I have decided that I'll write a regular blog. It's one way I might be able to locate my writer's mojo, rather than sitting around waiting for inspiration. And to try and train myself to avoid cliches like that when I should be digging into my writer's brain: delving into, scrooping through the contours of my creative conscience for when I finally get around to putting 'pen to paper'. Is that irony? The words 'putting pen to paper' is also a bit hackneyed. Perhaps, before I sit at my keyboard, fingers flexed and cracked, poised fizzingly expectant, might look a little better - if slightly hyperbolic. Anyway, I'm trying to warm myself up a bit. Get the blood to flush through my system: swill through the brain - clear out those inspiration clog ups, sluice through those temptations of indolence.
There's always source material. I recently came back from Iceland. I took many photographs as you might imagine: dramatically photogenic scenes such as the waterfall at Gullfoss, and the dependable Strokkur at the eponymous Geyser. Unlike the others, this one blows every 5 to 10 minutes whilst threatening to suck in any foolish tourist who get too close to the bubbles (some do) and blasting them out with rubberized bones and flayed, or perhaps no skin. And the Aura Boleros: God's own light beam show (though you will have to provide the soundtrack - God doesn't do musical backdrops), which will put in an appearance if it's not raining. But I didn't write any of my experiences down.
Time was I wrote blogs about all the places I visited. I can remember writing a few light humoured pieces about Tunisia when we holidayed there a few years ago. In the first week we didn't get out much so I concentrated on reporting on things like: how the hotels are now frequented by newly rich Russians, whose impoverished nutritional heritage seems to be sticking around around like droplets of treacle matted in the beards of czars. I remember noting something to the effect that it was to see them in the hotels restaurants, loading up their plates from the meal buffets until they resembled Desperate Dan style sausage and mash platters. And how every female under the age of 70 dressed each evening as if they were members of an ABBA tribute band; and the males who either looked like refuges from a Brotherhood of Man mash-up, or extras from Godfather 2, the musical.
Later on when we did get out and saw other things, I wrote about the desperate state of the towns, the worrying proximity of Libya and Algeria (you could clearly see the mountain ranges that merged both east and west) and the various dangers associated with a night spent in the desert. And of course, I included the obligatory camel ride, the preliminaries of which for us involved the skillful avoidance of one particularly chippy one who was threatening to do some serious harm to any one brave or daft enough to choose it from a line of snorting, farting, restive really quite pissed off (talk about having the hump) camels waiting with their shouty, agitated and importunate guides.
And then there was Bangkok, Thailand, from where I sent an email home and talked about how in a moments of idleness I sat watching from my hotel balcony at the Nai Lert Park hotel which overlooks the Chao Phraya river noticing that: ' the locals boat food merchants, their boats laden with fruit, vegetables and spices - piled high like offerings to their Gods, plying their trade on the churning brown river on boats partly submerged from the weight of their freight, and looking like they'd slid in from another world.' And how: ' they ponderously steered their boats into their watery trading slots, and that: 'once their loads were relinquished, roaring off like like demons to somewhere unknown to restock, turning the river into frothing whirlpools and scummy waves.'
I admit, that here's nothing special there, but at least I was writing: at least I was keeping the creative muscle from wasting away. If I can trace these old blogs I might well add them to this selection. But for now I've let the habit slide and I need to write some new ones. Unfortunately I have very few notes about Iceland now and my memory is failing (well I have had another birthday since going, so there are excuses, however unremarkable), but that's not going to stop me.
Time was I wrote blogs about all the places I visited. I can remember writing a few light humoured pieces about Tunisia when we holidayed there a few years ago. In the first week we didn't get out much so I concentrated on reporting on things like: how the hotels are now frequented by newly rich Russians, whose impoverished nutritional heritage seems to be sticking around around like droplets of treacle matted in the beards of czars. I remember noting something to the effect that it was to see them in the hotels restaurants, loading up their plates from the meal buffets until they resembled Desperate Dan style sausage and mash platters. And how every female under the age of 70 dressed each evening as if they were members of an ABBA tribute band; and the males who either looked like refuges from a Brotherhood of Man mash-up, or extras from Godfather 2, the musical.
Later on when we did get out and saw other things, I wrote about the desperate state of the towns, the worrying proximity of Libya and Algeria (you could clearly see the mountain ranges that merged both east and west) and the various dangers associated with a night spent in the desert. And of course, I included the obligatory camel ride, the preliminaries of which for us involved the skillful avoidance of one particularly chippy one who was threatening to do some serious harm to any one brave or daft enough to choose it from a line of snorting, farting, restive really quite pissed off (talk about having the hump) camels waiting with their shouty, agitated and importunate guides.
And then there was Bangkok, Thailand, from where I sent an email home and talked about how in a moments of idleness I sat watching from my hotel balcony at the Nai Lert Park hotel which overlooks the Chao Phraya river noticing that: ' the locals boat food merchants, their boats laden with fruit, vegetables and spices - piled high like offerings to their Gods, plying their trade on the churning brown river on boats partly submerged from the weight of their freight, and looking like they'd slid in from another world.' And how: ' they ponderously steered their boats into their watery trading slots, and that: 'once their loads were relinquished, roaring off like like demons to somewhere unknown to restock, turning the river into frothing whirlpools and scummy waves.'
I admit, that here's nothing special there, but at least I was writing: at least I was keeping the creative muscle from wasting away. If I can trace these old blogs I might well add them to this selection. But for now I've let the habit slide and I need to write some new ones. Unfortunately I have very few notes about Iceland now and my memory is failing (well I have had another birthday since going, so there are excuses, however unremarkable), but that's not going to stop me.
I chose to visit Iceland because it had for a while been a destination that appealed to me. One of those countries that hover around the edges of one's imagination for half a lifetime before perhaps, finally being chosen. Many people simply would never to go there - not because it's inherently bad (although perceptions of awful weather, ash clouds, infertile lava fields, and cruelty to animals might be sufficient for some not to look too hard in its direction), but because it sits desolately alone, an ink spot-splat on the map in the mid Atlantic, just off the coast of Greenland (which really is inhospitable to most people's minds), and part way towards Canada and the USA (why not go there instead?)
The island of Iceland offers nothing in terms of good weather (the old British thing of chasing the sun is alive and well), and is perceived as being horrifyingly expensive, compounded by the banking crash of 2008 when many Brits lost money in Icelandic saving schemes and the ongoing refusal by the banks and the Icelandic government to compensate savers. These people were seeking unbelievable savers rates at the time, so not everyone is sympathetic, the rates were unbelievable for a reason it seems. But Iceland has other delights that you simply will not find anywhere else on Earth and it probably should be visited by everyone.
For a start it's not far away - look at Scotland. Think about the Outer Hebrides. Although a bit of a by-word for miles away, the notion of the Hebrides as being the ends of the Earth is only ever suggested in a frivolous, parochial sense: 'a job's finally come through, trouble is it's in the Outer Hebrides!' (it's 5 miles north of London), otherwise the Pitcairn Islands or Tristan Decuna would be used in these kinds of perception statements. All you need to do is fly over the Outer Hebrides keeping the Shetlands to your right, then keep going for a bit. Shoot past the Faroe islands remembering they're not ours but Danish albeit with a bit of residual Scottish blood which enlivens some of their traditions, like bagpipes and being rubbish at football. Keep going a bit longer - though not much longer or you'll miss it and end on the shores of Greenland (you wouldn't want to do that), look down and you'll see it. Iceland. Plonked in the the middle of the sea - a little fat specky-eyed fat kid thing of an island - banished and ignored, floating in a vacuum of greyness - gurgling and excreting like a new born baby, which of course in geological terms it is.
It's not that far from us. Despite being so different from the UK, it's roots are very different. The UK and Ireland split off from Europe. Iceland split from Greenland. The divorce settlement was amicable. Half of Iceland gets to stay Greenland - even the odd polar bear can drift in on the ice flows between the two; The bottom bit with its more benevolent coast line and slightly kinder climate is more gets to be more like the Highlands of Scotland - but far more dramatic and without the underlying suspicion about the English. A bit more European a little less Arctic. That appears to have been the the deal.
You can see that the whole thing was a bit of Greenland once because the north of Iceland is still like a mini version of it: glaciers, snow. Snow glaciers. Don't think of going there, it has the north pole running through its DNA, and it shows. It's a place of expeditions. It's a frozen moonscape. It's not really for holidays - more for challenges I would think. There's enough in the south of the country to keep the casual tourist interested. Everything you want from Iceland can be found down there - the north of Iceland is the still the pole - and that's for another day, preferably in the summer.
Iceland is not Greenland though. Greenland is huge. Massive. If it wasn't for Canada we'd consider Greenland another planet, such is its size and hostility to supporting life. A frozen wasteland, pock-marked with thick-blooded, blubber worshiping people living in crummy wooden houses stuck on the rims of sea-wrecked villages. Probably look nice in the snow, until it melts - then the whole thing looks like an aftermath of a 10 year old tsunami disaster with no-one really getting to grips with the tidying up. But Iceland remains a bit of it. Drifting away from the mother ship, made to sit on the naughty step - not quite able to rise to the impossibility of sustaining life like the rest of the land and shunted off to try its luck at being a successful country on its own. I might be wrong about this. Some people believe it emerged in a fizz of bubbles gasping like a waking whale.
It's not that far from us. Despite being so different from the UK, it's roots are very different. The UK and Ireland split off from Europe. Iceland split from Greenland. The divorce settlement was amicable. Half of Iceland gets to stay Greenland - even the odd polar bear can drift in on the ice flows between the two; The bottom bit with its more benevolent coast line and slightly kinder climate is more gets to be more like the Highlands of Scotland - but far more dramatic and without the underlying suspicion about the English. A bit more European a little less Arctic. That appears to have been the the deal.
You can see that the whole thing was a bit of Greenland once because the north of Iceland is still like a mini version of it: glaciers, snow. Snow glaciers. Don't think of going there, it has the north pole running through its DNA, and it shows. It's a place of expeditions. It's a frozen moonscape. It's not really for holidays - more for challenges I would think. There's enough in the south of the country to keep the casual tourist interested. Everything you want from Iceland can be found down there - the north of Iceland is the still the pole - and that's for another day, preferably in the summer.
Iceland is not Greenland though. Greenland is huge. Massive. If it wasn't for Canada we'd consider Greenland another planet, such is its size and hostility to supporting life. A frozen wasteland, pock-marked with thick-blooded, blubber worshiping people living in crummy wooden houses stuck on the rims of sea-wrecked villages. Probably look nice in the snow, until it melts - then the whole thing looks like an aftermath of a 10 year old tsunami disaster with no-one really getting to grips with the tidying up. But Iceland remains a bit of it. Drifting away from the mother ship, made to sit on the naughty step - not quite able to rise to the impossibility of sustaining life like the rest of the land and shunted off to try its luck at being a successful country on its own. I might be wrong about this. Some people believe it emerged in a fizz of bubbles gasping like a waking whale.
So my journey concentrated on southern Iceland: Reykjavik and its associated places. Everyone stays in or near or just a little north or just a little east of Reykjavik - it makes perfect sense. After Reykjavik comes undulating lava fields that go on forever, cracking and fizzing beneath the surface. There's only one important road really: the ring road which does precisely that - encircles the island - which includes the frozen north which you'll want to avoid unless it's summer. But if you go up there there's nothing to see for miles and miles, small as the island is.But there is lots to see in Iceland. That's the thing - but you always need to head in the right direction - always remember, go north but don't go to the north.
In Reykjavik itself there are things to keep you interested. The town is pretty so-so, rather like an expanded fishing village - though I guess Plymouth and Bristol started that way. Maybe even New York and London. But it hasn't quite made the jump into international city status. It's still an expanded fishing village that didn't really expand that much. The geothermal pools on its outskirts however would be near the top of any of those mega city shopping lists if there was a fire or car boot sale with all of Reykjavik's visitor attractions being held. The pools, hot and blue with heat hazes smoking off the surface looking like the ghosts of Icelandic fishermen. To swim in them is like taking a bath with a few tons of assorted Swedes, Danes, Dutch and Russians. Hardly any Brits seem to bother - maybe we are too dirty a race to want to spend our holidays being dunked in a communal tub full of nationals who can't wait to get naked in front of foreigners. You can't swim, you just marinade - your body's warmed by the thermals in the water, but your exposed head feels like ice: it can easily feel as if some one as screwed a G clamp to your head and hammered a foot long icy stalactite through your ears once you're in, so it's a good idea to plunge your head under the warming water every now and then to allow it to thaw.
Once you' feel comfortable enough in the water you can bob your way to the little sulfur stations at the sides and plaster yourself in white grey muck that has allegedly restorative and curative powers beneficial of anything from skin complaints to arthritis - though you will have to try to avoid the young Germans who, because you're technically allowed to drink alcohol while you're in there, are damn well going to try, so you have little clusters hanging around the watery hole exclusion zones talking and laughing about whatever it is they talk and laugh about about when they're on holiday. Unclean Brits in their buttoned up swimming costumes probably.
Driving along bottom half of Iceland, the roads are dead. there's nothing to see for miles - no buildings, no trees, not much traffic. But there are chance encounters - the likes of which would take up whole chapters in any visit Britain book. Here, they're just side shows - if you want a real waterfall you've got to head for Gullfoss. Remember that film Prometheus - at the beginning? Too amazing to be real? It wasn't CGi - you don't need such artifice in Iceland, it was real; but long after our visit, we learnt it wasn't Gullfoss but Dettifoss, further up the north eastern part of the island, impassable for normal vehicles on the early spring roads. But Gullfoss is spectacular, it could easily have been chosen.
Actually, Gulfoss does at least does put in an appearances in western popular culture: it appears on the front cover of the album Porcupine by Echo and the Bunnymen. That's what happens when you get spoilt for choice. If Gullfoss was in, say, Dartmoor or the Yorkshire Moors or the Malverns, it would be world renowned. Concerts would take place there, it would appear in hundreds of TV and film productions, thousands of TV commercials and advertising campaigns. Millions of pounds would be generated by its existence - it would rival London and Stratford Upon Avon as the most visited place in Britain, the roads withing ten miles of the place would be permanently jammed and you'd need to take out a bank loan to pay for car parking or lunch. But because there are loads of waterfalls in Iceland and it's not quite as high as Dettifoss, it's a bit part player on Iceland's 'Golden Mile' - which in itself is hardly known about unless you're there or preparing a 'visit Iceland itinerary.'
Gullfoss really is spectacular though, and you can park right in front of it as a casual stop off. It doesn't have the height of Dettifoss, but it's spectacular all the same. It's a kind of undulating watery staircase which twists and turns, each level wider and more thunderous than the next. Each tier in its structure forces the water to tumble ferociously into a series of convergent cascades that roar towards you as you stand watching the show, open mouthed. You feel it might almost reach out and scoop you in along the way if it can't draw you in with its magnetic power and terrible beauty.
At some point whilst on the road east from the city, you should be able to spot some of Iceland's notorious volcanoes: It's along this road (the ring road again) that after a couple of hours or so, if you glance to your left you'll see a mountainous range that includes the Eyjafjallajökull, that troublesome beast from a couple of years ago when the term volcanic ash cloud and cancelled flights all over Europe was first mentioned. It's all part of a mini glacier area that you can visit. You can''t really see the volcano from the road unless it's blowing - and if it's blowing you probably shouldn't be in the neighbourhood - but you can take the gritty, pock-marked volcanic rocky tracks off the road (if you have a 4 wheel drive and there's little point in hiring a car that isn't) and stop off at the little cafe that sits bravely underneath it amid millions of charred chips that have rained down on this area for millennia. It makes you think that maybe one day, in a thousand years time, the cafe and its customers might resemble a mini Pompeii - except ash preserved images of a Portakabin, three huddled coffee drinkers, half a dozen rickety chairs, and one car with over sized wheels wouldn't be quite as spectacular as the victims of Roman time Vesuvius.
An interesting country to visit and probably one I will re-visit sometime in the future - perhaps next time I'll go during the summer months and venture north - I have a feeling that if Iceland is a little bit like another world, the north part is another world all of its own.
In Reykjavik itself there are things to keep you interested. The town is pretty so-so, rather like an expanded fishing village - though I guess Plymouth and Bristol started that way. Maybe even New York and London. But it hasn't quite made the jump into international city status. It's still an expanded fishing village that didn't really expand that much. The geothermal pools on its outskirts however would be near the top of any of those mega city shopping lists if there was a fire or car boot sale with all of Reykjavik's visitor attractions being held. The pools, hot and blue with heat hazes smoking off the surface looking like the ghosts of Icelandic fishermen. To swim in them is like taking a bath with a few tons of assorted Swedes, Danes, Dutch and Russians. Hardly any Brits seem to bother - maybe we are too dirty a race to want to spend our holidays being dunked in a communal tub full of nationals who can't wait to get naked in front of foreigners. You can't swim, you just marinade - your body's warmed by the thermals in the water, but your exposed head feels like ice: it can easily feel as if some one as screwed a G clamp to your head and hammered a foot long icy stalactite through your ears once you're in, so it's a good idea to plunge your head under the warming water every now and then to allow it to thaw.
Once you' feel comfortable enough in the water you can bob your way to the little sulfur stations at the sides and plaster yourself in white grey muck that has allegedly restorative and curative powers beneficial of anything from skin complaints to arthritis - though you will have to try to avoid the young Germans who, because you're technically allowed to drink alcohol while you're in there, are damn well going to try, so you have little clusters hanging around the watery hole exclusion zones talking and laughing about whatever it is they talk and laugh about about when they're on holiday. Unclean Brits in their buttoned up swimming costumes probably.
Driving along bottom half of Iceland, the roads are dead. there's nothing to see for miles - no buildings, no trees, not much traffic. But there are chance encounters - the likes of which would take up whole chapters in any visit Britain book. Here, they're just side shows - if you want a real waterfall you've got to head for Gullfoss. Remember that film Prometheus - at the beginning? Too amazing to be real? It wasn't CGi - you don't need such artifice in Iceland, it was real; but long after our visit, we learnt it wasn't Gullfoss but Dettifoss, further up the north eastern part of the island, impassable for normal vehicles on the early spring roads. But Gullfoss is spectacular, it could easily have been chosen.
Actually, Gulfoss does at least does put in an appearances in western popular culture: it appears on the front cover of the album Porcupine by Echo and the Bunnymen. That's what happens when you get spoilt for choice. If Gullfoss was in, say, Dartmoor or the Yorkshire Moors or the Malverns, it would be world renowned. Concerts would take place there, it would appear in hundreds of TV and film productions, thousands of TV commercials and advertising campaigns. Millions of pounds would be generated by its existence - it would rival London and Stratford Upon Avon as the most visited place in Britain, the roads withing ten miles of the place would be permanently jammed and you'd need to take out a bank loan to pay for car parking or lunch. But because there are loads of waterfalls in Iceland and it's not quite as high as Dettifoss, it's a bit part player on Iceland's 'Golden Mile' - which in itself is hardly known about unless you're there or preparing a 'visit Iceland itinerary.'
Gullfoss really is spectacular though, and you can park right in front of it as a casual stop off. It doesn't have the height of Dettifoss, but it's spectacular all the same. It's a kind of undulating watery staircase which twists and turns, each level wider and more thunderous than the next. Each tier in its structure forces the water to tumble ferociously into a series of convergent cascades that roar towards you as you stand watching the show, open mouthed. You feel it might almost reach out and scoop you in along the way if it can't draw you in with its magnetic power and terrible beauty.
At some point whilst on the road east from the city, you should be able to spot some of Iceland's notorious volcanoes: It's along this road (the ring road again) that after a couple of hours or so, if you glance to your left you'll see a mountainous range that includes the Eyjafjallajökull, that troublesome beast from a couple of years ago when the term volcanic ash cloud and cancelled flights all over Europe was first mentioned. It's all part of a mini glacier area that you can visit. You can''t really see the volcano from the road unless it's blowing - and if it's blowing you probably shouldn't be in the neighbourhood - but you can take the gritty, pock-marked volcanic rocky tracks off the road (if you have a 4 wheel drive and there's little point in hiring a car that isn't) and stop off at the little cafe that sits bravely underneath it amid millions of charred chips that have rained down on this area for millennia. It makes you think that maybe one day, in a thousand years time, the cafe and its customers might resemble a mini Pompeii - except ash preserved images of a Portakabin, three huddled coffee drinkers, half a dozen rickety chairs, and one car with over sized wheels wouldn't be quite as spectacular as the victims of Roman time Vesuvius.
An interesting country to visit and probably one I will re-visit sometime in the future - perhaps next time I'll go during the summer months and venture north - I have a feeling that if Iceland is a little bit like another world, the north part is another world all of its own.
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