Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

by W. S. C. Russell

“But all thro’ the mountains thunder riven

And up from the rocky steep,

There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,

‘Rejoice! I have found my sheep.’”

It was five in the evening when we mounted the last ridge and looked down upon Hruni. It was one of the fairest sights I have ever witnessed,—the basin-shaped valley of verdure surrounded by lofty ridges, the thousand sheep scattered upon the hillsides and through the meadow, the group of houses which constitute the farm buildings, and the little church across the yard, the steam rising from some hot springs near the dwellings, the hundreds of haycocks waiting for the morrow to be taken to the stacks, the songs of the maidens driving the cows home from the pasture,—a picture of prosperity and of peace. Surely this is not Iceland or else the name is a misnomer.

It cost us an hour to pick our way across the hassocky bog, luxuriant with rushes, sedges, and cotton-grass. No frog croaks in the Iceland marshes and no reptile ever glides through the sheltering grass, they are unknown. It seemed as if we might reach the house in ten minutes but it took an hour. We learned that to approach an Icelandic farmhouse it is usually necessary to ride around it in a wide detour. Bogs, streams, fences or hot areas seem ever to lie between the house and the place where the traveller first sees it. During our circuit we saw a flaxen haired, barefooted lad seated upon a hummock with a book and a bundle of plants by his side. A dog was with him and two others watched the sheep from distant points, reclining with noses between their feet with eyes alert for any change in the direction of the feeding sheep. If a group of them started towards the mowing land the dog spoke once or twice and if the sheep did not turn he trotted nearer and spoke again in a more determined tone. The sheep obeyed and the dog returned to his vantage point. I dismounted when the boy saluted us and shook hands with him and returned the Icelandic salutation. I examined the handful of flowers and noticed that some of them were partially dissected. Reaching for the worn and faded book I discovered that it was a Manual of the Icelandic Flora and that it was written entirely in Latin. A lad of twelve or thirteen years of age; his task, the keeping of a thousand sheep with no fences beyond the immediate farm enclosure; his recreation, the study of botany through the medium of Latin. Of such boys are the Icelandic scholars made, not through the medium of costly buildings, fine equipment, luxurious homes, indulgent parents, theaters, parties and secret societies, but through the wiser agencies of paternal love that sternly upholds usefulness, interest in study for the love of knowledge. Though barefoot and clad in vaðmal, the Icelandic lad will obtain an education that surpasses the products of the endowed institutions of other lands.

At six in the afternoon we were welcomed in the guest room of the pastor’s home. Kjartan Helgason, farmer and minister, labors six days upon his large farm and on the seventh preaches in two different churches, riding several miles to meet his distant parishioners. He came soon after our arrival and welcomed us with a cordial, honest welcome. That Icelandic welcome! It comes from the heart and the handshake conveys more than words can express. Hospitality was a sacred word in ancient Scandinavia and though but a filmy covering for hypocrisy in many more favored lands, in Iceland the essence is maintained. Welcome! How often we say it and hear it and do not know the meaning. We welcome some long absent loved one. Is it the same when we welcome a neighbor or a frequent visitor? What about the welcome accorded to a total stranger who brings us nothing but extra work, who calls us from our necessary task, who eats our choicest viands, who uses our guest chamber, consumes our time with questions that pry into our very secrets? Would you know the meaning of this ancient word you must see it exemplified as a dependent stranger in a strange land. Vel-kominn, well-come, it is good that you have come. Unless this meaning rings in the sound and bristles in our every act it is better that we drop from our vocabulary this word which we have borrowed from an ancient race. Not alone at Hruni did we hear and feel Vel-kominn but in every household from the humblest peasant on the borders of the desert to the homes of the highest in the land, even the professors at the University, the venerable poet of the north and the Prime Minister in his mansion.

The Icelandic Sunday ends at six in the afternoon. When we came from the house after supper we were astonished to see the farm maids going to the fields with their ropes and rakes, the mowers sharpening their scythes and the general bustle of a work day. Inquiry of the pastor revealed to us the custom. The method of sharpening the scythe is unique. The Icelandic boy does not have to turn the stone while a strong man leans his weight upon the scythe and slides it back and forth across the revolving stone. As a boy I always regarded the turning of the stone as a man’s job and I still think so. Many disagreeable tasks on the farm are given to the boy just because he is a boy. In Iceland the blade is placed on a flat piece of steel and the edge slips under a presser-foot like that on a sewing machine. A rod of steel with a square end and a half inch in diameter is placed perpendicularly upon the blade between the claws of the presser-foot and is struck a smart blow with a hammer. The blade is slowly advanced under the repeated blows. The blade is thus hammered into an edge rather than ground. I noticed the custom throughout the country. At Hruni there was a machine worked with a treadle and cam that did the pounding while the operator slowly advanced the blade. Two days later I met a gentleman from Worcester, Massachusetts, to whom I mentioned this method. He had not seen it and was doubtful of the accuracy of my observations. While we were discussing it there came from the back of the buildings the sharp clink-clink-clink of the steel and he was soon convinced by observation that I was not joking. The whetstone is used in the same way as with the American farmer. It was interesting to note that all the scythestones in the country were made in New Hampshire, U. S. A. These stones are shipped to Denmark, resold by the Danish merchant and shipped to Iceland; the Icelandic trader sells them to the farmer. The farmer then pays a price that is just half of what the New England farmer pays for the same stone. It is evident that the scythestone industry does not need any tariff protection.

In front of the house an excellent patch of potatoes was in full bloom unravished by the Colorado beetle. A flowering rose bush climbed the house-wall by the door, which was flanked by several species of the old-fashioned flowers that bloom so persistently around the dilapidated dwellings of New England’s abandoned farms. A herd of cows were yielding their milk within a turf enclosure at one end of the house and the newly painted church across the lane added to the peacefulness and thriftiness of the scene.

The hot spring on the farm furnishes the heat for the cooking and the hot clay is used for baking. Rye bread is baked by digging a hole in the clay and inserting a stone jar. This bread reminded us strongly of the fine products of the old brick ovens of our grandmothers. In the evening, pastor Helgason invited us into his study and in a mixture of Icelandic, English and Latin we conversed till midnight. This library contains many volumes of choice literature, theological works, and history. He also showed us a large herbarium in which the plants were mounted accordingly to Linnaeus and named. We then learned more about the favorite occupation of the lad who tends the sheep and studies botany at the same time. Through the labor of father and son several new species of plants have been added to the flora of the country, some of them unknown elsewhere. It was my pleasure on my return to send to these botanists a copy of the last edition of Gray’s Manual and I count among my choicest letters from Iceland a reply from Kjartan Helgason to which was attached a rare and beautiful gentian, Gentiana campestris, L. var. Íslandica.