Iceland: Horseback tours in saga land

by W. S. C. Russell

All the country side is historic land and is frequently mentioned in the Sagas. When we left the river valley and climbed to the summit of the tableland and were skirting the great bog, we recalled that it was related in the Saga of Hrafnkell, Frey’s Priest, how Sámr with three ponies rode from Mývatn across Fljótsheiði, River-Heath, to Ljósavatn Pass and on to the great fiord. We were taking the same journey but in the opposite direction. The great heath on the upland is typical of the highland heaths of Iceland and may be briefly described in this connection.

It is a tongue of land some thirty miles long, reaching down from the inland plateau between two great river valleys. When the summit is gained it appears quite flat but a place where one would little expect to find extensive bogs and marshes, but such is the case. We followed the bog at its margin for nearly two hours in search of a place to cross and noted that patches of water glimmered here and there. Beautiful Arctic flowers fringed the margin of the pools, masses of Eriophorum, Cotton-Grass, spread their white sheets in the sun and the dwarf birch and Arctic willow tangled every foot of the way. Scores of ancient bridle trails cut into the ground so deeply that in places the ponies rubbed their sides against the turf in following them. Numerous sheep were scattered about the moorland singly and in groups of three to a dozen. Often a sheep would get into the trail and run in front of the ponies for half an hour bleating in a frightened manner. This custom of making a needless run until exhausted and driven far from their companions speaks strongly for the small intelligence of these domestic animals. The sheep run wild upon the mountain pastures and moors throughout the summer and are characteristic features of the landscape.

At the narrow neck of glacial moraine where we crossed the great bog we halted for an hour for lunch and to graze the ponies and shift the saddles. These out of door luncheons are real picnics. One turns up the lid of a packing case for a table, seats himself upon the grass and finds more enjoyment in the repast than at the best spread board in a fashionable hotel. The plover and whimbrel are always about to add their joyous cries to the calling of the curious sheep, the ponies graze contentedly around the outer circle of the luncheon board and over all is the deep blue vault and showers of glorious sunshine. Those hours of rest and refreshment upon the heather and the enjoyment of the pipe! We were veritable Arabs, our steeds the thoroughbred Icelandic ponies and our oasis the patch of grass in the midst of a great lava desolation. There are no palm trees beside the water hole to complete the Oriental scene but a pillar of lava shelters one from the wind, or, if the day be sultry, one may crawl beneath a scrub of Arctic willow to ward off the sun and it is then, if the flies are present, that the pipe is a double comfort.

In the middle of the afternoon as we were descending a ridge into a gully with a boggy brook to cross we heard a shout from the top of the ridge, “Turn to the left, the crossing is better.” Looking back we saw a party of several Icelanders galloping down the slope, led by a portly gentleman with a smiling countenance. We paused till he approached and were surprised to have him address us by name and add that he expected us to spend the night at his home. It was Árni Jónsson of Skútustaðir, Cave-Stead, the Dean of Mývatn, accompanied by his wife and three friends. They had just come from Akureyri, having stopped at the parsonage of Háls while we had been at Ljósavatn. From this moment until we reached his farm the ride was most enjoyable on account of the companionship of the Dean. Several years of his early life had been passed in North Dakota and he was well acquainted with the customs of the United States. He spoke English with fluency and had many questions to ask about America. We were glad to give him the information in return for the many questions we found necessary to ask him about Iceland and the customs of his people.

With sixteen ponies we made a merry showing as eight of us rode in single file at a full gallop over the undulating moor, now rising to the top of a ridge with a broad view of the country bordering the lake we were approaching, now descending into a gully rich in grass where we made the customary halt to rest the ponies. Towards evening we rode down to the Kráká, Crow-River, which we forded and soon afterwards arrived at the farm of the Dean. We were ushered into the sitting room, a separate room was provided for our luggage and we were given a large room over the Thinghús adjoining. The Thinghús in each Syssel, County, corresponds to the Court House in our Counties.

The children followed us about with some curiosity and were especially interested in our toilet preparations. They were excellently behaved and watched every chance to be of assistance. We enjoyed an excellent supper and that which made it especially agreeable was the fact that the Dean’s wife dined with us. This is a rare occurrence for strangers in Iceland. After supper we sat for a long time listening to the Dean’s account of his people. He was very obliging and afforded us much information relative to the conditions of the church, Icelandic politics, woman suffrage and education.

Weary with the eight hours in the saddle, Mrs. Russell retired while I roamed about the farm till midnight, examining the strange lava formations. Midnight? Yes, but bright as day and under a cloudless sky. When one is interested in the north of Iceland, he does not know when to go to bed. At the end of my long ramble I expected to find Mrs. Russell asleep, on the contrary she was sitting up in bed admiring the needlework on the sheets and pillow cases. The upper sheet had a hand crocheted insertion in Icelandic, Goða Nott, Sof ðu Rott, Good Night, Sleep Softly. One of the pillow slips was marked in the same fashion, Goða Nott, Pabbi, Good Night, Papa. The other was marked, with the similar Icelandic expression for Good Night, Mamma. We admired the skillful needlework and the amount of time and patience necessary to complete this remarkable set and admitted that the Dean’s wife possessed considerable skill, even among Icelandic women where the art of hand embroidery is far advanced. When we commented upon it, Mr. Jónsson, with a smile, called to him his little daughter of twelve and said,—

“This is the little lady who did that needle work. She did it while in the fields last summer and without our knowing anything about it. It was her Christmas present to father and mother.”

Several days later as we were packing the cases preparatory to our departure, this little girl approached and shyly presented to Mrs. Russell a package. Not knowing the contents it was accepted with the customary handshaking. When a chance moment offered it was slyly opened and lo! it was one of those pillow cases. We then protested against receiving so valuable a gift and one that had been devoted to a parent with a child’s love at Christmas time. Mr. Jónsson assured us that his daughter was sincere in her wish that we should take it home to the United States and that she would be happy to make another to complete the set. This pillow case, covering a pillow of genuine eider down, has since held a place of honor in our guest room and we never see it without recalling the bright faces and the hearty hospitality of Skútustaðir.