M
y oldpaperbackeditionofIndependentPeople,
stillbearingitspricetagof 1475 Icelandic
króna,sitshighona dark,northerlybookshelf
amongotherNordicauthors,geographically
initsplacebututterlysingularinmyworld
view.Itsshabbyblue-and-whitespineis lodgedpalelyinthe
mountainsideofbooks,likea shardofstubbornglacialicein
spring.I boughtit manyyearsagofroma bookshopinReykjavik,
pluckedfroma sectionotherwisedevotedtothegreatIcelandic
sagas,theswashbucklingstrugglesofNorsemenandwomen
withnamessuchasHallbjornHalf-trollandErikBloodaxe.
FromReykjavikI carried– butdidn’thavetimetoread– the
bestknownworkbyHalldórLaxnessona solocircumnavigation
ofIceland.It wasmidsummer,thedaylighteternal,andalways
latewhenI pulledinat spartanlittleguesthousessurrounded
byfieldsoflava,setlikegiganticpavlovas.Drivingthenational
ringroadwassurprisinglychallenging,bettersuitedinparts
toa four-wheeldrivethanmyclapped-outhirecar,andI was
acutelyawareofmysolitudeandthewildlyunfamiliarelements:
ice,steam,howlingwind,boilingmud.Tourismtotheisland
hasboomedinthepastfiveyears– theMinisterforTourism
hasrecentlysuggestedlimitingthenumberoftravellersto
some sites,suchis theoveruseandovercrowding– butI drove
fordayswithonlyBjörkontheradioandsheepforcompany.
Ina lunardesertwhereNeilArmstrongoncepractised
moonwalking,onaneerie,emptybeachofblacksand,on
a knollatopa glacier-fedwaterfall,I rediscovered a sense
of wonder I last felt during childhood.I camehomewithmycopyofIndependentPeopleandonly
thendidI discoverIceland’smostfamousstoryteller.Inprose
asstarkandluminousasthetopographyI’dencountered,
LaxnessconjuredtheunforgettableBjarturofSummerhouses,
a sheepfarmerwhoenduresfamine,sorceryandnightmarish
blizzards,andloseseverything– twowives,twosonsanda
beloveddaughter– inhisferociousstruggleforindependence.
Blightedbydebtandbadluck,hisherdinfestedwithworms,
Bjarturis anarchetypaleverymanragingagainstfate,butalso
anIcelander:a manwhorecitesthesagasashemucksout
thesheeppen,astoughasthemuttonhefeedshisfamilyat
Christmas.“I spentmyentirechildhoodinanenvironmentin
whichthemightyoftheEarthhadnoplaceoutsidestorybooks
anddreams,”LaxnesssaidwhenacceptinghisNobelPrize
forLiteraturein1955.“Loveof,andrespectfor,thehumble
routineofeverydaylifeanditscreatureswastheonlymoral
commandmentwhichcarriedconvictionwhenI wasa child.”
Ashestridesacrossmarshandmountain,alwaysthinly
clad,alwaysinfreezingrain,Bjarturis bothheroicandmock-
heroic– a hard-heartedfoolwhoworkshischildrenlikeslaves,
moreconcernedwithhissheep’sdiarrhoeathanthewelfareof
hisfamily.“It’snothingbutdamneccentricitytowanttobedry,”
he harangueshischildrenas theytoilinsleet.“I’vebeenwetmore
thanhalfmylifeandneverbeena whittheworseforit.”And
alwaysthereis Laxness’sunsentimentalreverenceforthelandand
theseasons,chiselledratherthanwrittenwithhaiku-likeclarity.
Yearslater,I rememberthebone-chillofmidsummernights
inIceland,thecryofa loonina lavafield,anda waterfall,
longandslender,where“thesouthwindblowsthesprayup
overthebrinkagain,sothatthewaterfallflowsbackwards”.
ButdidI actuallystandatopthatgravity-defyingwaterfall,or
haveI sincespiritedmyselfintoBjartur’sholdingona sunlit
evening?I’velearntthemostreliableguide,ontheroad and
inlife,is theonewholiberatestheimagination.
■Helen Anderson is the formerGT travel editor.●Beach
reading
specialIndependentPeople
byHalldór Laxness
HELEN
ANDERSON
82 GOURMET TRAVELLER