We slept in on our first morning on the Westfjords, awakened at 9 by keener tourists driving slowly by on the rocky road towards Látrabjarg. We joined them at the bird cliffs after breakfast. Látrabjarg is a renowned area for seasonal nesting birds, where they congregate in the thousands on the sheer cliffs of the jutting fjords.
We took our time, and leisurely walked along the cliff edge that juts up at a defiant angle towards the sea. It was sunny, warm and clear, and we relaxed, lounging in the grass looking over the edge of the cliffs (me), and staying well back from the edge taking birds-in-flight pictures (my brother). It was another site of powerful natural magic, which I was coming to recognize now by my intense desire to fall asleep and dream there.
Closer to the parking area there was higher visitor traffic and more impatient tourists here to see and then leave, asap. I was astounded by the nerve or idiocy of some people, striding to where the sod curls over the edge and leaning over for a look at the birds clinging to the cracks in the rock. There were no ropes or guardrails (of course), and over the edge was a 400′ drop to certain death. Seeing some people being so cavalier with the risk made my stomach lurch, and it seemed no wonder that a German tourist was said to have recently fallen over. That accident was also said to have sparked discussion on whether or not to install guardrails or limitations. I hope they haven’t.
At least I had the sense to get down on my belly and elbow out to the edge to look over, not just lean out. Some people! And that’s where I was, down on my belly, when I saw the puffin!
The current tenants dominating the cliffs were guillemots, whose little white bodies speckled the black rocks, as did their droppings. They were perched in lively groups and pairs on every available foothold, grooming, dozing, and defending their territory. Everywhere you looked, there was drama and action, and it was all noisy, the juveniles crying constantly to be fed, a cloud of sound drifting up from the folds of the fjords.
So I was on my belly, and just happened to be looking in the right place to see the one tiny black puffin among all the guillemots swoop in with a mouthful of silver fish spilling over her bright beak and disappear under the sod curled over the cliff’s lip just a few feet away.
I hollered and gesticulated madly at my brother across the fjord, and although I could see the exact place she’d disappeared into, we didn’t catch sight of her leaving. It was way past puffin season now, and this late bird and her brood were probably doomed, but it was still an exciting sighting.
On the drive out, we stopped at Hnjótur for some delicious waffles, and then drove on to Patreksfjörður, Cheryl driving now so that I could catch up on my travel notes in my little yellow book. We went straight to the swimming pool, which we had to ourselves in midday, and we napped in the pool, bathing in crystal clear 42 degree water, warm sunshine, and a view of infinity. I highly recommend the pool at Patreksfjörður, even just for the view.
After some groceries at the tiny store and some gas, we took off for Dynjandi. With a few stops for views on the way, we reached the spectacular waterfall in the early evening. It’s an incredible cascade waterfall the kind that is so wide and grand it’s impossible to fit it into a picture, let alone represent the scope of it, and it was set in a huge blueberry field. It was exactly blueberry season, and I wandered barefoot in the sometimes swampy and scratchy bushy hills and ate blueberries until I was full.
At the base of the hill, there was a herd of Icelandic horses picturesquely plunked in an emerald pasture with a background to die for and a low sun providing dream lighting. Derek spent some time seeking the “quintessential Icelandic horse picture”.
This was such a glorious location, we unanimously decided to camp here for the night. The campground was busy, and like the book said, promised to be loud, but the surroundings were more than worth it. However, first there was a sunset to be chased. Dynjandi is a low spot, and we could see the road winding uphill again around the high mountain/walls of the fjord. Derek wanted a vantage point to shoot the sunset, and we had to move fast.
Driving as fast as I comfortably could, we passed some seals in the bay, and then climbed up over the peninsula. We drove through an absolute moonscape, a desolate, green-less field (possibly the Gláma moors?). Near the top of the climb, sobered by the bleak surroundings, we suddenly encountered a group of sheep near the road, and we all burst out laughing, “Of course!” and “Even here, there’s sheep!” This proved definitively that sheep get around, truly everywhere in Iceland (Hornstrandir excepted). the sheep looked a good deal more at home in this moonscape than we felt.
Although we thought we’d missed the good sunset, we were closer to Þingeyri now than turning back to Dynjandi, so we pressed on. As we summitted the pass, we chanced upon a shocking red red and apricot sunset. Awesome! It lasted only for moments, but we caught it, once again feeling the magic of being the only people to see that scene, in that transitory moment.
Driving on downhill in the darkening dusk now, I musingly commented “I want to sleep on a mountaintop tonight”. No sooner had I said it than a turnoff appeared and I swung into it. Place names will be deliberately hazy for awhile now to protect the identity of our location;)
On the dirt road up the hill, we encountered the strangest birds waddling on the road ahead of the car. They were too big to be quail, too upright to be grouse, and they waddled quick like penguins. Dodo birds came to mind. They were just utterly mysterious, and of course we could get no photo evidence or clues of colouring in the dark before they turned off into the brush.
We parked and walked to the top of the hill, which was serene and slightly breezy, with a view of the lights of a small town far below us. The summit was narrow and long, and we could see the ripples of mountain ridges, varying shades of ink in the full moonlight, for nearly 360degrees, and we could see to the ocean. The sky was spectacular. I casually asked if anyone else wanted to sleep right here, and was surprised that Cheryl eagerly pounced on the idea.
Derek made it clear he thought we were both crazy, by now a familiar motif. We talked him into it and overcame his objections. I set up my tent for him (better in the wind and less dependent on pegs in the hard dirt of the mountaintop), and he retired with the food bag. Cheryl and I chose to sleep open air, and she chose a deluxe location on a mattress-sized tuft of grass and moss that she declared simply luxurious and promptly fell asleep on.
I moved down the slope a little, tossed my thermarest on a patch of moss, and nestled down in my sleeping bag. Then I had a princess and the pea moment with my choice of bedding. My first choice didn’t seem quite right, so I hopped around in my sleeping bag like some demented one-man sack race and scooting my thermarest around to try other spots of moss. Eventually I returned to the first spot and found it perfect.
For more photos from this day, visit the Extra Photos
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