down to the lake, out to the farthest skerries edging the shallow bay, collecting sparkling stones and wisps of sheep’s wool, taking photos, and watching the birds—black-backed gulls, greylag geese, arctic skua, redshanks, whimbrel, ringed plover, golden plover, loon. <br /><br />On the north side of Helgafell itself, I spied a raven, hunched up in the corner of two basalt columns. The bird flew out, cawing, as I came up. A second raven took up the racket, perched on an outcrop. As I walked on, I glanced back at the first bird’s perch and spied the nest: two young ravens, almost full-grown, sitting motionless, head-to-tail, in a tangle of twigs and feathers and white sheep bones. <br /><br />Our water bottles empty, we went up to the house. Two women answered the door. “<i>Átt þú meiri vatni</i>?” I mumbled. “You need some water?” replied one of the women. She was the local English teacher. We told her about the raven’s nest. The farmwife, Kristrún, wanted to see it, so we traipsed back around the hill (with our interpreter) and studied the birds with binoculars. Kristrún was delighted and insisted we come home for coffee. She had been searching for that nest.<br /><br />The English teacher soon left, but the oldest daughter, Jóhanna, who was learning English in school, helped us out. We had coffee and tea, chocolate cake, raisin cake, and crackers with cheese. The whole family—mother, father, five children, mother’s mother—and a hired man crowded into the little kitchen to meet us. They asked us to come back the next morning. <br /><br />At 11, they fed us sandwiches and more cake. At 12:30 they fed us fresh-caught lake trout. We did not have much luck talking, though I managed to say that the fish was very good. My husband took out our Icelandic-English dictionary and entertained them by trying to pronounce Icelandic numbers. After lunch, they showed us pale violets and made us understand that the whole hillside was covered with purple wood geraniums in the summertime.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br />Ravens are the wise god Odin’s birds. Two sit on his shoulders, named Thought and Memory. Says Odin in the old Icelandic Lay of Grímnir:<br /><br /> Thought and Memory <br /><br /><i> Fly every day<br /> The wide world over.<br /> Thought, I fear,<br /> May never return;<br /> I worry more for Memory.</i><br /><br />Folklore tells how the ravens gather each autumn to divvy up Iceland’s farms, two birds to each, a male and a female, to become the “house ravens,” bringers of luck, as these ravens were for me. <br /><br />That day at Helgafell, my life changed. Instead of becoming a professor and teaching medieval literature, I now write books about a mysterious otherworld where hills are holy and stories hold lasting power. <br /><br />My seventh book, from which this essay is partly excerpted, comes out in October. <i><a href="https://www.nasw.org/users/nmb/books.html" target="_blank">Looking for the Hidden Folk: How Iceland’s Elves Can Save the Earth</a></i> is a conversation about how we look at and find value in nature. It reveals how the words we use and the stories we tell shape the world we see. It argues that our beliefs about the Earth will preserve, or destroy, it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZ3C78e3ljLSmxjcSD5iFzIgVD0cWq4mjB7tRExmV-IGN3UWOKTuqKCD-0Wzf8aOOqQK80OACISN7Tb1auo7oA7UdfL8X2-O51RSoS9L70V4cSS4MflXf6S_nMdjB0clkeKgHqpUcC5vI-yoAlvG8wZXyWxdY81WS_QI3618ki3u6gtmHNbcxdNyRVg/s400/Hidden-Folk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZ3C78e3ljLSmxjcSD5iFzIgVD0cWq4mjB7tRExmV-IGN3UWOKTuqKCD-0Wzf8aOOqQK80OACISN7Tb1auo7oA7UdfL8X2-O51RSoS9L70V4cSS4MflXf6S_nMdjB0clkeKgHqpUcC5vI-yoAlvG8wZXyWxdY81WS_QI3618ki3u6gtmHNbcxdNyRVg/s320/Hidden-Folk.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br />Scientists name our time the Anthropocene, the Human Age: Climate change will lead to the mass extinction of species unless we humans change course. Iceland suggests a different way of thinking about the Earth, one that, to me, offers hope.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">- Nancy Marie Brown<br /><br /><i>If you would like to find out more about Nancy, <a href="https://www.nasw.org/users/nmb/index.html" target="_blank">this is her website</a>. And you can buy </i>Looking for the Hidden Folk<i> now from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Looking-Hidden-Folk-Icelands-Elves-ebook/dp/B09RX55HDV" target="_blank">Amazon in the US here</a> or from <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Looking-Hidden-Folk-Icelands-Elves-ebook/dp/B09RX55HDV" target="_blank">Amazon in the UK here</a>.<br /></i><br /><i>Would you like to receive an email of these blog posts every time they are published? <a href="http://eepurl.com/hBrYl1" target="_blank">Sign up here</a>.</i><br /> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-76633835031163331232022-09-27T06:30:00.027-07:002022-11-08T11:43:19.724-08:00Two More Volcanoes: Two Towns Half Buried<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbvpv4ZCNCp6YR25PLYNBgDIzNLfB3YptceEBSKD-WRKVidlP9veHUcIyhWkLEIedL2PCJqxkV9ZSH-llYzEd10F5k3DOZ35rDMogNNGitvha1oWGgRuMiE-N9-Uq6NnFvNjMk-KVBQZSb1yRPefyHvbBNOuLcWpsuRBp9rBklGwpnt6W56EWUS_Ryg/s4798/Heimaey.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Lava approaching Heimaey photo by VicPhotoria via Shutterstock" border="0" data-original-height="3079" data-original-width="4798" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbvpv4ZCNCp6YR25PLYNBgDIzNLfB3YptceEBSKD-WRKVidlP9veHUcIyhWkLEIedL2PCJqxkV9ZSH-llYzEd10F5k3DOZ35rDMogNNGitvha1oWGgRuMiE-N9-Uq6NnFvNjMk-KVBQZSb1yRPefyHvbBNOuLcWpsuRBp9rBklGwpnt6W56EWUS_Ryg/w320-h205/Heimaey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">As you fly towards Iceland from Europe, or as you drive along the Ring Road from Reykjavík to Vík, you see a group of cubic islands, which look like poker dice tossed into the sea by some gambling troll. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">These are the Westman Islands, and they contain two volcanoes of note. One is the island of Surtsey, which is the westernmost die. This thrust itself out of the sea to form an island in 1963 in a spectacular eruption that lasted four years. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The island covered one square mile right after the eruption finished, but has already halved in size with erosion. Scientists are trying to keep the island pristine to study how life takes hold on a brand-new chunk of land, but according to the Christian Science Monitor an ‘improperly handled human defecation event’ resulted in a tomato sprouting on the island. It has been removed.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Heimaey</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The other volcano takes up half of the biggest Westman Island, Heimaey. The other half is taken up by quite a large fishing port, with a population of about five thousand people - big by Iceland’s standards. There are also a lot of puffins on the island.<br /><br />In the middle of one night in January 1973, the volcano erupted. The side of the mountain was blown away and lava started oozing down towards the town. Fortunately, forecast bad weather meant that the fishing fleet of seventy vessels was still in port. With an extraordinary display of speed, initiative and courage, the Westman Islanders evacuated the inhabitants and the sheep as the lava flow reached the town. Of 1,350 homes on the island, about 400 were swallowed up, creating a northern Pompeii. Two unfortunate sixteen-year-olds were in bed with each other, unknown to their parents, but they escaped. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Having taken out part of the town, the lava threatened to block up the harbour, which would destroy Heimaey’s future viability as a fishing port. Local fishermen managed to stop the lava by spraying it with cold seawater, freezing it halfway across the mouth of the harbour. It worked: Heimaey now has a very useful breakwater, and remains one of the busiest commercial fishing ports in Iceland.<br /><br />The town survived, the inhabitants returned and only one man died: an alcoholic who tried to break into an abandoned pharmacy. There is a wonderful museum in the town explaining the event. And thousands of puffins still inhabit the cliffs. <br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Laki</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But the most devastating eruption of all was Laki in 1783. <br /><br />The eruption took place in the spring. One hundred and thirty-five craters opened up, throwing molten rock three thousand feet into the air. Lava leaked out everywhere. One powerful flow headed for the village of Kirkjubaejarklaustur, a tongue-twisting village of nineteen letters situated on the foothills above the flood plain desert to the east of Vík. (Those of you who counted the letters to check should remember ‘æ’ is one letter in Icelandic). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">As the lava reached the village one Sunday, the parishioners gathered in the church, and the pastor, Jón, <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/robinandrews/2018/04/24/the-legend-of-the-icelandic-pastor-who-appeared-to-stop-a-lava-flow/?sh=6eeb63981798" target="_blank">gave a sermon</a> which stopped the flow. The lava field, two hundred years old now, is of course still very much visible on the edges of the community, not far from the church. Somehow the name of the village, at nineteen letters the longest in Iceland, remained intact.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The Haze Famine</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The lava fires went on for eight months. But the effects of Laki were felt far beyond Kirkjubaejarklaustur, or even Iceland. The volcano tossed huge amounts of sulphur dioxide into the atmosphere, as well as ash containing all kinds of poisonous elements. A blue haze cloaked Iceland; pastures were poisoned. <a href="https://www.icelandreview.com/news/new-study-gives-insight-into-effects-of-1783-laki-eruption/" target="_blank">This ushered in the ‘haze famine’.</a> First the animals died - three-quarters of the livestock in Iceland. Then the people. Iceland nearly failed: there were discussions of evacuating the whole population of the country, 38,000 people, to Denmark. <br /><br />The haze drifted across Europe, reaching Bergen, Prague, Berlin, Paris and Britain, creating a thick fog and turning the sun blood red. An estimated 20,000 Britons died that summer. Temperatures soared: the summer of 1783 was the hottest on record in Northern Europe, causing thunderstorms that produced hailstones so big they killed cows. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blog.twmuseums.org.uk/the-great-frost-of-1784-newcastle-upon-tyne/" target="_blank">Then winter came - </a>28 days of continuous frost in southern England, and a further 8,000 deaths. In North America, the winter of 1784 was the longest and one of the coldest on record: the Chesapeake Bay froze for weeks, and there were even ice floes in the Gulf of Mexico. The eruption and the crop failures following it have been cited as one of the causes of the French Revolution. <br /><br />Scary. We’ve seen what Eyjafjallajökull can do to twenty-first-century life; another Laki eruption would be much worse. But easier to spell.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Photo credit (top): VicPhotoria via Shutterstock<br /></span><br /> </div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-41523100260600935872022-09-06T06:30:00.002-07:002022-11-08T11:42:56.763-08:00Hekla and Katla: Rearranging Iceland over the Centuries<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFWdGFMd_pQfWLSY6Zz-ihLVIyyaBQVlFfdvLm4ibJEFETwX6QCQYiB0wj_XndPrU47ySYasSsyjI_RPnd6dxmPsYHk6GUJm6x-cPiFrZ6fd4XdeFvt0PmWXEyjNG05WS8Q8RP5vogkLk1xOnhv_d2IaAuwJdr3efhEUXcNLZHRdJVImaaq0ncFG8rQ/s3072/Hekla%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Hekla Photo by Michael Ridpath Author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFWdGFMd_pQfWLSY6Zz-ihLVIyyaBQVlFfdvLm4ibJEFETwX6QCQYiB0wj_XndPrU47ySYasSsyjI_RPnd6dxmPsYHk6GUJm6x-cPiFrZ6fd4XdeFvt0PmWXEyjNG05WS8Q8RP5vogkLk1xOnhv_d2IaAuwJdr3efhEUXcNLZHRdJVImaaq0ncFG8rQ/w320-h240/Hekla%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">There have been about thirty volcanoes active in Iceland since the Norse settlers arrived. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The island was created only twenty million years ago. It stands on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a chain of mostly underwater mountains created by volcanic activity as the European and North American continental plates rip apart from each other. In Iceland, the volcanoes reach the surface, where they simmer, bubble and occasionally explode.<br /><br />Let me introduce you to some of them.<br /><br />We have already met <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2022/03/the-north-coast-of-snaefellsnes-rugged.html" target="_blank">Snaefellsjökull</a>, the prettiest of them all with its almost perfect cone and its topping of ice, that hovers above Snaefellsnes. It is taking a nap at the moment - the last time it erupted was about AD 200.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Hekla: Iceland's busiest volcano</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">We have also met the most active, Hekla. This is sited just to the north of Eyjafjallajökull, and can be clearly seen from sixty miles away. It is nearly classically volcano-shaped - a cone with hunched shoulders - but the summit is actually a line of craters covered in snow and ice. The mountain looms over the surrounding landscape, and the closer you get to it, the more evidence you see of its past temper tantrums: devastated valleys and ramparts of frozen lava. It has erupted many times recently, in 1947, 1970, 1980, 1981, 1991 and 2000. Most adult inhabitants of Reykjavík will have driven out to watch it at some time. Nothing since 2000. Hmm.<br /><br />There were some truly massive eruptions in the early Middle Ages, all the more noticeable because Hekla is close to some of the most fertile land in Iceland. We saw how <a href="https://www.writinginice.com/2021/09/the-hunt-for-lost-saga.html" target="_blank">Stöng was smothered in 1104</a> in a surprise eruption that was talked about throughout Europe; Cistercian monks claimed that Hekla was the gateway to hell. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">In the eruption of 1341, flocks of birds were seen flying into the volcano, which onlookers assumed to be men’s souls. With good reason, Icelanders were scared of it. No one dared climb it, until two brave students reached the summit in 1750. It is possible to climb it today - about three and a half hours from the car park - but it involves walking on snow past sulphurous craters. <br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Katla</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Not far from Hekla, and very close to Eyjafjallajökull, is Katla. This volcano slumbers unseen beneath the beautiful Mýrdal glacier. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Since the settlement of Iceland, it has been one of the most active volcanoes in Iceland, but we haven’t heard a peep from it since 1918. It’s bigger than Eyjafjallajökull and more destructive. This is because of the jökulhlaups associated with it, flash floods that periodically trash the land to its south. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The police station I visited had numerous evacuation plans for when or if Katla erupts: it often erupts soon after Eyjafjallajökull. I visited a farmer near Hella who was worried about an eruption and had made plans. There is a reason why all the farms in that part of Iceland are situated on small hillocks.<br /><br />But you only really understand the devastation caused by Katla when you drive east along the coast, past the village of Vík. Just out of town the landscape becomes what can only be described as desert. Mile upon mile of sand, empty of all habitation, just the modern Ring Road, which will probably be washed away in the next eruption. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">There is a fascinating fishing museum in Vík and a monument to the fishermen of Hull. The debris from Katla stretches out to sea and makes the waters treacherous for ships. Over the centuries there have been hundreds of wrecks, many of fishing vessels from Hull. Tragically, many shipwreck survivors died when they walked along the uninhabited shoreline searching for a village when they should have headed inland towards the hills.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">In 2021 <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt11102190/" target="_blank">Netflix made an eerie series called <i>Katla </i></a>about an eruption of the volcano that lasted two years and messed not only with the landscape but also with the locals. It was filmed in Vík. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-79620349030045890062022-08-16T06:30:00.044-07:002022-11-08T11:42:32.999-08:00Eyja-something-or-other: The Volcano that Stopped the World<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6l7o-yYFHGZxU6A9Olq46-YAsmVFV-Wl4pa5Z5M7oO-qyjVLl4_Kpn1C4CnZ_P4hfThA2UP_BNXRQGtiFzMCKTVfCxqTOFeOqBKKc-zOdnvAARlbA3O-L75ThTrbDqeBxNffW611blHgJe-MOAKmV6Uz_fTIu-n8OXLlzSoa6KmPGNsosoFcT8lw8gQ/s5616/Fimmvorduhals.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Eruption at Fimmvörduhals near Eyjafjallajökull" border="0" data-original-height="3744" data-original-width="5616" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6l7o-yYFHGZxU6A9Olq46-YAsmVFV-Wl4pa5Z5M7oO-qyjVLl4_Kpn1C4CnZ_P4hfThA2UP_BNXRQGtiFzMCKTVfCxqTOFeOqBKKc-zOdnvAARlbA3O-L75ThTrbDqeBxNffW611blHgJe-MOAKmV6Uz_fTIu-n8OXLlzSoa6KmPGNsosoFcT8lw8gQ/w320-h213/Fimmvorduhals.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">One evening in April 2010 I was on my way to an event in a library in Chiswick in West London to talk about <i>Where the Shadows Lie</i>, which had just been published. I was a little early, so I wandered through a park, running over the talk in my head. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I was at that awkward moment in the book cycle where I had three books in my head: the book I was promoting (<i>Where the Shadows Lie</i>), the book I was writing (<i>66 Degrees North</i>) and the book I was going to write next (?, Magnus III?, Help!). I was searching for a topic for the next one. Like <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> and the financial crash, I wanted it to be something relevant to Iceland, but also of worldwide importance.<br /><br />My phone rang. It was my wife, Barbara. She was in Beijing and had just been told that her flight back to Britain was cancelled because of a volcano in Iceland. This was the beginning of a fraught week for Barbara, who, after a few days hanging around in Beijing, returned to London via New York, Madrid, Saint-Malo and Portsmouth. But it was good news for me: I had the subject for my next book.<br /><br />Every volcanic cloud has a silver lining.<br /><br />Eyjafjallajökull.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Repeat after me</span></h3></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The first thing to do was learn how to say it. This is not as impossible as it first seems. There are two things you need to know. The first is that Eyjafjallajökull is made up of three words: eyja (‘island’), fjalla (‘fell’ or ‘mountain’) and jökull (‘glacier’). The second is that ‘-ll’ is pronounced ‘-dl’. So Eyjafjallajökull becomes eh-ya-fyadla-yerkudl. Kind of. If you say that you will be close, and let’s face it, with most Icelandic words ‘close’ is as near as you are ever going to get. <br /><br />The next thing I needed to do was to set up ‘Ejz’ as Eyjafjallajökull in Autocorrect in Word, so that I could type the word Eyjafjallajökull easily as often as I needed to. It’s still there, in Autocorrect. Eyjafjallajökull. See?<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">In search of the volcano</span></h3></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I needed to get over to Iceland to find out more. It was a few months after the eruption by the time I arrived there, but the signs of the destruction were still visible. Dust devils of ash whipped up in the wind beneath the volcano, and the bridge over the nearby river was being reconstructed.<br /><br />I visited the local police station at Hvolsvöllur and heard all about it. They had been busy.<br /><br />The eruption had happened in two stages. The first was at a place called Fimmvörduháls, which lies between Eyjafjallajökull and the neighbouring glacier of Mýrdal. This was a pretty event. A line of craters spewed lava up in the air, glowing orange, red and yellow against the white ice of the glacier. A sludge of molten lava oozed down from the craters. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">People flocked to see it - arriving by snowmobile, super-jeep or helicopter. The police’s main job was to prevent tourists from doing stupid things, like sticking their toes in the lava to see if it was really hot (it was). But nobody died.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The Big One</span></h3></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Then came the big one. Eyjafjallajökull itself is a broad ridge under an ice cap. It’s often in cloud, and it was when the main eruption happened. There were rumbles, there were earthquakes, there were explosions, but you couldn’t see anything. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">And then the jökulhlaup came - literally ‘glacier run’. When a volcano erupts under a glacier, ice melts quickly. A lot of ice, very quickly. <a href="https://blogs.agu.org/landslideblog/2010/04/17/extraordinary-video-of-a-jokulhlaup-in-iceland/" target="_blank">The water tumbled down the north side of the mountain</a> taking boulders and earth with it, destroying everything in its path. Eyjafjallajökull is a few kilometres inland from the southern shore of Iceland, on the eastern edge of the fertile plain I described earlier. The jökulhlaup stormed around the mountain and overwhelmed the Markarfljót river dragging down bridges in its headlong rush to the sea.<br /><br />Local construction workers were diverted to the bridge of the main Ring Road over the river. There are some amazing pictures of a brave lone digger-driver desperately creating holes in the road around a long low bridge to allow the waters to pass as the jökulhlaup approaches. Another more direct jökulhlaup leaped down the southern slope almost taking out a farm.<br /><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The ash cloud</span></h3><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The clouds cleared to reveal a continuing eruption throwing ash thousands of feet into the air. Or at least that’s what it looked like from a distance. Near the volcano, the sky had turned black, as if day had been turned into night. The heavier ash particles fell on farmland, covering grass and crops with a thick grey film containing metals poisonous to animals. The farmers herded their livestock into barns and kept them there. Amazingly, nobody died.<br /><br />The finer ash particles rose higher into the atmosphere and drifted south-west over Northern Europe. Little bits of Icelandic volcano fell on the roof of my car outside my house in London. Much more importantly, <a href="https://www.earthmagazine.org/article/airplanes-and-ash-clouds-what-weve-learned-eyjafjallaj%C3%B6kull/" target="_blank">flights were cancelled</a> amidst fears that the particles would destroy aero engines. People were stranded all over the world, including Barbara.<br /><br />By coincidence, <a href="https://archives.cjr.org/behind_the_news/thin_ice.php" target="_blank">Wikileaks was in Reykjavík</a> at the time, editing the video of an attack on Iraqis which had just been leaked to them.<br /><br />So I had the subject for my third Magnus novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Meltwater-Magnus-Iceland-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B00794UGEU">Meltwater</a>.</i> A group of hackers are editing a video in Reykjavík and they take an afternoon off to go to see a volcanic eruption. One of their number is murdered next to the volcano. None of the suspects can leave the country.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here</a>.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Photo Credit: Olivier AA Vandegunste via Shutterstock</span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-824084108595337174.post-38967998026551952812022-07-26T06:30:00.002-07:002022-11-08T11:42:08.121-08:00Favourite Places – Hótel Búdir<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjaUsPc_l_l9y9kWiCJpgZUmtXgpu2rGcnJT0mUTvDqgZtybtoDgyHid0TBUZ2UZotO2FQ-eg5Zm_VrYOMrDP-xmavlO7KU2p1JfMROknANyKq4NirG7WNP-AjwCHJiy1-skTtrwm2XKGBsuby0OmxOnAKEtjf0JTeyy-75ruY7bdu_fGQzVRTpfbzg/s4000/Budir%20Church%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Black Church at Búdir photo by Michael Ridpath author of the Magnus Iceland Mysteries" border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjaUsPc_l_l9y9kWiCJpgZUmtXgpu2rGcnJT0mUTvDqgZtybtoDgyHid0TBUZ2UZotO2FQ-eg5Zm_VrYOMrDP-xmavlO7KU2p1JfMROknANyKq4NirG7WNP-AjwCHJiy1-skTtrwm2XKGBsuby0OmxOnAKEtjf0JTeyy-75ruY7bdu_fGQzVRTpfbzg/w320-h240/Budir%20Church%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /><br />The <a href="https://hotelbudir.is/" target="_blank">Hótel Búdir</a> is my favourite place in Iceland.<br /><br /> It stands next to its black church alone, halfway along the south coast of Snaefellsnes. It is a spectacular location. To the north rises the wall of mountains that runs along the spine of the peninsula, spouting long white streams of waterfalls. To the east, a golden beach stretches for several kilometres along which horses gallop beside the blue waters of Faxaflói Bay. To the south, the Black Church perches on a low ridge. Looking to the west, you gaze over a treacherous lava field surrounding a raised crater, and beyond that the breathtaking Snaefellsjökull.<br /><br /> The hotel bar is cosy, with a telescope to examine local eagles. The food is excellent - lamb, fish, seafood, samphire - and the dining room faces west towards the volcano. Sunset takes its time in Iceland, and you can spend the whole meal watching the light on Snaefellsjökull turn from yellow to pink to red, until finally, once the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon, it gives the glacier an ethereal yellow halo. </span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Room 6 contains a desk with a great view of the glacier. Halldór Laxness, Iceland’s most celebrated novelist, used to stay here; I fantasize about spending three months in that room writing a book. Because it is so isolated, Búdir gets very dark at night, and the hotel is a fine place from which to see the Northern Lights. If you ask, the hotel staff will give your room a call if the aurora does its stuff in the middle of the night.<br /><br /><a href="https://guidetoiceland.is/connect-with-locals/5176/the-black-church-of-budir-as-a-photography-location" target="_blank">The Black Church </a>stands on a low hill two hundred metres or so from the hotel. The church is small, painted black, with a white door and windows. A little graveyard surrounds the church, enclosed by a wall of neat black lava stone topped with turf, and at its entrance stands a traditional white Icelandic-style lych-gate. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It has become a popular venue for weddings, with the Snaefellsjökull the perfect backdrop to a wedding photo. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">If you walk - carefully - through <a href="https://icelandtravelguide.is/locations/budir/" target="_blank">the lava field</a> to the south of the church for about ten minutes, you will find the ruins of the village which it served, once the main trading station for the whole peninsula. This lava field is treacherous, dotted with caves and crevasses, one of which supposedly leads to a jewel-encrusted tunnel that goes all the way to Reykholt, many miles inland. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Unsurprisingly, the place is teeming with elves. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>If you would like to receive a free copy of my 60-page novella The Polar Bear Killing and occasional emails about my books, <a href="http://eepurl.com/g67PgP" target="_blank">sign up here.</a></i></span></div>Michael Ridpathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09951562619569953981noreply@blogger.com0