Reykholt and Winter!

Vetrur byrja snemma hérna (Winter begins early here)

Imagine my surprise when I looked at the Icelandic calendar left in my room by its former occupant and saw that October 24 is labeled “Fyrsti vetrardagur”—the first day of winter! I don’t know how they figure it or what measure they used to decide it, but it is now officially Icelandic winter.

But don’t tell the weather that. We’ve had a week of 40-degree temps, very little wind, and very little rain. We even saw the sun a few times. As long as this lasts, I’m not complaining!

This past Tuesday my program finally had its long-delayed trip to Reykholt, a little town just inland from Snæfellsnes (see last week’s entry). The official reason for the visit, of course, was that Reykholt was the home of Snorri Sturluson (1178-1241), father of Icelandic historical and mythological writing. What Chaucer is to English literature, Snorri is to Icelandic (and, for that matter, Norwegian) history and legend. In fact, in my Old Icelandic language course we’re translating parts of his Prose Edda, and as a post-midterm treat, our prof took us down to the Arni Magnusson Institute and let us see—even touch!—the most important manuscript of that very Edda. This may not seem like a big deal to people with more sensible priorities, but we medievalists were in awe. The smell of the vellum alone left several people quite high.

We were very fortunate on the day of our trip: it was clear and sunny and only moderately windy. Of course, the temperature was below freezing, but we spent enough of the time inside that no one suffered frostbite. I think. We stopped first in Borg, a little town (if you can even call it that) where Snorri first lived. It’s also the setting for Egil’s Saga, and so there’s a semi-abstract sculpture there of Egil’s daughter Thorgerd convincing Egil to compose a poem in memory of his dead sons (instead of starving himself to death in his grief, which was his first plan).

It’s a striking sculpture in its own way, but I can’t help but think how artificial it looks against the backdrop of the mountains and the fjord.

From Borg we drove to Reykholt proper. I was riding with our professor, who pointed out historical places of interest along the way, named all the mountains and bays, and told us which peaks made for the best hiking. I’ve never met a people so conscious of the life of their land as the Icelanders are. Another gross generalization, I suppose, but among the Icelanders I’ve met, their knowledge of the land and its history (not so much national history as the story of events that took place in particular locations they can still point out to you) far outstrips anything I’ve seen at home. Examples: we see a perfectly conical mountain and our professor tells us, "Oh, yes, that's a mountain formed by a volcanic eruption underneath a glacier"; we see an uncannily dome-shaped mountain and he says, "That's called Eirik's Glacier," proceeding to tell us the story of the outlaw who escaped capture by hiding there.

Reykholt means “Smoking wood,” and even though the woods are gone now, the valley still smokes from hot springs everywhere you turn. There’s an institute called Snorra Stofa, attached to a newly built church, which houses a great library of relevant research material. (Some in the group are already plotting ways to secure housing in the guesthouse there next spring for some thesis work.). But the real attraction is behind the building. That is where you can see the ruins of Snorri Sturluson’s home, and a rebuilt hot spring (still functional!) that he used for his bath. I mentioned before that there are stories of Icelandic diplomats modern and medieval entertaining visiting dignitaries in their hot pots—Snorri was the medieval example. He was also murdered somewhere close to this area (a hazard of medieval politicians), and some people in the group were convinced that his ghost still haunts the place. It is Iceland, after all; I wouldn’t be too surprised.


It was getting late in the day by the time we finished exploring there and I had to get back to town for rehearsal (our professor, knowing my obligation, kept trying to hurry the others along by saying, “Come on, choir rehearsal!”), but we stopped at one last place: Deildartunguhver—the largest hot spring in Iceland, possibly the world. It’s not as dramatic as the geysers, but it is nevertheless an astounding sight to walk up to this twisted, branching river and realize that it is boiling.

There is a pipeline that pumps hot water from Deildartunguhver all the way to Akranes and Borgarnes—and Akranes is forty miles away! The pipeline actually follows the road, and it is covered by earth most of the way. You can tell it’s a hot-water pipe because the grass grows much greener on top of it than on the surrounding land. Sounds like the beginning of an Icelandic proverb, no?

I was fifteen minutes late for rehearsal despite our professor’s best efforts, but I stood in the back and pretended I’d been there the whole time. Perhaps the conductor didn’t notice….