All right, stop, collaborate and listen
Nov. 13th, 2006 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaA last burst of Icelandic documentation. There are many things I haven't written about, but I feel I should be realistic about how much more I'll get round to recording (never mind how much more you're prepared to wade through). Accordingly, a couple of highlights:
Þingvellir, the site of the Icelandic parliament ("Þing") from 930 to (on and off) the 19thC, is now a National Park. If you're wondering, the "Þ" character is pronounced "Th", like in "Thing".
I expected something akin to, say, wandering round Vindolanda on The Wall: very vestigial ruins, occasional bits of stonework and not a lot else. However, it turns out that the Þing was much more transitory, more of a festival than a building. There are no ruins, because there were no buildings. There are some humpy bits of grass which are the remains of some of the cheiftains' booths, but with the best will in the world they are, to the naked eye, slightly humpy bits of grass. The sign boards littered round the site talk proudly about the Law Speaker standing on the Law Rock to recite the laws of the land, before admitting slightly sheepishly that actually no one has much of a clue which rock is the Law Rock.
However, Þingvellir is a thoroughly lovely place to visit. The signboards are informative, but more than that it's an interesting area in itself. The valley is formed from the rift between two tectonic plates, and everywhere there are minor rifts, rock ledges, and water-filled canyons. In early evening, out of tourist season, the place was more or less deserted and very, very silent.
We padded gently about, watching the sun go down and turn the hills pink. We skirted the small church, threw coins into one of the chasms (the still, dark water glitters quietly with submerged wealth) and eventually climbed up in the darkness to visit the waterfall. I think Þingvellir is one of the most peaceful places I've ever been to.
Incidentally, just before leaving I observed that, despite Snorri's dashboard thermometer reporting sub-zero temperatures, my breath could not be seen condensing in the air. Subsequent investigations into this caused a slightly odd sight of a pair of tourists huffing and puffing into the air for the next few days - but not once at any temperature did either of us see a cloud of breath. Why ? Why does breath not condense in Iceland ? Is it to do with dry air ? If so, why is air so much dryer there than here ?
And finally, the sight officially voted Top Thing Of The Holiday:
Jökulsárlón is a glacial lake, a large area of meltwater which hangs around between one of the snouts of the Vatnajökull glacier and the sea. Meltwater and, er, icebergs. Hundreds of 'em.
The bergs are mostly blue-green, some are black, and occasional bits are the white I'd always imagined icebergs to be. The really huge ones appear to sit still in the lagoon, the smaller race each other down the currents, colliding and breaking up as they go. The wind, and currents and probably a hundred other factors I don't know about, have carved them into strangely swooping organic shapes, and they look utterly beautiful.
Shortly after we'd arrived, we observed that two bergs about the size of cars were on a collision course; sure enough we got to watch the world's slo.o.o.owest crash as their hidden underwater sections met, causing the icebergs to roll away, sections splintering off and wedging against each other. For the next couple of hours we wandered up and down the shore, alternately admiring the majestic surroundings and cheering on lumps of ice that looked as if they might collide.
Washed up on the shingle at the lake's edge I found small pieces of ice, all flawlessly clear. Somehow, it seemed hard to believe they were naturally occuring; the dirty black bergs looked much more convincing as parts of a glacier.
Ice has its own peculiar sound, an unexpectedly melodious, echoing noise almost like whale song. I've heard ice described as "groaning" before, but I hadn't expected such a warm, friendly sound.
Eventually, observing that it was getting dark and we were a long way from home, we dragged ourselves away. I'd have happily sat watching the ice for another few hours. Had the tourist boats been running, I'd have loved to have gone out on a tour of the lake. I think, more than anything else, it's just utterly unlike anything I've ever seen before. I've never seen an iceberg, let alone an entire lagoon full of them.
Photos are now returned from the developers, they'll be on display when I have the chance to sort and select and so on.
Previously: Waterfalls, Volcanic Stuff, Rocks, Þings.
Þingvellir, the site of the Icelandic parliament ("Þing") from 930 to (on and off) the 19thC, is now a National Park. If you're wondering, the "Þ" character is pronounced "Th", like in "Thing".
I expected something akin to, say, wandering round Vindolanda on The Wall: very vestigial ruins, occasional bits of stonework and not a lot else. However, it turns out that the Þing was much more transitory, more of a festival than a building. There are no ruins, because there were no buildings. There are some humpy bits of grass which are the remains of some of the cheiftains' booths, but with the best will in the world they are, to the naked eye, slightly humpy bits of grass. The sign boards littered round the site talk proudly about the Law Speaker standing on the Law Rock to recite the laws of the land, before admitting slightly sheepishly that actually no one has much of a clue which rock is the Law Rock.
However, Þingvellir is a thoroughly lovely place to visit. The signboards are informative, but more than that it's an interesting area in itself. The valley is formed from the rift between two tectonic plates, and everywhere there are minor rifts, rock ledges, and water-filled canyons. In early evening, out of tourist season, the place was more or less deserted and very, very silent.
We padded gently about, watching the sun go down and turn the hills pink. We skirted the small church, threw coins into one of the chasms (the still, dark water glitters quietly with submerged wealth) and eventually climbed up in the darkness to visit the waterfall. I think Þingvellir is one of the most peaceful places I've ever been to.
Incidentally, just before leaving I observed that, despite Snorri's dashboard thermometer reporting sub-zero temperatures, my breath could not be seen condensing in the air. Subsequent investigations into this caused a slightly odd sight of a pair of tourists huffing and puffing into the air for the next few days - but not once at any temperature did either of us see a cloud of breath. Why ? Why does breath not condense in Iceland ? Is it to do with dry air ? If so, why is air so much dryer there than here ?
And finally, the sight officially voted Top Thing Of The Holiday:
Jökulsárlón is a glacial lake, a large area of meltwater which hangs around between one of the snouts of the Vatnajökull glacier and the sea. Meltwater and, er, icebergs. Hundreds of 'em.
The bergs are mostly blue-green, some are black, and occasional bits are the white I'd always imagined icebergs to be. The really huge ones appear to sit still in the lagoon, the smaller race each other down the currents, colliding and breaking up as they go. The wind, and currents and probably a hundred other factors I don't know about, have carved them into strangely swooping organic shapes, and they look utterly beautiful.
Shortly after we'd arrived, we observed that two bergs about the size of cars were on a collision course; sure enough we got to watch the world's slo.o.o.owest crash as their hidden underwater sections met, causing the icebergs to roll away, sections splintering off and wedging against each other. For the next couple of hours we wandered up and down the shore, alternately admiring the majestic surroundings and cheering on lumps of ice that looked as if they might collide.
Washed up on the shingle at the lake's edge I found small pieces of ice, all flawlessly clear. Somehow, it seemed hard to believe they were naturally occuring; the dirty black bergs looked much more convincing as parts of a glacier.
Ice has its own peculiar sound, an unexpectedly melodious, echoing noise almost like whale song. I've heard ice described as "groaning" before, but I hadn't expected such a warm, friendly sound.
Eventually, observing that it was getting dark and we were a long way from home, we dragged ourselves away. I'd have happily sat watching the ice for another few hours. Had the tourist boats been running, I'd have loved to have gone out on a tour of the lake. I think, more than anything else, it's just utterly unlike anything I've ever seen before. I've never seen an iceberg, let alone an entire lagoon full of them.
Photos are now returned from the developers, they'll be on display when I have the chance to sort and select and so on.
Previously: Waterfalls, Volcanic Stuff, Rocks, Þings.
