Iceland Day 18 – Golden Circle, Tungufell

Friday September 12, Landeyjahöfn to Tungufell

This is the second post for our 18th (and nearly last) day in Iceland. The previous post contains photos of our morning in Vestmannaeyjabær on the island of Heimaey just off the coast. This post recalls our afternoon as we slowly made our way west on the mainland from the ferry dock to our accommodations on a farm east of and beside the Hvítá River, just south of the exquisite and world-famous waterfall named Gullfoss.

As we drove off the ferry at Landeyjahöfn, we retraced the ferry access road back to the ring road and continued our westbound journey towards the quasi-dreaded most touristy part of Iceland, the Golden Circle, which every tourist in the country visits, even if they visit nothing else. We would delay our tourist encounter for a few minutes by turning north off the ring road to visit Stóra-Dímon, an infrequently visited hill with great views of glaciers, a river, and the sea some 18 kilometers distant.

As we got out of the car, it was so quiet that we could hear numerous Northern Fulmars clucking like chickens from their perches on the rocks above us. The climb was not long but the upper part is steep and a bit slippery, especially on the inevitable descent. Topping out some 180 meters above the plain below, the views were indeed wonderful and different than anything else we had seen in Iceland.

Annie Headed Up Steep Stóra-Dímon Camera Greatly Flattens the Perspective

On the map, the river directly east of the base of the mountain, the Markarfljót, looks massive and wide, a big swath of blue. In real life from the top of Stóra-Dímon, it appears not as a wide body of water, but as endless shallow braids meandering through a massive black sand outwash plain, the Markarfljótsaurar. Clearly water has flowed through the entire outwash plain from jökulhlaup floods. These floods result from geothermal heating or at times from an eruption under one of the glaciers that feeds the river. I do not think I can fathom this quantity of raging water.

Braided Markarfljót, Tindfjallajökull in the Distance

Eyjafjallajökull Across the Markarfljót

Ann at West End of Summit

Westman Islands Off the Coast

Our Car Far Below

After our peaceful hill climb, we continued driving west only to find out firsthand how infuriating the tourists are on the so-called Golden Circle, a wildly successful marketing branding courtesy of the Icelandic Tourism Board. The circle is a 300-kilometer loop starting and ending in Reykjavík that takes in three principal attractions: Þingvellir National Park, Gullfoss, and the Haukadalur geothermal area including the Strokkur geyser.

After turning north off the ring road in Selfoss, our first stop was at the Kerið Crater, a lake-filled caldera and largely a waste of time and money for parking in the tiny postage stamp lot. It reminds me of Lava Butte in our backyard, though Lava Butte's crater contains no water, while Paulina Peak with its twin caldera lakes blows Kerið away. This is the first location today that we experienced kicked-over anthills of people; we could not get away quickly enough.

Kerið Crater

Needing solitude after battling idiots blocking the parking lot as we were trying to leave Kerið, we diverted from the main tourist path to visit Skálholtsdómkirkja, the Skálholt Cathedral. This cathedral is one of the most important churches in Iceland, the tenth on this site that has been a center of religion and education for roughly 1000 years. Although modern and dating from 1963, this cathedral interests me for its simplicity of architecture and the way it caps the rise on which it sits without being wholly intrusive on the landscape. We enjoyed the calm, the replica turf house next to the cathedral, the stained glass, and the free concert by the organist practicing inside.

Serene Skálholtsdómkirkja

Organist Practicing

49 Km to Þingvellir
The Looped Square ⌘ Indicates a Place of Interest

Reproduction Turf House at Skálholt

Intricate Hardware

Our pleasant interlude at Skálholt over, we headed, unfortunately, back into the middle of the circus at Brúarfoss, the waterfall whose name means bridge falls. I fell for the BS on the internet that claimed it is one of the country's lesser-known and less touristed waterfalls. Immediately we could tell this was not true as the location was swarmed with a hornet's nest of people.

Among the tourists were loads of Chinese who have no compunction against pushing their way into a photo or shoving people out of their way. It must be a cultural thing, but I swore under my breath, "The next guy that shoves into me is gonna land on his ass." Still, I would put up with the crowds all over again; this incredibly beautiful waterfall was the one I loved second best in the entire country.

I managed to keep my temper in check as I shot frame after frame of this fall with its blue water falling into a rift. The best location to take shots is the footbridge across the river just below the falls and this was where the congestion was absolutely the worst, where many forgot all about their manners. Please indulge my inclusion below of many similar photos, perhaps too many. I found it gorgeous.

Stunning Brúarfoss

We had nothing else planned after beating a hasty retreat from the swarming anthill of tourists at the waterfall, so we set off to cross to the east side of the Hvítá where our rental cottage was located. As we pulled away from the Brúarfoss parking lot, the sun had really come out and provided us with perhaps the nicest afternoon of our trip. As the thermometer reached 13C/54F, a veritable heatwave, we found the sunny drive to our out-of-the-way rental cottage a pleasant change of pace.

We crossed the raging river on a high bridge just above a deeply incised canyon called the Brúarhlöð, a narrow gorge containing spectacular pillars carved by the frothing current, the whitewater making the name Hvítá or White River apt. The cottage is located upstream on a gravel road at the beginning of which I noted the massive warning sign advising tourists that they were headed in the wrong direction. Apparently, rough country where rescue is difficult lies ahead.

As we drove towards the Tungufell area just south of the famed Gullfoss waterfall, on our docket for tomorrow, the white buildings and red roofs of the Jaðar Horse Farm were beautiful and obvious. The gorgeous farm is tucked between two ridge lines through which the rambunctious Hvítá river rages. The farm's comfortable rental cottage sits on a slope overlooking hectares of pasture as far as the eye can see. We seemed a million miles from the tourist chaos on the west side of the river.

I noticed the nearest grass had been trimmed quite short and had stakes at regular intervals in a line extending from beside the cottage for several hundred meters. Looking back to our right, a sand trap containing several golf balls finally indicated the purpose of the stakes on the tightly mown turf: a driving range. The husband is a big golfer.

We opened a bottle of wine and sat on the spacious deck, taking in the verdant vista laid out before us while basking in the welcome sunshine. Naturally, no sooner than we sat down, high thin clouds insinuated themselves, starting to obscure the much loved sunshine and dropping the temperature to the point we went inside to warm up. The sky became grayer as the afternoon wore into the dinner hour, a harbinger of the rain that would start after dark and last until dawn.

Pretty Sweet Home Driving Range

Hvítá in the Distance

Happy Hour at the Nineteenth Hole

Red Campion, Dagstjarna, Silene dioica, Not Native to Iceland

Ann Made a New Friend

Owner Krista stables three horses which she let Ann visit towards the dinner hour after Krista brought them into the barn. All over Iceland, but foremost in the south, fields are full of horses that are shaggy, short of stature, and unique looking. The Icelandic horse breed was developed from ponies brought to Iceland by Norse settlers more than 1000 years ago. Centuries of selective breeding and natural selection have created a horse than thrives in the harsh conditions of Iceland. As protection against the harsh weather, their thick coats are not typically brushed out.

Horses seem to be integral to life in the Icelandic countryside. On sheep farms all over the country, farmers still use these horses to herd sheep. Also we saw hundreds of recreational riders out for jaunts all over the country often on dedicated paths parallel to the road. The breed is also known for having unique gaits; it was an education to watch them trot and pace.

After Ann returned from visiting with the horses, it was time to think about wrapping this trip up, using up our groceries, and donating anything that would keep to someone who could use it. I left our bottle of olive oil in the kitchen here because, many kilometers out in the country far from a store, people are likelier to cook than to go out to eat. Our final two nights would be in downtown Reykjavík where people are not likely to cook.

We scrounged dinner, a sandwich left over from lunch and the remainder of our groceries, cheese and salame. In the bottom of our grocery bag, one of the smartest things that I brought along, sat an unopened sleeve of what we thought were crackers when we bought them early on in the trip. They were labeled Mjólkurkex and if I had thought about the word mjólk in the name, I would have realized that they were milk biscuits, a delicious and not sweet Icelandic treat. We would have a couple for our dessert and a couple in the morning. The remainder, I would tuck away for snacks on the airplane headed home.

I Really Like Mjólkurkex, Barely Sweet Milk Biscuits

After dinner, I really started thinking about the trip home which had me equal parts sad to be leaving such a beautiful country and antithetically happy to be heading to the comfort and routine of our home. As the sun was setting, I wandered outside for a couple of final photos, dusk arriving in the country. Tomorrow would see us finish up the sights on the Golden Circle and then head in to explore the capital, of which we saw little at the beginning of our journey, thanks to jetlag.