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Away from the deliberately continental look of its capital, Reykjavik, Iceland fulfils all the obvious assumptions, and on a spectacular scale. Imagination compensates for ignorance and my expectations (beyond the ice) had been for rock, steam and emptiness. On the long road (or, to be more precise, track) to Landmannalauger, all were in abundance.
Although the postcards usually show Iceland basking in sunshine, the weight of our packs paid testament to a wise respect for this island’s climate; all the better, then, that we arrived in Landmannalauger under blue skies.
A ‘warm up’ hike took us to the summit of Blahnkur at 943 metres. Tens of photos, stunning views back towards Landmannauger, a lengthy stay in the hot springs, and an evening meal of fresh fish conspired to make us feel ready to set out the next morning. Even our outrageously heavy rucksacks didn’t deter our enthusiasm for the trek that lay ahead.
Can a photo do justice to those serrated peaks of lava fields, punctured as they are by clouds of escaping gases and flanked by dunes of outlandish shape and colour? Even a hundred attempts fail to recreate the awe. Nonetheless, it became an impulse to have cameras at the ready each time we traversed a crest or rounded an obstacle: such is the magnificence of this changing and unpredictable landscape. Over five days, we crossed hills strewn with volcanic debris, morale-sapping deserts of ash and, of course, those ever present snowfields. Moving, as we did, from barren scree-slopes to distinctly alpine-looking valleys, there seemed nothing logical about the Icelandic landscape.
Armed with our 1:100 000 map, where lakes and mountains barely featured, we covered 77 kilometres, alternating between the classic 3km/h and the rather swifter pace set by Thomas Yaxley! Thus we were often the first arrivals at remote campsites, with our tents erected by mid afternoon and with plenty of daylight to come: a good book - the longer, the better - was essential. Dusk arrived at about 2am, and dawn galloped in, soon after with little sense of any true night time between. As noted by a fellow trekker, even the lightest and smallest head torch amounted to little more than excess, useless baggage.
Blessed with four days of uncharacteristic sunshine, complaints were boldly voiced that the Gore-Tex, the fleeces and the thermals we carried were also little more than excess weight and destined to remain unused; but, on day five, we woke for the final 22 kilometre push up through the Fimmvorouhals pass between two icecaps. As if in response to the earlier complaints, we climbed higher into increasing cloud, wind and rain.
With few words, those untried waterproofs came out of the rucksacks and the issue of weight was forgotten. Now we walked between those bright white icecaps of Eyjafjallajokull and Myrdalsjokull which we had observed for so long from a distance. Whichever way we looked, we were shrouded in an engulfing blanket of cloud.
It was some hours later that we plodded purposefully towards the welcome shelter of Skogar and the youth hostel awaiting us in the torrential rain. Only now did Mr. Tong inform us that we were booked into the hostel, not this night but the following night: so much for uncertainty and adventure! Full of confidence, we ignored the ‘tonight full’ sign at the door and opted for the, ‘How could a mistake like this happen?’ approach, and, soon, every available radiator was transformed into a tapestry of our sodden clothing.
More often than not, the authentic Duke of Edinburgh experience means battling the elements on a damp Welsh hillside. Though there was something distinctly Welsh about the weather on our final day’s trek, the Iceland experience never involved counting down the kilometres to the next campsite. Whale watching and a soak in the famous Blue Lagoon provided a fitting end to such a challenging and rewarding expedition.
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