a natural gore-flickâthe country scattered with the innards of the earth. KeflavÃk Airport, outside ReykjavÃk, was overrun with tourists jostling towards the luggage carousel. Tourists decked in climbing gear, preparing to hike through the lava plains, across the spacescapes, across the brilliant orange pastel sands of the sulphur bays. They stood, watching backpacks turning circles, everything stamped with a sticker: the Volcano Experience Inc., Arctic Tours, TM.
I had been travelling for a day, from Aberdeen to London, and then from London to Iceland. But it still seemed indecently fast, when I thought of the Victorians in their cramped steamships, bitterly seasick, finding the arrival in Iceland an enormous relief. I had landed into a rainstorm, but I was wrapped in waterproofs, sitting in a bus to ReykjavÃk. The rain slapped against the windows. The tourists were slightly sodden; we were all sitting wetly on our bags, rustling in waterproof layers. As the bus moved across the lava plains, the country was grey. The sea was blanched and tepid. The dry grass stretched to the sea; there were flatlands where horses grazed. Low shrubs took the place of trees. A white stone church stood on a hill. The road ran past the serried stacks of flat-topped mountains, rising from the shrublands and the rock plains.
A plain of cracked earth stretched away, littered with black ash rocks, coated with thick moss. The ground was always uneven; it looked like an immense sculpture, representing sultry waves. A crazed piece of national art, it was motion petrified, retaining something of the dynamism of rocks that have succumbed to the force of the lava burning beneath them. Above the spikes of the lava plain, the mountains rose and the grey clouds moved slowly above. There were mountains shaped like explosions, extruding sharp points. There were long-backed ridges, draped in cloud vapour, and clear cones, their sides neatly chiselled.
The land was rain-drenched; the afternoon was cloaked in mist. On the bus I stared through the smeared windows at the lava fields. The city of ReykjavÃk stretched languidly along the coast, dwindling into low-rise concrete at the edges, crowded in the centre around a small lake. The suburbs were full of American-style diners, mall-strips interspersed with trees. The sea was cold white, hammered flat by a grey sky. The centre of the city was made of corrugated iron, its small houses pressed closely together. The streets were teeming with drenched travellers, shuddering at bus stops in their wax jackets and woollen hats, or staring damply into lighted shop windows. Stepping off the bus, I walked through ReykjavÃk into the Parliament Square, where there was a Café Paris, an art nouveau hotel and a green-stained statue. The light shook across the city; the pink tips of the mountains were silhouetted against the cold sky. HallgrÃms Church was brightly lit, its main tower decked with flashy lighting, looking like a pushy cousin of the Chrysler Building in New York. There was a revolving restaurant, balanced on a great stack of towers, like a stylized sculpture of a mushroom. I reached the Town Hall, built in glowering space station style, its black form reflected on the waters of the Pond, a lake in the centre of the town.
I walked through the evening. The wind swept across the waters of the lake, distorting the reflection of the buildings. Arctic skuas shrieked across the water. There were signs to Viking sites, to the Saga Museum, to the National Gallery, to the Volcano Show: âYou will be amazed as the earth explodes before your eyes.â As the whine of planes above the city died into the damp evening I followed the sign to the Volcano Show. The Volcano Show was offering a glimpse of the natural weirdness of Iceland. It was like a circus sideshow, the sort of grotesque turn the Victorians might have enjoyed. âFire and Ice!â said the sign. âYou will not believe your
I had been travelling for a day, from Aberdeen to London, and then from London to Iceland. But it still seemed indecently fast, when I thought of the Victorians in their cramped steamships, bitterly seasick, finding the arrival in Iceland an enormous relief. I had landed into a rainstorm, but I was wrapped in waterproofs, sitting in a bus to ReykjavÃk. The rain slapped against the windows. The tourists were slightly sodden; we were all sitting wetly on our bags, rustling in waterproof layers. As the bus moved across the lava plains, the country was grey. The sea was blanched and tepid. The dry grass stretched to the sea; there were flatlands where horses grazed. Low shrubs took the place of trees. A white stone church stood on a hill. The road ran past the serried stacks of flat-topped mountains, rising from the shrublands and the rock plains.
A plain of cracked earth stretched away, littered with black ash rocks, coated with thick moss. The ground was always uneven; it looked like an immense sculpture, representing sultry waves. A crazed piece of national art, it was motion petrified, retaining something of the dynamism of rocks that have succumbed to the force of the lava burning beneath them. Above the spikes of the lava plain, the mountains rose and the grey clouds moved slowly above. There were mountains shaped like explosions, extruding sharp points. There were long-backed ridges, draped in cloud vapour, and clear cones, their sides neatly chiselled.
The land was rain-drenched; the afternoon was cloaked in mist. On the bus I stared through the smeared windows at the lava fields. The city of ReykjavÃk stretched languidly along the coast, dwindling into low-rise concrete at the edges, crowded in the centre around a small lake. The suburbs were full of American-style diners, mall-strips interspersed with trees. The sea was cold white, hammered flat by a grey sky. The centre of the city was made of corrugated iron, its small houses pressed closely together. The streets were teeming with drenched travellers, shuddering at bus stops in their wax jackets and woollen hats, or staring damply into lighted shop windows. Stepping off the bus, I walked through ReykjavÃk into the Parliament Square, where there was a Café Paris, an art nouveau hotel and a green-stained statue. The light shook across the city; the pink tips of the mountains were silhouetted against the cold sky. HallgrÃms Church was brightly lit, its main tower decked with flashy lighting, looking like a pushy cousin of the Chrysler Building in New York. There was a revolving restaurant, balanced on a great stack of towers, like a stylized sculpture of a mushroom. I reached the Town Hall, built in glowering space station style, its black form reflected on the waters of the Pond, a lake in the centre of the town.
I walked through the evening. The wind swept across the waters of the lake, distorting the reflection of the buildings. Arctic skuas shrieked across the water. There were signs to Viking sites, to the Saga Museum, to the National Gallery, to the Volcano Show: âYou will be amazed as the earth explodes before your eyes.â As the whine of planes above the city died into the damp evening I followed the sign to the Volcano Show. The Volcano Show was offering a glimpse of the natural weirdness of Iceland. It was like a circus sideshow, the sort of grotesque turn the Victorians might have enjoyed. âFire and Ice!â said the sign. âYou will not believe your
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