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A cheap day out
Sep. 10th, 2009 09:01 pmNotoriously, many things in Iceland are expensive; what is less widely mentioned is that other things are completely free. We did not pay to enter the National Park at Skaftafell, and we didn't pay to park there. With indsight, the same was true of our long day's exploration of the Golden Circle: craters, waterfalls, geysers, Þingvellir itself, all were free to enter. There might be a café, and a shop which tried to sell you fluffy puffins, but you didn't have to buy them, and if you chose to eat at the café there would be a jug of drinking water produced without fuss. A cup of coffee was not cheap, but it came with unlimited refills.
Skaftafell was our first full day of walking.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
durham_rambler particularly wanted to walk closer to the glacier, and I particularly wanted to se the waterfall Svartifoss, and naturally these lay in different directions. We walked first to the glacier - an easy, there and back walk on level tracks, apart from a couple of ridges to be climed at the very end, so that the lake of meltwater was hidden until we were almost there. Then we returned to the café for lunch, and set off again in the opposite direction.
It's a steep climb up to Svartifoss, but there's plenty to see on the way: other waterfalls, for one thing, and views back agross the plain, a sheer hillside down and then flat to a misty horizon, with a broad river winding across it.
Of course, once you have climbed up, you descend again into the little valley, to see the falls coming down over the cliffs of basalt columns. It's a beautiful, almost enclosed space, and once you have picked your way across the rocks and selected one to sit on, a comfortable place to be. I felt almost benevolent towards the other groups of people with whom we were sharing it - until we were ready to move on and make space for someone else, and realised that the party of French hikers had dropped their luggage on the narrow plank bridge spanning the stream, and weren't very enthusiastic about moving it, either.
Beyond Svartifoss the horizons opened out, and we were walking in uplands that felt almost like southern France: hot sun, dry stony soil and a heady scent rising from the scrub. But it was so silent: neither the chirping of insects I associate with that landscape, nor the incessant cries of the curlews and lapwings of home. I paused to remark on the silence, and looking back saw the peaks, the gleam of the glacier beyond, and the next group of walkers coming up behind us - not so very like home after all.
Our route back took us past an abandoned farm, now maintained by the park, the traditional triple front, barn, kitchen, living space, their turf walls backing into the hillside, overlooking more outbuildings down below the road. The doors stood open to visitors, and a picnic table opposite was a fine spot to pause for a drink of water before the final descent.
Skaftafell was our first full day of walking.
durham_rambler particularly wanted to walk closer to the glacier, and I particularly wanted to se the waterfall Svartifoss, and naturally these lay in different directions. We walked first to the glacier - an easy, there and back walk on level tracks, apart from a couple of ridges to be climed at the very end, so that the lake of meltwater was hidden until we were almost there. Then we returned to the café for lunch, and set off again in the opposite direction. It's a steep climb up to Svartifoss, but there's plenty to see on the way: other waterfalls, for one thing, and views back agross the plain, a sheer hillside down and then flat to a misty horizon, with a broad river winding across it.Of course, once you have climbed up, you descend again into the little valley, to see the falls coming down over the cliffs of basalt columns. It's a beautiful, almost enclosed space, and once you have picked your way across the rocks and selected one to sit on, a comfortable place to be. I felt almost benevolent towards the other groups of people with whom we were sharing it - until we were ready to move on and make space for someone else, and realised that the party of French hikers had dropped their luggage on the narrow plank bridge spanning the stream, and weren't very enthusiastic about moving it, either.
Beyond Svartifoss the horizons opened out, and we were walking in uplands that felt almost like southern France: hot sun, dry stony soil and a heady scent rising from the scrub. But it was so silent: neither the chirping of insects I associate with that landscape, nor the incessant cries of the curlews and lapwings of home. I paused to remark on the silence, and looking back saw the peaks, the gleam of the glacier beyond, and the next group of walkers coming up behind us - not so very like home after all.
Our route back took us past an abandoned farm, now maintained by the park, the traditional triple front, barn, kitchen, living space, their turf walls backing into the hillside, overlooking more outbuildings down below the road. The doors stood open to visitors, and a picnic table opposite was a fine spot to pause for a drink of water before the final descent.
