The baggage will be a perpetual trouble. I deposited at the rooms of the Anthropological Institute a specimen of the Klifberi (crook-saddle), the Klibber of the Shetlands, with its pegs of reindeer horn, so useful for fraying everything they touch. This article will cost the stranger $3 to $6. There is, however, a modern and improved form, which is far worse; the arch, banded with iron, rises some five inches above the animal’s back, and effectually destroys whatever rubs against it. If the people could be induced to adopt the Otago pack-saddle, used by the transport trains in the Abyssinian expedition, and commended by Messrs Freshfield (Caucasus) and Stanley, it would be invaluable. I also exhibited specimens of ropes with horn circlets, for making fast the luggage; they are expensive as useless, and $3 buys a very small supply. Finally, I showed the popular “namdah” of the island, two heavy slabs of turf, not unlike a very thick mat: they are the fibrous roots of the buck bean or marsh trefoil (Menyanthes trifoliata), in books called Hor-blaðka, but here known as Reiðinga-gras. The damp heat produced by this article acting upon chafes causes back-sores, which are sometimes fatal: the Færoese smoke and chew the leaves of the “Bukka Blaa” as tobacco, and hold that in infusion they cure scurvy. In the pagan days of Iceland, strips of buck-bean turf made a yoke under which criminals were compelled to walk; and when two men swore brotherhood or foster-brotherhood, they passed through an arch of three long sods, whose ends were attached to earth, and whose centre was raised by a spear.
The Iceland box is very like that which old-fashioned Brazilians use for mule travel: it admits wet; it readily falls open; and, when tourists are numerous, it is not easily found at Reykjavik. Mr Shepherd, of North-West Peninsula fame, had a model pair made by Silver & Co., which own but one disadvantage—being “un-Icelandic,” the guide will object to load them. One writer sensibly advises travellers to pack up and to roll everything down the staircase; if the cases stand this test, they may be passed with approval. Still everything will by degrees be smashed and spilt: cartridges will be crushed or shaken loose; salt and sugar will be mixed; oil and spirits will swamp books and flies; and collections of botany and geology, unless inspected every day, will be lost or damaged; strong tins will be crushed like paper; even cast-iron would not be safe. The scene on unpacking for the first time after a march is “a caution:” Iceland in this matter reminded me of Blá-land (Blue Land, i.e., Blackland), where the ingenious negro managed to split a Papin’s Digester, making me “marvel how.” Saddle-bags are hardly fair to the ponies, and carpet-bags and canvas-bags being strange luxuries, will be stowed away over the boxes, and will be worn through by the hide-lariats which assist the rotten woollen ropes. Though bred to loading from his childhood, the Icelandic guide has neither the skill nor the appliances of the Iberian or Brazilian “Arriero;” anything like a miscellaneous load will at once be shaken off by the rough jog-trot of the ponies; the girths break, and the halts for reloading become hourly, and even bi-hourly. There are two ways of conducting a caravan: one is to drive the animals loose (að reka hestar), the other is to lead them (leiða hestar í taumi, i.e., in team); the latter is generally done by the care-taker (Lestamaðr) when approaching the farmhouse-tún, and halters are fastened to tails in a way that would surprise a Syrian thoroughbred into the height of misbehaviour. This “cringing,” as Shetlanders call it, is also the tether for short halts, and it proves effective enough, as they can only wheel round in a narrow circle—vicious withal.
The traveller will find a tent necessary in the interior, but only on account of the rain. During their September excursions, when the farmers ride considerable distances to collect sheep from the distant pastures, they camp out like Bedawin: as amongst the Canadian Indians, this change from the superheated atmosphere of the house grows a plentiful crop of colds, rheumatisms, and lumbagos. When they travel with baggage, they carry tents like miniatures of the East Indian “pál,” and the large inmate rising from the minimum of space suggests a “Jack in the box.” Two uprights, four or five feet high, are connected by a cross-pole of five to six feet, and over this frame is thrown the cover of coarse white Wadmal, braced by cords at the edges. The flaps have small holes for wooden pegs, generally three behind, and the same number on each side; when these are lost, stones and turf (Siberian fashion) do duty for them. Goods not likely to be injured are piled outside as a “break-wind” and, even when the fore-flap is closed against rain, two men will stow themselves away inside. My friend, Mr Robert Mackay Smith, kindly lent me a little bell-tent, which had already seen service in Iceland, and which proved uncommonly useful. A mattress is usually held a necessary, but I found a Syrian Postín of black sheepskin spread upon a caoutchouc, by far the most satisfactory article. The traveller, however, must beware of “waterproof blankets,” which are sadly apt to belie their name in an Iceland “shower.”
Writers who know Oriental travel only by books are fond of finding reflections and resemblances in the far north; the differences, however, are far greater, and the general likeness is soon destroyed by the details. The horse, the tent, the bivouac, and the desert are salient points of similitude; the want of life, of colour, and of picturesqueness, the main accident of the East, soon break the spell. And the traveller in Iceland will miss many things of which he has read, as the “kiss of peace,” the pulling off boots, etc., by the daughters of the house, and the parting salute by way of good night. These things may survive on the rarely visited south coast; on the beaten tracks they are of the dead past—at least I never saw a trace. Civilised coarseness and polite vulgarity have made Icelanders deny that the custom of public undressing ever existed: they are wrong to be ashamed of it. The removal of muddy boots, wet stockings, and drenched garments, without any sense of the “sho’king,” was a sign of innocence; the action was without any sense of impropriety, even as the primitive matrons and maidens of St Veran thought it uncivil to leave the room before the guest was fairly in bed.
CHAPTER VIII.
EXCURSIONS ABOUT REYKJAVIK—THE ISLANDS—THE LAUGAR OR HAMMAM—THE SOUTHERN LAXÁ OR SALMON RIVER.
The weather appears to be that of the Inferno-circle, especially rich in—
“La piova
Eterna, maledetta, fredda e greve.”
However, we take heart of grace to visit the islands. A boat is readily found at the Bridge-House pier, the centre of industry. Here are knots of fishermen, who might be in Leith, save that they are a wee bit rougher; and the stout young women labouring with coals and rolling up barrels of spirits, reminded me of the Teutonic emigrants to Rio de Janeiro, where each one would girth double, and probably weigh treble, the average Brazileira. At times there is a lively scene when ponies are shipped, an operation managed very rudely, not to say brutally: the animals are dragged or driven down the slimy, slippery plankway, and are forced to spring into the nearest barge; they are accustomed to ferries, but not to this kind of embarkation, which barks the shins and wounds the hind legs. At times a little animal is jostled off the narrow gangway, but instead of falling or leaping down, it clings like a cat with the forelegs, and holds on long enough for men to run down and catch it in their arms. The most amusing scene was when an Englishman inflated a waterproof cloak, the Halkett-boat, and another, taking in hand two apologies for paddles, began a series of astonishing gyrations. All Reykjavik flocked to the pier, possibly under the stimulus thus poetically recorded:
“Pull him out! pull him out! he fell from yonder boat,
We shall either get a sov’reign or a one-pound note.”