This fissure, as I have before said, extends through a recently-formed depression, in the direction N.N.E. to S.S.W., extending from about one mile north of the road from Grímstaðir to Reikjahlíð to a point bearing Jörundr 19° N., Búrfell 349° N.W. It had erupted in seven places with great violence, and had formed there conical hills, containing several craters. After inspecting these, I turned my back upon the line of steaming vents, having seen all that could be seen, and I was well contented with my little expedition. After a while we reached our horses by a short cut over the ancient lava, which had flowed partly from the Svínagjá and partly from the Mývatn hills, then returning to Grœnavatn, and proceeded thence to Stóruvellir the next day.
We left Stóruvellir amid a heavy gale and were accompanied by the farmer as far as Halldórstaðir where the priest, who spoke a little English, would not hear of our leaving without partaking of coffee, chocolate, or schnapps. We took leave here of the bóndi of Stóruvellir, who had treated us hospitably and had charged very moderately.
Leaving here we next made our way to Mýri, where lived an old man whose father was the first to cross the Sprengisandr, in 1810, as the south of Iceland previously had been always reached by crossing the Stórisandr. This old man was pleased to see me, and gladly gave me an account of the road, written by his father, to guide future travellers, and my informant I found was eighty-three years of age. Before leaving my new acquaintance I purchased a spoon of him said to be fifty years old. This was quite an ingenious novelty, for when unscrewed it divided into fifteen different pieces; I also bought a wooden roller which used to serve the purpose of a mangle a few centuries back, and a rude representation of the crucifixion in needlework upon green wadmal (Icelandic homespun cloth), which the old man told me had been worked by the nuns of an Icelandic convent long, long ago,—he could not say how long, but he knew that the banner was “eld gamalt” (very old). He also informed me that when he first went to Reykjavík for stock-fish no ships came to the north of Iceland, and that in Reykjavík coffee and sugar cost five marks (about 1s. 10½d.) per pound, while they could only obtain fifteen skillings (3½d.) per pound for their wool. The present price of these commodities, I may remark, is—coffee, three marks (1s. 1½d.), sugar, thirty-two to thirty-four skillings (6d. to 8d.) per pound—while they are now able to sell their wool at 1s. 1½d. per pound.
I sent Paul and Olgi on with the baggage while I, accompanied by the old man’s son, went a little out of the way to visit the waterfall of Alderjufoss, where the river Skjálfandifljót pours into a rift in an ancient lava stream, about forty-five feet deep. This sight is well worth going out of the way to see, as it is a much finer fall than the Godafoss.
The most remarkable feature about these falls, however, is the wall of rock over which they descend, the bottom of the wall being composed of perpendicular basaltic columns, overlaid by a compact basaltic lava of a very crystalline nature, while the columns themselves are of a compact stony basaltic lava, but in neither of the specimens I broke off could I find a single crystal. I am, however, inclined to think that both lavas are of identical composition, and of contemporaneous production.
Having satisfied my curiosity here I left the Alderjufoss behind, and rode quickly after Paul and Olgi, overtaking them not far from the lake of Ísholtsvatn, from whence a short ride brought us to the farm of Ísholt, which was inhabited by a bachelor brother and his three sisters. Here we enjoyed a good supper of char and potatoes (for the latter were now of an edible size), and a good night’s rest, preparatory to our journey across the Sprengisandr.
Although there are no fish in the Skjálfandifljót, there are plenty in Ísholtsvatn and the Fiskiá, which flows out of it into the Skjálfandifljót. I suppose this is on account of the turbid nature of the water in the latter, which is purely a glacial stream.
After resting a while here I left Ísholt in company with the farmer, and commenced our journey southwards, there being at the time a severe storm of wind from the N.W., bearing with it clouds of sand. On our way we paid a visit to the brother of the old man of Mýri, from whom I obtained some more curiosities in the shape of ancient spoons, one of which, like the other, could be separated into fifteen different pieces, and an old Prayer-book, printed at Hólar in 1742. This man lived at the farm of Mjófidalr (narrow valley) and had the reputation of being a good herb doctor. I found him pleased to see us, and before we left he treated us to a compound of schnapps and angelica root which was very refreshing. A fierce gale was blowing at the time from the S.W., and the sand was intolerable, even penetrating through the gauze of our snow spectacles, and almost blinding us; while at times the sand storm was so heavy that we were unable to see one another even when within touching distance. Our poor horses felt it very much, the eyes of some being completely closed up, so that when we reached to the grass hills to the north of Kiðagil, we were compelled to halt and bathe their eyes with water. As the road here lay over a series of stony hills, grown over in many places with moss and scanty grass, the dust became less troublesome, and therefore we were glad to alight in the evening at the song-famed Kiðagil (goats’ valley). The last grass to be found upon the north side of the Sprengisandr is in this valley, and it takes several hours’ hard riding before the next grass is reached.
This valley is fertilized by the river Kiðagilsá which runs through it, and empties itself into the Skjálfandifljót at this spot. The weather cleared beautifully in the evening, so I climbed to the summit of Kiðagilshnukur, which commands an extensive view towards the snowy heights of Arnarfells, the Tungufells, and the white slopes of the Vatna Jökull, with their black cones and buttresses protruding through the snow. To the N.E. stretched the country to the north of the Vatna Jökull, with the well-remembered mountains which I had traversed with so much interest, and the desert plains over which I had trudged for many a weary hour, sore-footed and tired. The wind had sunk to rest with the sun, and the serrated outline of the Dyngjufjöll grew darker and darker, beneath the heavy canopy of smoke which still hovered over them, while the neighbouring mountains grew more indistinct and shadowy as the light faded from the west.
My tent had been pitched in the valley below, the autumn nights had now commenced, and the fitful gleam of the aurora told me my summer work was almost ended. On looking around upon those old familiar scenes—it might be for the last time—my emotion was so great that my tongue, in its endeavours to give audible expression to the sentiments that filled my breast, exclaimed with all the enthusiasm my nature was capable of, “Farewell, farewell, dear old Northernland! I came to your rugged and barren shores an enthusiastic traveller, anxious and resolved to seek out the wonderful things hidden in your frozen casket; and having enjoyed your simple and honest hospitalities and gratified my ambitious curiosity, I must now bid you adieu, bearing with me an affectionate remembrance of your craters and geysers, your mountains of eternal snow, and, above all, of the kind and faithful services rendered me by your hardy and generous sons and daughters.”