The surface of the mountain was purely trachytic, but the one material was Protean in shape and colour. The prevailing tints were red and golden yellow. We recognised the slate of Hekla and the heat-altered material near the great Geysir. As we neared the summit the metal became flaky, like the limestone of the Syrian mountains. After forty minutes of rough climbing over slopes of rubbish—the smaller it was the firmer it proved to the tread—we reached the apex, about 2000 feet above sea-level: like the western Esja, it had the sharpest face to the north, and the crest was a saw, a spiked arête, palisaded and bristling with teeth and jags like the many-bladed knife of the cutler’s shop.[37]
Returning to our horses, we descended one of those staircases of earth and stone now so familiar, and fell into the valley of a northern Laxá, called for distinction, “of Reynivellir” (the sorb-apple plains). The surface, so fair to sight, is swampy, despite its main-drain, and must be traversed by earthen dykes. The lower part is protected to the north by the Reynivallaháls (neck of Reynivellir), and to the south by the Miðfell (mid-mount) and other outliers of the Esja. Here many houses are scattered about; we recognise the sweet scent of hay; and the dock-fringed plots of potatoes and cabbages look exceptionally flourishing. In winter all freezes, but as the grass never protrudes from the ice, however shallow, the neighbouring farmers visit one another on skates, which are those of Europe generally.
At eleven P.M. we reached the parsonage, which showed three gables pointing southwards, and a fourth to the east. A cart and a wheel-jack gave signs that improvements were not unknown. The hour was unusual for calling, but Iceland knows nothing of these fine distinctions: the house dogs bayed the alarm; the host awoke the household; and, before turning in, we supped comfortably at the parsonage.
On the next day Síra Thorvaldr could not accompany us, having service to read. The only son of a widow, he entered the Church at her desire, but his heart is book-hunting at Copenhagen, and, as his Sanskrit volumes show, his delight would be Orientalism. But what can be done so far from the haunts of learning? and at thirty-four he sees life gradually slipping away from him. Meanwhile he takes pupils, he farms, he flirts with botany, and he refreshes himself by an occasional visit to Reykjavik. He kindly gave me a copy of the Reykholtskirkjumáldagi, the Authentic Inventory of Reykholt Kirk, facsimile’d by the Icelandic Literary Society:[38] the three specimens bear no date, but the Sagas fix the time between A.D. 1143 and A.D. 1222.
About ten A.M. we were en route and, worried by swarms of flies, in forty minutes we walked up the great ugly prism, Reynivallaháls, whose winding way was hardly visible from below. The summit is dotted with Vörður, to guide travellers and church-goers through the snow. The descent turned eastward, and showed us in front the familiar forms of the horned and snow-streaked “Súlur,” the massive umbo of Skjaldbreið, and the white dome of the Ok Jökull: to the left (north) was Skarðsheiði, veiled in clouds. The lower gullies, where the heavy cold air settles, condense their columns of warmer air into clouds, which simulate water-spouts: at times these vapours, wonderfully resembling smoke-pillars, have been mistaken for a rain of erupted ashes. At our feet lay the head of the Hvalfjörð, looking unusually picturesque in the still, blue air. Great double buttresses pushed peremptorily from behind. The Múlafjall (mull-hills)[39] and Síldarmannafjall (sillock-fisher or herring-catcher’s hill) are separated from Reynivallaháls and from each other by Botnsdalr (bottom-head dale), and by two green vales, Brynjudalr, where the brindled cow was once lost. The river-like surface of the firth was exceptionally tranquil, and a dwarf islet, shaped like a Strasburg
THE “REYKHOLTSKIRKJUMÁLDAGI”,
(INVENTORY OF REYKHOLT KIRK) AND TWO OTHER DOCUMENTS
DATE BETWEEN A.D. 1143 AND A.D. 1222.
