Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

by W. S. C. Russell

Ljósavatn, Lake-of-Light, will ever remain one of the brightest memory pictures of Icelandic scenery. The lake is long and narrow, the mountains descend abruptly on either side. The tumbling cascades, the many sheep upon the green ridges between the cataracts, the cattle grazing eye-deep in the lush grass along the shore, the numerous water fowl, where many a

“Stately drake, led forth his fleet upon the lake,”

the spectrum colors in the lava cliffs, the bands of cloud that hang perpetually over the narrow notch,—with clouds, colors, waterfalls and crags mirrored in the burnished surface,—formed a picture framed in the dark outlines of the mountains that caused us to dismount and for an hour held our close attention.

At evening we reached the Djúpá, Deep-River, well named. This stream has carved a gorge through a mass of old craters and heaps of volcanic ash. Under the influence of several days of continual sunshine the snows had been rapidly melting. We spent an hour in a fruitless search for a suitable ford and then drove the pack ponies into the torrent to swim across and composed ourselves for a good wetting in the icy water. We drew our knees above the necks of the ponies, seized the crupper strap with the left hand, turned the ponies up stream and made the crossing without serious mishap. A portion of the way the ponies were obliged to swim and the rapid current carried them far down stream. Thanks to the sagacity of the little fellows and to their perseverance, we escaped without getting wet, although our precarious position, balanced as we were on the top of the saddles, promised to topple us into the angry waters. The pack horses swam the stream with the packing cases partly submerged. Within an hour we were made comfortable in the tidy farmhouse at Ljósavatn and the contents of the cases were spread in the kitchen to dry. The house is large and comfortable and two beds were prepared for us upstairs, an unusual condition as the guest room is usually on the ground floor. We had only one inconvenience,—the telephone is located in the guest chamber. Beside the house there is a small church where the farmers and their families assemble on Sunday, some of them from a considerable distance.

On the Sabbath all work ceases in Iceland, unless approaching rain makes it imperative that the cured hay be taken to the stacks. The people array themselves in their best attire and ride to church at a wild gallop, each on his favorite pony. The small children ride with their parents and the young people from the different farms so time their journey as to meet at the intersecting bridle paths and relate the news of the past week. On they ride, an ever increasing cavalcade, over moor and mountain ridge, across brook and farm till the parish has assembled at the church. The ponies are hobbled or turned into a compound and their riders have an hour for gossip before the service begins. The aged sit upon the grass and exchange snuff—a universal custom in Iceland,—and eagerly report the gossip that has filtered to the distant farms from the coast. The young meet in the church yard and many a pledge is here given that binds them together till the turf of the same yard receives beneath its floral decorations one of the faithful pair. The women hasten to the parsonage to don their best gown and arrange their braids and the silk tassel of the húfa, woman’s cap. Finally arrives the pastor at the church, who greets all the people individually, arrays himself in his accustomed robes and then with the ringing of the bell the service begins. The sermon is generally read from manuscript, after which the Holy Communion is celebrated frequently followed by a christening. The service ended, the people usually assemble at a near-by house for coffee and further conversation after which the parties go their several ways. The young men attempt to show the speed of their ponies in short spurts that would do credit to a western cow-boy, each trying to outstrip the other. The maidens follow demurely and the old people ride away last of all in a quiet manner. How well they know from experience that as soon as their sons are out of sight that they will rein down those galloping steeds and hold them until the maidens overtake them. Then Sigurð and Karin, side by side, will wend their leisurely way to Karin’s home just like the young couples of other lands. The merry greetings and the cheerful partings at the church yard have ceased to fill the air and only the wind stirs the long grass upon the roof and sways the flowers upon the graves.

No pack trains come and go, no hay-laden ponies wind up from the meadows, no scythe rings with the stone,—the sounds of farm-life are hushed and the peace of the well-kept Sabbath rests upon these homes. Sunday evening calls are made and long ones they are, coffee is served with delicious cakes, the snuff horn circulates freely and in the compound the saddled ponies patiently await the coming of their masters for the wild ride over the moors to their own pastures.

I have witnessed many Sundays in Iceland and each one impressed me with the peace and happiness of its people, the devotion of worship and the value of the plain and simple life as a factor in contentment. To the young men who enquired about the customs of America and its advantages I had little to offer and my advice was to stay where the customs of centuries had ingrained habits of simplicity and instilled contentment. After all, what more do we wish in this world than contentment? Given enough to eat and to wear, protecting shelters, books and an occupation, the influence of right living and an absence of the craving for money and position, and man may be truly happy,—no matter under what sky his tent is pitched. In Reykjavik with its sprinkling of foreign merchants and its few people who ape the customs of the continent in dress and in vice, yes and in idleness the mother of most of the vices, conditions are different. As in America, so in Iceland, the boy, who leaves the paternal roof and the occupation of his ancestors, who scorns the opportunities of the farm and seeks his fortune in the metropolis, soon puts aside his home-taught virtues, lapses into ways of idleness, acquires the idea that the world owes him the same living as that won by the ceaseless energy of toil, and it is not long before he becomes a derelict upon the ocean of humanity.

At breakfast we were treated for the first time in our Icelandic experience to the national dish of skyr, curdled milk. My first experience was not pleasant but I have since learned to relish it. It was necessary to eat a goodly portion of it in order not to offend the mistress who had taken considerable trouble to prepare it for us in the best fashion. Skyr has been a national dish from the earliest days of the Vikings but the method of its preparation has been kept secret. On our second return from Iceland we were accompanied by an Icelandic maid, who frequently prepared for our table Icelandic dishes, but we could never persuade her to prepare this dish nor to tell us how it was made. Another dish set before us was cheese made of sheep’s milk; it was nearly chocolate in color and resembled mild roquefort in flavor. I needed no repeated trials to acquire a taste for this delicacy. It was set before us at every farm but it varied a good deal in quality. If one does not relish a rich, full-flavored cheese then the Icelandic cheese of sheep’s milk would not appeal to his taste.

The country around Ljósavatn is of considerable geological interest. The lake is of glacial origin and around it are several small drumlins of ashes and rubble which are now being transformed into conglomerate. The lake has the form of the Scottish inland lochs and was formed by the filling in of one end of a glacial valley with glacial debris. Since the formation of the lake there has been a lava outflow across the east end of the valley and scores of small craters are along the banks of the Djúpá.

An hour’s ride from the farm across the ancient lava bed brings the traveller to the bridge across the Skjálfandafljót, Trembling River, and to the Goðafoss, Falls-of-the-Gods, one of the most beautiful waterfalls in Iceland. It has not the grandeur of the Gullfoss and the Dettifoss but its symmetrical formation and the two even sheets of water that pour over its brink unbroken make it very attractive. In form it is like Niagara, and like Niagara has its rocky island near the middle. The eastern fall is about seven feet lower than the western, due to the lava formation over which the water flows. The falls are between twenty-five and thirty feet in height according to the melting of the snows. The rocky islet is split asunder and a solid stream of water pours through the cleft forming a central fall. The spray and mist from the falls are visible for many miles around and to one accustomed to look for hot springs, whenever mists are seen rising in a column from the plain, this waterfall comes as a great surprise when one approaches the unexpected canyon.