A person has many homes. There is the place you live right at this moment, and then there is one, or several, places you’ve lived throughout your life. The childhood home is especially prone to become one of those homes you carry with you all your life, whether it’s possible to go back there or not.
We left before the early bird was up on a Monday morning, heading for the train. The sign on the highway was ominous: “The bridge is closed,” it said. The bridge is almost never closed, unless the weather is awful; and it wasn’t, it was wonderful.
The train came and left the station with us in it. Halfway over the bridge however it stopped. A woman came trudging through the train telling whomever wanted to listen that there were “immigrants in the tunnels.”
My heart bled for the people who in their attempt to reach some kind of safe haven put their lives at risk by running through a tunnel that are only made for cars and trains.
And we waited. And we waited. And we waited wondering how long it could take to make sure there was no one in the tunnels and then we waited some more and just when we thought we were about to miss the plane the train started moving again.
We ran through Kastrup and made it to the plane on time. An airport without all the waiting is a strange place. Did I say without the waiting? Well the security took about 10 minutes, dropping the luggage was most nerve-wracking and may have taken 15 minutes.
And to Fearful’s utmost delight the air was smooth. It was easy sailing. I did some iPhone doodling and watched the first episode of Lucifer (with interest.)
Landing in Iceland is always an experience. A flat, dark, almost hostile scenery greets you and still I start an inwards cheer: THIS is what I know! THIS is how things should look. This is home.
R Frændi greeted us at the airport with his kindness and his laughter and his loud ways and we were ever so grateful for all the hassle he’d gone through procuring us a car and allowing us to stay at his home or in his cabin if we wanted to.
The cabin is at the place where my heart lives. I have a land there right below his, half a hectare of small birch trees and land by a small creek, underneath the mountain. It’s idyllic. It’s home. Even though I’ve never actually lived there. Just spent countless summers.
We had coffee with him and his wife and then we were off again. Driving through Reykjavik and out to Thingvellir. At Thingvellir we ate subs I bought in Reykjavik and watched the lake, The Man wondering just how far it was to all the mountains you can see.
You can see forever here. It’s right there in the landscape and you have NO way of knowing how far it is to this said forever.
Tired we arrived, pulled the bags inside the little cabin and then we went to greet S Frændi – who actually does live here in the house we used to spend our summers in.
Of course he had guests, he always seems to have guests, and it was a relative, one I haven’t seen in a very long time. A short meet and greet and then we were up in the cabin again, exhausted. The kid running around exploring all the hideouts and the things R Frændis grandchildren play with when they’re there. The man went to bed to sleep for an hour so that one of us, at least, would be half sane and I spent an hour on the porch, in my t-shirt, watching the mountains.
Now that’s a home greeting you don’t see often in Iceland. Sun shining, birds chirping, the creek pourling but otherwise the silence echoes through the mountains like a mad hatter waiting for something to break it – but nothing ever does – well it’s rare anyhow.
And then I’m out on the porch writing this. I can hear the creek whispering and an occasional bird is up too. The air is fresh, it always is here (meaning cold, but fresh is a kinder and sometimes actually a much better description) and it’s been bright – what little darkness there was I slept through and the sun is just about to peek over the mountaintop behind me where The Golden Chest towers in all it’s legendary status.
And I’m home. And though today will be sad, very very sad. It’s still good to be home.