In the afternoon we rode merrily “home.” The road began by fording the Axewater, after which was a rude causeway of basalt, about thirty feet long, ascending the eastern lip. It crossed diagonally the grassy surface of the “Geo,” and climbed the western wall. A short ramp, paved for beasts, like a bad flight of steps, runs between the true rampart and a slice of rock which has been parted from it. Travellers usually sight it from above, hence we read of the “frightful dangerous chasm,” and we are told (N.B.—not by an Irishman) that “this is perhaps the most unique scene in the world.” The moderns compare it with the “Devil’s Staircase” in the Pass of Glencoe. The path would hardly startle the most nervous girl, and a Harfushi horseman would gallop his Arab up and down it.
Beaching the summit, we spurred across the Mossfellsheiði, which those fresh from home describe as a “horrible stony waste, bordered by lofty mountains.” But we had met with worse things than this “ever-to-be-avoided heiði,” where, moreover, labourers were working at the road. Seen in bad weather, it must be grim enough, as the many “stone-men” show; hence, doubtless, general complaints about the “mournful wail of the plover, and the wild scream of the curlew.”[124] We found a number of these birds, besides sandpipers, purple oyster-breakers, whimbrels, whose “soft fluid jug,” according to the “Oxonian,” “is not unlike the nightingale’s song,” and a fair scatter of ravens. I proposed a turkey-buzzard on a blasted tree, proper, as the arms of Dahome, and Grip on a lava pinnacle would suit Iceland passing well.
The only interest of this day’s ride is, that it crosses the “great trachytic band” opposed to the lesser trachytic band of Snæfellsjökull; the former made by old writers to stretch clean across Iceland from near Reykjanes (south-west) to Langanes (north-east). We examined a few veins of that rock, but the surface was mainly lava above and Palagonite below. The latter is said to be remarkably well developed in the Seljaland gorge,[125] and we dismounted to secure red specimens, and to find, if possible, an Irish rose. This feature, I suppose, is one writer’s “vast precipice, where there is only about sixteen inches to tread on,” and the “deep ravine, wild, horrid, and frightful,” of another pen, whose pencil supplies it with a herd of deer.
As we drew near Reykjavik the sun, after shimmering horizontally along the ground, obliged us by occasionally setting behind the hills, and when it
“Burned
The old farm-gable, we thought it turned
The milk that fell in a babbling flood
Into the milk-pail, red as blood.”
The moon arose with a judicious repression of details: the silver light, the dark purple brooding at the hill-feet, and the gleam of the golden west gave more colour than usual to the view. The ponies, under boxes now empty, seemed to fly as they scented home. The only difference in the familiar scene was a vast eruption of peat-stacks, made, like hay, whilst the sun shines. Shortly before midnight we were again at home: in Iceland there are no hours, and kind-hearted Frú Jonassen did not keep us waiting either for supper or for bed.
ITINERARY FROM REYKJAVIK TO HEKLA AND THE GEYSIR VIA KRÍSUVÍK.
Reykjavik to Krísuvík.
Monday, July 8, 1872.
Left Reykjavik at A.M. 11.30. Rounded heads of two dwarf Fjörðs (1 P.M.), Fosvogr and Kópavogr (seal-cub voe); turf at valley-heads.