Akureyri & Siglufjörður, Iceland
Morning and afternoon were as different as night and day. However, differentiating night from day is becoming a little more difficult at this latitude, for sunset now occurs slightly after midnight. Four hours later its full brilliance once again finds its way to our sleepy eyes.
We awoke deep in Eyjafjörður at the port of Akureyri but one’s immediate impression was dependent on whether one faced to port or starboard. Scooped by a glacial tongue and drowned by the sea, the land rose concavely from the shore. A foggy finger traced its way across the hillsides and framed snowy mountains floating against the northern sky. To the east a patchwork of color was stitched together like a crazy quilt. Freshly plowed fields, dark and fertile, separated meadows dressed in springtime green. Jade green conifers in planted plots broke up the deepest gray green of boggy soils. White houses with colorful roofs reminded us of the people living there. To the west was an urban sprawl of sorts. Akureyri claims the rank of the second largest of Iceland’s towns and yet less than seventeen thousand dwell within its bounds. Streets lined by colorful houses switchback up the hillside, all seeming to radiate from the historic town built upon the original gravelly spit.
As mid-day came and went the land seemed to pull a calming comforter down to cover the mountains and the shores. Fog somehow sets the stage for quiet observation and focuses our attention on tiny details often missed. Fulmars bathed on mirror seas, their dipping and splashing drawing perfect concentric rings on the surface. Their toilet complete, they spread their wings and ran across the canvas, each foot creating merging circles of ever diminishing diameter. Dark silhouettes of guillemots, razorbills and puffins now emphasized the difference in their size and shape of beak. Emerging from the mist a small but busy fishing village invited us to disembark. If it were not for cars passing by we might have thought we had been transported to bygone days when herring here was king. The chatter and clatter of women with knives rapidly cleaning fish merged with the sound of laughter as we watched a demonstration of salting herring at the well laid out Siglufjörður Herring Museum. A little taste, with a little schnapps and a little dancing too proved that the image was real even though it was re-enacted.
As the clock says it is night-time we race to see in search of whales. The result is yet to be seen.
