Aðavik & Vigur, West Fjords, Iceland
At 0600 our intrepid ship National Geographic Endeavour crept in under the giant cliffs of Hornbjarg. We are in one of the wildest corners of Iceland, a realm of rugged ice-hewn valleys and giddy cliffs, settled by the most desperate and daring of the Vikings. The frozen fells and snow slopes they saw from their longships gave a new land a new name: Iceland. In the shadow of the cliffs there were birds everywhere, clustered on the water, crowded on the cliff ledges, streaming in overhead from the open ocean. Brown and white guillemots and silver and white kittiwakes, scattered among them razorbills, puffins and Brünnich's guillemots, milling like a million midges. The prow of this huge cliff rears like a giant rock rhinoceros, christened Hornbjarg by the first settlers 600 yrs before Cape Horn was even known, let alone named.
First landfall of the day: Rekavik, where 22 of our fittest troops sprang ashore to brave the wilderness. A flock of Iceland gulls swirled away from the storm beach as we clambered over stranded Siberian logs and through knee-high angelica to reach higher ground. Rushing streams, flowering bilberry, vivid green moss beds and stunted arctic flowers formed a springy carpet as we hiked in wonder above a long, limpid lake. Across the valley, Whooper swans bugled from green moraine terraces, above us an Arctic fox yapped from a boulder scree below basalt crags. Four miles later we rounded the shoulder of the mountain to look down into Aðavík, where a tiny ship lay at anchor: Endeavour had sailed round to meet us. Some trekked to the highest plateau for the view, others strolled back down the track where arctic poppies, alpine catchfly and frog orchids lit our route down to the bay. Moss campion, also known as the compass plant, blooms first on its south side, helping confirm our course down to the shore. Local samaritan Viðar Sigurðsson arrived to offer lifts down on his all-terrain vehicle. His family once farmed this bay. Now he returns each summer to fish and kayak among the whales. Only 10 miles to the north is Fljótavík, where in July 1972 a 12-year-old girl was rescued from a starving polar bear by the swift reflexes of her father. He snatched her from its path and shot it while it raged outside the hut in which they had taken refuge. No wonder Viðar told the story with glee: that young girl is now his wife!
After lunch we took the Zodiacs ashore to Vigur island, a lush green oasis in this wilderness of mountain, fjord and icecap. It is a bizarre shangri-la where cows are milked, cakes baked and the finest eiderdown is harvested from 3000 duck nests which share the island with black guillemots, arctic terns and 8,000 nesting puffins. In the pastoral peace I reflected on the hazards and home comforts of this hostile land, and thought of Viðar and his wife while I drank delicious coffee and ate home-baked Happy Marriage cake.
At 0600 our intrepid ship National Geographic Endeavour crept in under the giant cliffs of Hornbjarg. We are in one of the wildest corners of Iceland, a realm of rugged ice-hewn valleys and giddy cliffs, settled by the most desperate and daring of the Vikings. The frozen fells and snow slopes they saw from their longships gave a new land a new name: Iceland. In the shadow of the cliffs there were birds everywhere, clustered on the water, crowded on the cliff ledges, streaming in overhead from the open ocean. Brown and white guillemots and silver and white kittiwakes, scattered among them razorbills, puffins and Brünnich's guillemots, milling like a million midges. The prow of this huge cliff rears like a giant rock rhinoceros, christened Hornbjarg by the first settlers 600 yrs before Cape Horn was even known, let alone named.
First landfall of the day: Rekavik, where 22 of our fittest troops sprang ashore to brave the wilderness. A flock of Iceland gulls swirled away from the storm beach as we clambered over stranded Siberian logs and through knee-high angelica to reach higher ground. Rushing streams, flowering bilberry, vivid green moss beds and stunted arctic flowers formed a springy carpet as we hiked in wonder above a long, limpid lake. Across the valley, Whooper swans bugled from green moraine terraces, above us an Arctic fox yapped from a boulder scree below basalt crags. Four miles later we rounded the shoulder of the mountain to look down into Aðavík, where a tiny ship lay at anchor: Endeavour had sailed round to meet us. Some trekked to the highest plateau for the view, others strolled back down the track where arctic poppies, alpine catchfly and frog orchids lit our route down to the bay. Moss campion, also known as the compass plant, blooms first on its south side, helping confirm our course down to the shore. Local samaritan Viðar Sigurðsson arrived to offer lifts down on his all-terrain vehicle. His family once farmed this bay. Now he returns each summer to fish and kayak among the whales. Only 10 miles to the north is Fljótavík, where in July 1972 a 12-year-old girl was rescued from a starving polar bear by the swift reflexes of her father. He snatched her from its path and shot it while it raged outside the hut in which they had taken refuge. No wonder Viðar told the story with glee: that young girl is now his wife!
After lunch we took the Zodiacs ashore to Vigur island, a lush green oasis in this wilderness of mountain, fjord and icecap. It is a bizarre shangri-la where cows are milked, cakes baked and the finest eiderdown is harvested from 3000 duck nests which share the island with black guillemots, arctic terns and 8,000 nesting puffins. In the pastoral peace I reflected on the hazards and home comforts of this hostile land, and thought of Viðar and his wife while I drank delicious coffee and ate home-baked Happy Marriage cake.
