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Möðrudalur
Feb. 16th, 2010 09:39 pmOur walk over the hills to Brúnavík marked another turning point in our Icelandic circuit: we had travelled east along the south coast as far as Höfn, then turned north up the east coast. Now we rejoined route 1 and headed west, further inland. 'Inland' is a relative term: we had read the descriptions of driving on unmetalled tracks in Iceland's interior, and decided we could live without it. So we didn't hire a four wheel drive car, and were now legally prohibited from changing our minds. We didn't regret it...
Route 1 snaked across great expanses of bare earth. Our guidebook recommended the detour to Möðrudalur, and since it sounded like a pleasant lunch stop, we turned down route 901. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this:
The web site describes Möðrudalur as the highest farm in Iceland, at 469 metres - a picturesque traditional settlement, for values of 'traditional' in the paradoxical Icelandic style: on the one hand it traces its origins back to the settlement of Iceland, on the other the church is dated 1949. The triple-roofed building in the picture may look like a turf farm, but is actually the filling station.
I felt as if I had wandered into a museum stocked with careful reconstructions; but the café had the atmosphere of one of those remote pubs where everyone stops because where else is there to go? It was Beamish crossed with the Tan Hill Inn.
Route 1 snaked across great expanses of bare earth. Our guidebook recommended the detour to Möðrudalur, and since it sounded like a pleasant lunch stop, we turned down route 901. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this:
The web site describes Möðrudalur as the highest farm in Iceland, at 469 metres - a picturesque traditional settlement, for values of 'traditional' in the paradoxical Icelandic style: on the one hand it traces its origins back to the settlement of Iceland, on the other the church is dated 1949. The triple-roofed building in the picture may look like a turf farm, but is actually the filling station.
I felt as if I had wandered into a museum stocked with careful reconstructions; but the café had the atmosphere of one of those remote pubs where everyone stops because where else is there to go? It was Beamish crossed with the Tan Hill Inn.
