Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

by W. S. C. Russell

If an outlawed man refused within the given time to go into the specified exile, any one could slay him without breaking any law. This his enemies took advantage of and during the following autumn killed him in his house.

Near at hand is Oddi, Point, as of land, made famous by the school of Saemund Sigfusson, the Learned, a popular center of learning in the ancient days of Icelandic glory. Here, also, in 1181 went the youthful Snorri Sturlason then only three years of age, into fostering. This school was called the “highest-head-stead” which signifies that it was not only the wealthiest in Iceland but the most renowned for scholarship. Snorri was an apt pupil, a brilliant scholar and one who delved deeply into the old Latin manuscripts, long since lost, in the rich library at Oddi. It was here that he acquired the knowledge of European history which gave birth to his story of the Round World, Heimskringla, a story of the Kings of Norway. Snorri was the first pragmatic historian who ever wrote in the Teutonic language. To him are indebted the German and the English historians of later days, though they do not always take the trouble to acknowledge it. Without his gleanings from that old library at Oddi many pages of history would be missing. That he was faithful we may well believe when we note the following from his preface:—

“In this book have I let write tales told concerning those chiefs who have borne sway in the Northlands, and spake the Danish tongue, even as I have heard men of lore tell the same; and also certain of their lines of kindred according as they have been taught to me. Some of this is found in the Tales of Forefathers, wherein kings and other men of high degree have traced their kin; but some is written after olden songs or story-lays, which men have had for their joyance. Now though we wot not surely the truth thereof, yet this we know for a truth, that men of lore of old time have ever held such lore for truth.” Again,—

“Now it is the manner of scalds, (poets), to praise those most whom they stand before while giving forth their song, but no one would dare to tell the king himself deeds, which all who harkened, yea and himself withal, wotted well were but windy talk and lying; for no praise would that be, but mocking rather.”

At Thjórsátún, Farm of Bull-River, we found modern buildings constructed of wood with many continental conveniences. The farmer, Ólafur Isleifsson, had lived in Winnipeg about six years and had returned to his native land with many western ideas. He spoke some English and was glad to greet travellers from America. It was a relief to find a bed of sufficient length to permit one to stretch at full length. The food was cooked on a real iron stove and we were treated to a beef steak, the first we had seen in the country. The salmon were fresh and broiled to a turn, the coffee excellent as usual, and with rolls, cheese and eggs we made a substantial meal, having been without food for ten hours. It was a cool night and having a slight chill, I gave the hot water bag to the host with the request that he fill it with hot water. He looked at it with a peculiar expression as if wondering how it could be used as a drinking vessel. On its return it was filled with ice-cold water. As it is the Icelandic custom to bring drinking water to the guest on retiring, the farmer evidently thought we preferred the rubber bag to the customary glass bottle. Anticipating the luxury of the hot water and promising with every shiver to restore quiet to my quivering limbs the disappointment was keen. I had not the courage to call attention to his mistake by asking a second time but replied as cheerfully as I could, “tak,” thanks.

This farm is located on a high bank overlooking the broad expanse of rolling lava and grass lands through which the canyon of the Thjórsá extends. A fine suspension bridge spans the flood and the view of the white water foaming down the rift is excellent. Beyond the river a good road, the post road, leads all the way to Eyrarbakki, Beach-Bank. The country is level and produces an abundance of grass. This section contains nearly all the made roads in Iceland. When we passed we noticed much activity in road construction and in the erection of telephone lines. These roads will be of great value to the farmers in this section who are just beginning to use carts with two wheels after transporting their produce on the backs of ponies for about twelve hundred years. The ponies do not enjoy the harness, but prefer the saddle. During these days we met many ponies hauling telephone poles and grading material. Every one of them had a dejected look much like that of a new convict. We fancied that the saddle ponies, as they called to the prisoners in the harness, realized the better condition of their own labor and that they looked down upon the plodders in the thills, much as the chauffeur looks upon the pedestrian as he envelopes that individual with dust. The made road is not liked by the pony, accustomed to travel the crooked trails, which in the lowlands are always soft, and he shuns the hard roads whenever he can. The trails are much easier for the rider as there is less pounding in the saddle. After a journey of a thousand miles on the lowland and upland trails, the following summer our last day’s ride was from Thingvellir to Reykjavik a distance of thirty-five miles over a hard macadamed road, and it was the hardest day’s ride of the two summers.

We rode along the base of a lofty table land, a giant block of basalt shaped like a mesa, which is called Ingölfsfjall, Ingölf’s-Mountain. At the request of Ingölfr, who was the first real settler in Iceland, he was buried at the top of this mountain. He said,—

“I wish to be buried there in order that I may behold my vast possessions from its summit at the last day.”

The fata Morgana tantalized us all the afternoon as we rode down to the sea. The village of Eyrarbakki loomed high above the level plain and we were surprised at the extreme height of the houses until they disappeared, all but the tops. Looming up into the vibrating air and sinking into the sand they alternated with the shifting strata of variously heated air. Late in the afternoon the objects on the shore became fixed and real, like other houses in the country. We clattered up the one street by the sea to the home of Fru Eugenia Nielsin. It is the finest house in the village and a portion of it is over two hundred years old. There are stone and turf houses in Iceland that are much older but this one is constructed entirely of wood. The Neilsins are Danish merchants engaged in the wool and fish trade and importers of general supplies for the farmers. We found Fru Neilsin a delightful hostess, who exerted herself to make our short stay one long to be remembered with gratitude. Back of the house was an excellent garden with some splendid potatoes; in front there was a well kept lawn, almost English in character, and here we enjoyed croquet at eleven at night. The village has a population of about three hundred people, mostly engaged in fishing. I examined the lumber yard and noted a high grade of Norway spruce. Although not a stick of timber grows in Iceland it can be purchased at less than half the price asked in New England.

Within the house we found refinement and comfort, culture and hospitality. As fortunes are reckoned in Iceland these people are wealthy. The household furnishings are valuable for their antiquity and the handicraft with which they were constructed. It is not the writer’s intention to describe the furnishings of the different homes in which he has been entertained nor to differentiate in degrees of hospitality. The welcome and the entertainment were sincere and as cordially proffered in the poorest hut in the mountains as in the more favored homes by the sea. This being the only Danish home in the country where we were entertained, justice demands that we make it clear to the reader that the modern Dane is not lacking in the inborn hospitality of his ancient race. We frequently found proof of this on the little Danish ships plying between Iceland and Copenhagen and in Copenhagen itself. And so Fru Neilsin set her table with her finest service and her Icelandic kitchen maid produced a dinner that night for two hungry travellers that would have done credit to the chef of a first class hotel.