Steadily we climbed the mountain in a driving wind with some rain. The wind blew cold from off the Skagafjörðr, Cape-Fiord. The ocean was clear and an excellent view was had of Drangey, Lonely-Island. It was on this island that Grettir, the Strong, the favorite hero of Iceland, met his death at the hands of his enemies. He had been an outlaw for many years. Sometimes he made his home in the lava waste between Hoffs Jökull and Láng Jökull. I visited the cave in 1913 which is marked by several cairns. At one time he lived at Arnavatn, Eagle-Lake and at another he dwelt in the remote fastness of Thórisdalr at the south end of Láng Jökull. In the summer of 1913 I went to the entrance to this fastness. It is the finest retreat for an outlaw that any country could possibly provide in its natural configurations. The Saga of Grettir relates that he found his way over the lava wastes of Skjalbreith, Broad-Shield, by sighting the summit of Skjalbreith through a hole in a block of lava and noting the intervening points of prominence. In the old days the youth of Iceland used to assemble on the level grass plain at the extreme northern end of Thingvellir during the annual meeting of the Althing to hold their sports. At one time Grettir came down from Thórisdalr in disguise and entered into the wrestling. One by one he threw all the champions from the different sections of Iceland and did it with apparent ease. The maidens sat upon the high conglomerate knob overlooking the plain and saw with sorrow their respective favorites beaten in the feats of strength. The seat upon which they sat is known as Meijarsoeti, Maidens’-Seat. It was not till Grettir left the arena and climbed the narrow pass which runs upward beside Meijarsoeti that it was discovered that the unknown wrestler was in truth Grettir, though some of the wise ones had hinted as much.
The story of Grettir’s life on Drangey is of great interest but too long for a full recital. If the reader desires to know more of the real hero of Iceland in the old days and the one most often mentioned at the present time he should read the Grettir Saga. It will give an account of his wanderings, his conflict with the ghost and his harder struggles with the men who desired to take his life because he had refused to leave his native land after the Althing had outlawed him with the greater outlawry. Drangey is an island in the middle of the great fiord and the sides are so steep that it is possible to ascend only at one place. With two men he took up his abode here and lived upon the sheep which the farmers had put upon the rock for summer pasture. The Saga relates that on a Christmas night his fire went out and that he swam to the mainland to replenish it. He entered the house by the shore and was recognized by an old woman. Several men, the foes of Grettir, were making merry in an adjoining room, but the old woman pitied him and, because it was Christmas night, gave him the coals and allowed him to depart in peace. Placing the fire in a small kettle, he swam back to Drangey and rekindled the fire in his stone stove.
The temperature was only three degrees above freezing when we descended the western slope of the mountain and arrived at the farm, Bolstaðarhlið, Wood-Farm-Slope. There was a long delay in getting supper but it came at last in the shape of a hot lamb stew and we were provided with comfortable beds. We were told that in the morning we could have oatmeal porridge, and, since it had been many days that we had had anything of this nature, we looked forward with pleasure to the breakfast. Having a long ride before us on the morrow, we solemnly arranged with Ólafur to start by eight-thirty. He agreed to have the ponies and the cases in readiness. We had often held these solemn councils but a stray pony, a broken pack saddle, a lost shoe or some other quite common mishap had always prevented our starting before one to three hours after the appointed time. This morning it was not the fault of Ólafur and there were none of the usual causes of delay. It was that oatmeal porridge and even the placid guide was disturbed at the delay. Well, at ten we sat down to enjoy that oatmeal with real thick, sweet cream in abundance. The combination was delicious as the oatmeal was thoroughly cooked. Then, I pulled out a long black hair and carefully concealed the presence of it from my companion. Soon I found another and this one was white. I could no longer refrain from communicating my discoveries and so I stated:—
“I have discovered exactly how long this oatmeal was cooked.”
“Well, how long was it cooked and why this smile?”
I replied,—“The woman who started to prepare this porridge had black hair, but when she had finished it her hair had turned white.”
After a short ride we came to the Blandá, Mingled-Waters, which was so swollen that it was necessary for us to proceed to the mouth of the river at Blönduós where there is a substantial bridge. The ride from this trading village south to the farm, Hnausar, Rough-Ground, was in a hard rain with the thermometer at one degree above freezing and with occasional gusts of snow that swept down from the ridge at our right with the howling wind. With our heads bowed low over the saddle and the wind at our backs we saw little of the valley save that at the feet of the ponies. The wind increased and the storm drove up the valley from the Arctic Ocean with sufficient violence to drive from our minds everything save thoughts of a shelter. At seven-thirty we halted at the gate of the tún while Ólafur sought the bondé to ask the customary questions about food, shelter and grass for the ponies. I have never had the request refused but politeness demands that the traveller remain without the turf wall until the request is made of the farmer, or if he is absent, of his wife or oldest son. The Icelander within his turf wall is like a baron in his castle and as such must be recognized. Once the questions are asked the request is granted and the traveller then is placed at ease with all the freedom that is necessary.
The good wife built a fire of turf and sheep manure in the tall Norwegian stove in the guest room, took all our wet clothing to her kitchen to dry and prepared for us a satisfying and tasty supper. She kept the fire replenished till midnight and I remember no fire that seemed so good as this one. Before the fire was built and we stood about the cold stove with chattering teeth I knew something of how Grettir felt when he discovered that all his coals had turned to ashes out there on Drangey.
It rained and snowed by turns all night and at eleven when I looked out upon the farm the haycocks wore white capes. A small bedroom opened out of the guest room and the water came through its turf roof in many places in streams, in fact everywhere except upon the bed and why that was exempt I do not know.
The morning broke cold and windy with falling snow and the uncut grass protruded its emerald green through the white blanket. We looked towards the south, listened to the gusty wind, glanced at the lowering heavens and returned to the heated stove. It was Sunday and we decided to let the ponies have a day of rest. They, poor beasts, were not grazing but stood with drooping heads and tails turned towards the wind. The ponies of Iceland! In no other place in the world will horses thrive under such treatment as they receive in this land. They are ridden or driven with their heavy packs all day, often upon grassless mountain slopes, fording deep and cold rivers, often swimming, often laboring in long reaches of sand or plunging in grassy bogs. When the work of the day is finished they are simply turned adrift to care for themselves. They are never groomed, never given any grain, never covered with a blanket; they have no sheltering stalls. They are simply turned loose in the storm as well as in the sunshine, or, into what they dread worse than any storm, among the swarms of savage midges. When the grass is good they are happy; they never knew any other life. What steed of English or American stables would care to become an Icelandic pony, to work all day for the chance to graze all night, and then, as I have so often witnessed, have their master end the days work in a dreary sand waste where willow leaves and scanty sedges offer the only forage?