Autumn 2023 Troll Peninsula, North Iceland
A journal written from a small cabin at the edge of the fjord.
Medieval history at Gásir
Gásir, a prominent medieval trading center situated within the Eyjafjörður fjord of Iceland, once served as a bustling marketplace against the dramatic backdrop of the coastal landscape.
As I stand on the windswept promontory where Gásir once thrived, I try to picture the bustling medieval trading post in its prime. The archaeological evidence, though fragmentary, paints a vivid picture of a community that was both wealthy and cosmopolitan.
Imagine a bustling marketplace, filled with the sounds of haggling merchants and the clinking of coins. The air would have been thick with the scent of salt and fish, mingled with the smoke from campfires and the musty aroma of stored goods. Traders from far-off lands would have mingled with Icelandic farmers, their languages and customs as diverse as the wares they traded.
I can envision the towering church, a testament to the community's prosperity and piety. Its wooden frame, adorned with intricate carvings, would have stood out against the stark Icelandic landscape. Inside, the air would have been filled with the scent of incense and the soft glow of candles, illuminating the faces of worshippers.
The zooarchaeological evidence suggests a rich and varied diet. Imagine feasting on succulent lamb and beef, freshly caught fish, and perhaps even the occasional exotic delicacy like swan or porpoise. The traders would have brought with them a taste of the wider world, introducing new foods and customs to the local inhabitants.
Gásir was more than just a trading post; it was a center of cultural exchange. The presence of exotic animals, imported goods, and foreign drinking vessels hints at the cosmopolitan nature of the community. It's fascinating to imagine the interactions between Icelandic farmers and visiting merchants, the sharing of stories, and the exchange of ideas.
The excavations have also revealed the economic impact of Gásir on the surrounding region. Farmers would have raised cattle and caprines specifically for the market, bringing their livestock to Gásir to sell. The trading post would have provided a much-needed source of income for the local population.
As I stand here today, I can't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder. Gásir was a vibrant and dynamic place, a microcosm of medieval Iceland. It was a place where cultures met, economies intertwined, and communities thrived. Though the trading post has long since been abandoned, its legacy lives on in the archaeological record and the imaginations of those who seek to understand its past.
White and back Mývatn
the sorm arrived. erased colour from the world, I wake up at the myvatyn lake side where all black lava formations are covered by the snow, a black and white landscape.
The storm arrived with a force that seemed to erase all colour from the world. As I woke up at the Myvatn lakeside, I was greeted by a surreal scene where all the once menacing black lava formations were now softened and covered by a pristine blanket of snow, transforming the entire landscape into a mesmerizing black and white panorama. Today, the usually rough and sharp lava rocks and the meandering black sandy paths were obscured by a glistening layer of snow, creating a stark yet beautiful contrast against the dark volcanic terrain.
I climbed the Hverfjall volcano crater, with black sand mixed with the snow on the path up. When I reached the top, I hoped to see a magical lake landscape, but a sudden snowstorm obscured the entire view, leaving me surrounded by whiteness. Unbothered by the path's zigzags, I ran straight down the crater, with the path markings somewhere there, covered by the thick snow under me. My boots, calves, and sometimes tights sank deep into the snow, so I half ran, half tumbled down the slope, leaving behind a shaky line in the undisturbed snow covering the whole crater. Then, I made my way through the Dimmuborgir lava field, ploughing through the deep snow and losing sight of the path hidden deep under the snow. There was no sound but the honking of the geese flying past above my head. The area was pristine, untouched by another traveller; step by step, I meticulously carved my path through the snow, surrounded by colossal black rock formations. Seeking respite from the fierce winds and snowstorms, I sought shelter in the dark volcanic caves dotting the landscape.
Myvatn, Iceland.
Photo by Agata Melnyk
Autumn's Final Flame
I race up the hills to catch one last glimpse of the colours from above, my boots kicking up a confetti of leaves in every shade of red, orange, and yellow.
Tonight, a storm gathers, its icy breath promising the first snow of winter. I race up the hills to catch one last glimpse of the colours from above, my boots kicking up a confetti of leaves in every shade of red, orange, and yellow. Dwarf Arctic birches and willows glow like giant ambers, but tomorrow all this colour will be extinguished by the snow.
I lie down in this bath of colour, waving goodbye to the little ruby leaves that dance on the increasingly icy wind. I can smell the snow coming, yet I am still wrapped in the arms of autumn, like in flame-coloured blankets.
Bilberry bliss
In the realm of fairies, there is a world of hue, where the passage of time is only counted by how deep purple your tongue has turned.
The red hills of the Troll Peninsula, ablaze with bilberry bushes. Their leaves have turned a fiery red, and the dark berries are crusted with ice after the frost. I stand in a sea of red, among the bushes. The hills rising and falling around me like waves of the crimson ocean. The sheep trails have carved intricate patterns into the hillside, and I dive in, searching for the dark pearls of berries.
I feel as if I have entered a realm of fairies, a world of hue, where the passage of time is only counted by how deep purple my tongue has turned.
Þorvaldsdalur on the first day of frost
A crisp winter hike through Iceland's forgotten valley, where rivers run wild, snow blankets the ground, and abandoned towns whisper tales of the past.
On the first day of frost, I set out on a hike to investigate the wild and mysterious part of the Troll Peninsula. I knew well the east side of the Flár mountain ridge, where our cabin stood, but the inland side on the west remained a mystery. Þorvaldsdalur was an uninhabited and unknown region, and I was excited to venture into this uncharted (by me) territory.
In the early morning, I packed our backpacks with essentials like warm clothes, food, and coffee. My husband and I set off hand-in-hand, our boots crunching on the frosty grass. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the red bilberry bushes. I walked, savoring the stillness of the morning and the promise of adventure.
I left the sheep trails behind and joined the old track, which led me through the gate to the valley. I hiked up the valley, crossing several rivers as the icy morning turned to a beautiful sunny day. Along the path, a few signs stood guard, their names silent reminders of towns that no longer existed. I tried to imagine what it would have been like to live here, in this remote and unforgiving landscape.
Further up the valley, I stood next to the sign with the village name. My eyes were drawn to the rectangular shapes in the moss, the only visible remnants of the old settlements, reclaimed by the relentless force of Icelandic nature. I doubt I would have noticed them at all, if not for the weathered road sign.
I closed my eyes and imagined the scene a thousand years ago. Viking ships sailing into the fjord, their sails billowing in the wind, their prows cutting through the icy water. Settlers disembarking, eager to start their new lives in this remote and unforgiving land.
Back then the only connection between them and Europe was the annual market at Gisir, the bustling seasonal port in North Iceland, a day's journey down the valley. Today, the port is as empty as the valley, its once-bustling harbour silted up and rendered useless by centuries of sediment.
As I hiked in the empty valley, I could barely imagine that once it had been home to at least nine towns, some of which were built centuries ago. Now, all that remained were shapes in the moss.
I eventually reached the snow line and began to climb. The rocks were ice-covered and slippery, and I had to be careful not to slip and fall. The sun's warm rays bathed my face as I climbed. I marvelled at snow-capped mountains, their peaks glistening in the sunlight. I finally arrived at the top of the climb and stood there for a moment, catching my breath and looking out at the view.
The lake was spread out below me, its surface partially covered in a sheet of ice. Small waves whipped up by the strong wind rushed across its surface. To my surprise, I saw a small hiking hut at the edge of the lake.
My footsteps crunched in the dry snow as I made my way towards the hut. The snow was light and powdery, and my boots sank deep with each step. I could feel the cold seeping into my toes. As I drew closer, I realised there was a key in the lock in the door.
I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not to enter. I was trespassing, after all. But I was also curious, and I couldn't help but wonder what I would find inside.
I took a deep breath and turned the key. The door creaked open, and I stepped inside.
The hut was small and cosy, with a wood-burning stove in the corner and a bunk bed against the wall. There was a small table and a few chairs, and a few shelves stocked with canned food and other supplies.
Before we left the hut, we took a moment to sign the guest book. I flipped through the pages, reading the entries from other hikers. Writings were mostly in Icelandic, and they all spoke of the beauty of this place and the feeling of peace and solitude that it offered.
I added our own names to the book, and we left the hut as we found it. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air. I looked around at the snow-capped mountains and the frozen lake, and I felt a sense of contentment and peace.
I imagined how lovely it would be to spend a night in the hut in the summer.
MY BOTANICAL NOTES
Dwarf Willow
Salix herbacea
I came across a boulder, and I stopped to take a closer look. In a crack in the boulder, I found a dwarf willow. The willow was small and delicate, but it was full of life. Its leaves were a brilliant yellow, and they contrasted beautifully with the gray rock of the boulder.
I was amazed that this tiny plant could survive in such a harsh environment. I thought about how it had grown in this crack for years, slowly but surely. I thought about how it had survived the harsh winters and the cold winds. The dwarf willow is a pioneer plant, meaning that it is one of the first plants to colonize new places, such as recently deglaciated areas. The dwarf willow is a tiny, creeping willow that finds a home in all manner of places, from the windswept heights of the mountains to the stark lava fields and volcanic sands.
The dwarf willow is an important part of the Icelandic ecosystem. It provides food and habitat for a variety of wildlife, including insects, birds, and small mammals. It is also a valuable food source for reindeer. The Icelandic name for dwarf willow is Grasvíðir.
Skeiðvatn and a cast sheep
We check the map on my phone and see that the lake, and now we, are in the exact centre of the Tröll Peninsula.
Another day, another adventure in the Troll Peninsula. Today, I’m hiking up Svarfaðardalur to the lake Skeiðvatn. Nestled in the heart of the peninsula, a beautiful place, but according to local legends, it's also home to a monster.
I prepared a simple picnic breakfast: a couple of toasts, a few boiled eggs, and a batch of IKEA-inspired meatballs. A satisfyingly spherical breakfast, easy to eat with a fork. I also packed a container of súrmjölk, a traditional Icelandic dairy drink made from fermented milk. It has a slightly sour, tangy taste, and I have recently become addicted to this delicious and refreshing drink.
We drove north along the fjord, almost to Dalvík, and then west, into the Skíðadalur. A sparsely populated valley that cuts into the mountain end of the Tröll Peninsula. It was a long and winding road, but the scenery was spectacular. After a while, the asphalt road gave way to gravel, and finally, at the last occupied farm, the road stopped altogether. We left our car behind and set off on an overgrown path that led through muddy fields.
I found a grassy bank next to the stream and spread out my yellow rain jacket as a picnic blanket. The sun glinted on the water, and the roar of the water rushing over pebbles filled our ears. We ate in silence, enjoying the views around us. The Svarfaðardalur valley was a sight to behold, with high, steep mountains and many peaks between 1000 and 1400 metres high.
Fortified by our picnic, we resumed our trek. As we walked, we disturbed flocks of Canadian geese, who honked loudly at us in protest, their voices echoing across the valley. Sheep grazed everywhere around us, easily spooked by our presence and running away at the first sight of us—all but one.
One sheep was upside down. Yes, upside down. We googled it, of course. That's what people do these days. And we learned that it was a cast sheep. A cast sheep is a sheep that has flipped over and cannot get back to its feet. Without help, it will die a slow and painful death.
My husband approached the upside-down sheep with caution, lest he startle it. He needn't have worried. The poor sheep was stuck fast, like a beetle turned on its back, its feet wiggling futilely in the air.
My husband gently lifted the sheep onto its side. The sheep wobbled to its feet, shook itself off, and then scampered away, bleating happily.
We felt like heroes.
We stood there, watching as the sheep bounced back to its flock, its waterlogged wool wagging furiously up and down.
We soon left the green muddy fields, full of sheep and their droppings, behind as we hiked higher and higher, past the last inhabited farm. We followed the river that flowed down from the glacier on the towering peaks above us. Our goal was to reach a mountain shelf where the water slows down forming a shallow lake before resuming its run down to the valley we had just climbed from.
My legs feel gently heavy as I reach the lakeside, the ascent having eased my mind and body into a state of serene weariness. We sit on the boulder at the lake's edge and sip coffee. It is so quiet here, just us surrounded by the towering mountains and the calm water.
I check the map on my phone and see that the lake, and now we, are in the exact centre of the Tröll Peninsula. I feel a sense of completion, having arrived at the heart of this place that has enchanted us for so many years.
I close my eyes again and take a deep breath, savouring the moment. My husband, sitting beside me, is already planning a hike for the future, one in which we will traverse the entire Tröll Peninsula.
Today I am weary, and I long for the comfort of the cabin, but one day we might return and venture further, from one fjord to another. But for now, I am content to simply sit here and enjoy the moment. My husband's hand in mine, the sun on my face, and the beauty of the Tröll Peninsula all around me.
MY BOTANICAL NOTES
Tufted hair grass
Deschampsia cespitosa
The Icelandic name for tufted hair grass is Snarrótarpuntur. This grass is native to Iceland, and it is a common sight in the countryside. It is a tall grass, with long, narrow leaves that are green in the summer and turn brown in the fall. The flowers of the tufted hair grass are arranged in panicles at the tips of the stems. The panicles are silvery-white in colour, and they bloom in the summer. The grass is so tall that it reached up to my chest.
It provides food and habitat for a variety of wildlife, including birds, insects, and small mammals. It is also a valuable plant for grazing animals. And, of course, it is a beautiful plant that adds to the beauty of the Icelandic landscape. The tufted hair grass is just one example of the many amazing plants and animals that can be found in Iceland.
Sumars minnisvarði
The Icelandic word for "memento" is "minnisvarði", which literally translates as "memory guardian".
Today, on my walk along the fjord, I found a memory guardian. It was a late-flowering forget-me-not, nestled among the rocks and mosses. Its delicate blue petals were a vibrant contrast against the grey surrounding of the rainy autumn day.
The Icelandic word for "memento" is "minnisvarði", which literally translates as "memory guardian". I love this word, because it so perfectly captures the essence of what a memento is. It is a compound word made up of the words "minni" (memory) and "varði" (guardian).
The forget-me-not is a particularly fitting symbol of Sumars minnisvarði, memory guardian of summer. Especially so now, as the snow forecast draws nearer. Autumn in Iceland is a short season, and I am making the most of it by searching for all the lost treasures and guardians of summer that I can find. I am savouring every moment of this autumnal bounty, knowing that it will soon be gone.
Later that day I took a shortcut home through the larch grove. As I walked , I noticed patches of slippery jack mushrooms growing at the base of many of the trees. I carefully picked a few of the smallest mushrooms, being careful not to disturb the mycelium. I then placed them gently in a kitchen cloth.
The rich, earthy smell of the mushrooms as I carried them home reminded me of the summers of my childhood, spent foraging in the woods with my father. When I arrived in my cabin, I immediately fried the mushrooms in butter and onion, savouring the aromas as they filled the kitchen. I then spread them on a piece of toast and topped them with a dollop of skyr.
The toast was absolutely delicious. The mushrooms were meaty and flavorful, and the skyr added a creamy richness that perfectly complemented the earthy flavours. It was the perfect autumn snack, probably the last of its kind before the winter came, but all the more cherished for it.
KITCHEN NOTES
Slippery Jack
on Toast
Slippery Jack mushrooms are a delicate and fleeting delight, best enjoyed fresh from the forest. If you're lucky enough to find them, fry them up that very day, or even hour, for a truly special treat. Otherwise, they'll quickly turn to something resembling golden slugs, and all their magic will be lost.
For this simple recipe, you will need:1 bunch of Slippery Jack mushrooms, cleaned and trimmed
1 onion, roughly sliced
4 tablespoons butter
2 slices of sourdough bread
Salt and pepper to taste
Tablespoon of skyr
Instructions:Melt the butter in a large frying pan over medium heat.
Add the mushrooms and onion to the pan and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms are softened and the onion is translucent, about 5-7 minutes.
Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Toast the bread until golden brown.
To assemble, spread the mushrooms and onions on each slice of toast and top with a dollop of skyr.
Serve immediately and enjoy!
Up to the line of clouds
Today's hike was a journey to the clouds, a dance with the elements, and a feast for the senses.
We set off from our snug cabin on the Troll Peninsula, following a path that led us through the misty autumnal landscape. The ground was carpeted in red bilberries, their vibrant colour contrasting with the muted greens of the ferns and grasses.
As we climbed higher, we came to a rocky slope. We carefully made our way over the rocks, until we almost reached the line of clouds. Above us, the mountains were hidden behind a milky curtain. As we climbed higher, the rocks became more abundant, and the nature around us was cold and quiet. We pressed on, determined to reach the line of clouds that hovered just above us. The ground became increasingly wetter, with mud turning to water-logged grass. Soon, we found ourselves by a small lake, surrounded by mountains that had disappeared behind the clouds.
The lake was a blank canvas, the reflection of the sky turned white, creating the airy feeling of entering a dreamscape. In moments like this, when I'm surrounded by the wild beauty of Iceland, I can't help but think of folklore and stories, of a magical world beyond our own. I've always been one to look for everyday magic in unexpected places, but here, on the Troll Peninsula, it truly feels like I've entered a true magical realm.
What secrets do these ancient mountains hold? What creatures lurk in the mist? Fog and clouds always set my imagination alight. It's always the same way. In moments when you can't see anything, the imagination takes flight, like at night in a completely dark room, or here, surrounded by white clouds and gazing into the white reflecting waters of the lake.
We turned back and began our descent, walking through fields of red grasses dotted with white heads of Arctic cotton. The delicate flowers swayed in the strong wind. I couldn't help but imagine them to be herds of tiny trolls, wandering about their own business in plain sight, but invisible to our unattuned eyes. I could almost see them, their little woolly heads bobbing up and down as they trotted through the grass.
Traditionally, we celebrated the hike with a delicious cup of coffee from my husband's yellow thermos flask. We sipped our coffee and gazed out at the fjord, savouring the afterglow of our adventure. We had felt like we scratched the surface of a wondrous world and wondered what other secrets the Troll Peninsula held, and what other adventures awaited us.
MY BOTANICAL NOTES
Arctic cotton
Eriophorum
Arctic cotton or fífa in Icelandic delicate and resilient perennial herb that thrives in the harsh Arctic climate. Its slender, grass-like leaves and fluffy white seed heads are a familiar sight in the Icelandic landscape.
Arctic cotton is a member of the sedge family, Cyperaceae. It is closely related to other sedges, such as bulrushes and cattails. However, Arctic cotton is distinguished by its unique seed heads, which are made up of numerous long, cottony bristles.
The seed heads of Arctic cotton are a marvel of engineering. They are designed to disperse seeds over long distances, even in windy conditions. When the seeds are ripe, the bristles break off and carry the seeds away on the wind.
Arctic cotton is also a symbol of Icelandic culture and heritage. The plant has been used in traditional Icelandic medicine for centuries. It is also featured in Icelandic folk tales and legends.
Trolls of the peninsula
I thought about the name of this place, the Troll Peninsula. Are there elves to be found here, I wondered?
On a rare, quiet, windless autumn day, I snuck out of work for a quick hike down to the fjord. The path was a sheep path at best, weaving its way through the red bilberry bushes.
I waded through streams and clambered over boulders, my boots squelching in the muddy ground. But I didn't mind. I was too lost in wonder at the tapestry of colours all around me. I found myself surrounded by tufted hairgrass, as tall as I was.
I had to take huge steps, like a child, and sometimes crawl on my hands and knees to get through it. I felt dwarfed by the vast landscape, as if I had been shrunk to the size of one of the mythical elves that are said to roam these lands.
The name of this place, the Troll Peninsula, set my mind wandering. Are there elves to be found here, I wondered. Or do we become elves when we come here?
MY BOTANICAL NOTES
Dwarf birch tree
Betula nana
The small birch trees that I saw were likely dwarf birch trees, fjalldrapi in Icelandic. In the photo, one is growing flat, its branches twisted and gnarled by the strong winds that batter the Troll Peninsula. This is a common sight in this region, where the dwarf birch tree is one of the few trees that can survive the harsh conditions.
Dwarf birch trees are a type of birch tree that is native to the Arctic and subarctic regions. They are typically shorter than other birch trees, and their leaves are smaller and more rounded. Dwarf birch trees are often used in landscaping, and their bark is also used to make traditional Nordic crafts.
Fjordside Cabin
Moved into my snug wooden cabin on the edge of the icy fjord on the mystical Troll Peninsula in the remote north of Iceland.
Moved into my snug wooden cabin on the edge of the icy fjord on the mystical Troll Peninsula in the remote north of Iceland. It's my annual pilgrimage here, avoiding tourists descending on the country in the long summer months. My husband and I prefer to retreat to a remote location in the north of Iceland, where we can embrace the autumnal weather and avoid the crowds.
The fall colours on the Troll Peninsula are a feast for the senses. The blueberry plants have turned a fiery red, covering the hill slopes in a rust-coloured blanket.
First walk is always the same. Up the hill alongside the waterfall, over sheep fences and through mud and tall grass. There are no trails or paths, so it's a bit of a scramble to the top. But I love it.
I love the feeling of my wellies sinking into the wet moss. It's like walking on a giant sponge. I hold on to the rocks to push myself up, face close to the ground I pause, tired mid-climb, inhale the smell of damp earth and listen to the sound of the waterfall next to me.
On the top, as a celebration, my husband poured us hot coffee from the thermos flask. It's a tradition now, to sit on this big rock next to the waterfall. We always climb here to this rock as our first hike after arriving in Iceland. It's a special place for us, and we love to come back here every year.
I sat back and enjoyed my coffee, taking in the view as fjord stretches out below me, and the majestic mountains rise in the distance, their peaks dusted with the first snow of autumn. It's good to be back. Back to the peace and quiet. Back to nature. Back to the sheep.
And back to the muck.
MY BOTANICAL NOTES
Bilberry
Vaccinium myrtillus
These berries are a type of bilberry , bláber in Icelandic. They are closely related to blueberries, cranberries, and lingonberries.
The bilberry bushes are small and delicate, with oval-shaped leaves and serrated edges. The berries grow in clusters on the branches, and they turn a deep red color in the autumn.
Some Icelanders believe that if you eat too many blueberries, you will be captured by the Trolls and taken to live with them in their hidden world. This belief is thought to have originated as a way to discourage children from eating too many berries, as they can be poisonous if eaten in large quantities.
Despite the folklore surrounding them, blueberries are a popular and beloved food in Iceland. They are a delicious and nutritious way to enjoy the taste of nature.