Thursday Morning, July 28. Rose early—we are sailing along the Krisuvik coast in the direction of Cape Reykjanes—smoky cape—which runs out from the south-west of Iceland. The low lying coast is of black lava; behind it rise serrated hill-ranges, and isolated conical mountains; some of a deep violet colour, others covered with snow and ice, the dazzling whiteness of which is heightened by contrast with the low dark fire-scathed foreground. White fleecy clouds are rolling among the peaks, now dense and clearly defined against the bright blue sunny sky—now hazy, ethereal, and evanescent. We observe steam rising from a hot sulphur spring on the coast. These are numerous in this neighbourhood, which contains the principal sulphur mines of the island. Here, where we sail, volcanic islands have at different times arisen and disappeared; flames too have sometimes been seen to issue from submarine craters; this latter phenomenon the natives describe as “the sea” being “on fire.”
ELDEY.
On our left we pass Eldey—or the Fire Isle—a curious isolated basaltic rock resembling the Bass, but much smaller. It rose from the deep in historic times. The top slopes somewhat, and is white; this latter appearance has originated its Danish name “Maelsek,” which is pronounced precisely in the same way as “meal-sack” would be in the Scottish dialect;—in fact the words are the same. Many solan geese flying about; whales gamboling and spouting close to the vessel.
Nine A.M., Greenwich time. Got first glimpse of Snæfells Jökul—the fifth highest mountain in Iceland—height 4577 feet—lying nearly in a north-west direction, far away across the blue waters of the Faxa Fiord. A pyramid covered with perpetual snow and ice, gleaming in the sun, its outline is now traced against a sky of deeper blue than any of us ever beheld in Switzerland or Italy.
The Faxa Fiord, situated on the south-west, is the largest in the island, and might be described as a magnificent bay, forming a semicircle which extends fifty-six miles from horn to horn; while its shores are deeply and irregularly indented by arms of the sea, or Fiords proper, which have names of their own, such as Hafnafiord, Hvalfiord, or Borgarfiord. Snæfell, on the north side of it, rises from the extremity of the long narrow strip of steep mountain promontory that runs out into the sea, separating the Faxa from the Breida Fiord—another large bay;—while on the south the Guldbringu Syssel, terminating with Cape Reykjanes, is a bare low-lying black contorted lava field.
The Faxa Fiord, then, sweeping in a semicircle from Snæfell to Reykjanes, contains several minor Fiords, and is crowded with lofty mountain-peaks, sharp, steep, and bare. The intense clearness of the northern atmosphere through which these appear, together with the fine contrast of their colours—reds, purples, golden hues, and pale lilacs; rosy-tinted snow or silvery-glittering ice—all sharply relieved against the blue sky, as if by magic confound southern ideas of distance, so that a mountain which at first glance appears to be only ten or fifteen miles distant, may in reality be forty or fifty, and perhaps considerably more.
The capital of Iceland lies in the south-east of this great bay. We have been sailing due north from Cape Reykjanes to the point of Skagi, and, rounding it, we sail east by north right into the Faxa Fiord, cutting off the southern segment of the bay, and are making straight for Reykjavik.
Several low-lying islands shelter the port and make the anchorage secure; one of these is Videy on which some of the government offices formerly stood, but it is now noted as a favourite resort of eider ducks which are here protected by law in order to obtain the down with which their nests are lined.
Solitary fishermen are making for the shore in their skiff-like boats. A French frigate and brig, a Danish war schooner and several merchant sloops are seen lying at anchor, shut in by the islands and a low lava promontory. All are gaily decked with colours. On rounding the point, Reykjavik the capital of Iceland lies fairly before us. It is situated on a gentle greenish slope rising from the black volcanic sand of that “Plutonian shore.” There are grassy heights at either side of the town and a fresh water lake like a large pond behind it. The cathedral in the centre, built of brick plastered brown stone colour, and the windmill on the height to the left, are the two most prominent objects. The front street consists of a single row of dark-coloured Danish looking wooden houses facing the sea. These we are told are mostly merchants’ stores. Several of them have flag-staffs from which the Danish colours now flutter. All our glasses are in requisition. Numerous wooden jetties lead from the sea up to the road in front of the warehouses, and, on these, females like the fish-women of Calais, “withered, grotesque, wrinkled,” and seeming “immeasurably old,” with others younger and better looking, are busily engaged in carrying dried fish between the boats and the stores. Young and old alike wear the graceful Icelandic female head-dress—viz. a little black cloth scull-cap, jauntily fastened with a hair pin on the back part of the head. From the crown of this cap hangs a silver tube ornament, out of which flows a long thick black silk tassel falling on the shoulder.