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The weather report should’ve said, “Hold onto your caps and wits.” Because today I nearly lost both. For sure, one, but the other one is still intact — even if it’s only by a thread.
The morning was pristine. Mostly overcast that added so much depth and luminous character to the mountains. My first pit stop was to photograph some long-haired horses at a nearby farm site in Borganes. I had spotted the wild beauties the previous day and had been itching to photograph them ever since.
The gentle beasts galloped towards my motherly neighs and, quite literally, strutted their stuff for me.
In the Ceed-kick, I slowly maneuvered myself further into the Snaefellsnes Peninsula. The white mountains were soon lowlighted by emerald green and midnight ink lava fields. Then, they were quickly replaced by the golden honey browns and oranges of unknown vegetation.
What was constant was the wind. It howled and threaten to shove my Ceed-kick into the ditch if I didn’t pay close attention. The Minnesotan in me didn’t worry. Instead, I growled back and inched onward.
I pulled into the village of Hellnar, famous for its black house neighborhood that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. The town was small and quaint with no more than 20 houses in a 5-mile radius.
Rain and snow lashed at my face as I watched the ocean waves crashed onto the black cliffs. It was as if the Nordic Gods awoke and wanted the entire Earth to know their enormity.
The vicious wind and waves pelted my fair skin, and I was forced to take cover in the Ceed-kick after a few minutes of admiring the coastline. It seemed that all of the day’s stops were going to be short and sweet and leave me drenching wet and cold.
Next, I meandered towards Snæfellsjökull National Park. This park is well-known for its scenic viewpoints of rock formations balancing at the edge of large black cliffs. If only I got to see that.
I parked the car and attempted to make my way to the viewing point maybe 100 meters off the road. Within 10 meters a gust of wind pushed me over. After climbing back onto my feet, another gust took m my hat hostage and tossed it over the cliffside.
Looks like the hurricane-strength winds are nothing to joke with and I quickly call it quits. Back to safety and onward to where I would sleep that evening.
The drive wasn’t easy. In fact, it was white-knuckle inducing and my head was dizzy by straining so hard to concentrate. Yet, all the hand sweating was worth it when I rounded the final bend of the fjord and saw a small fishing village in the distance. It was dusk and the town slowly flicked on one by one. Looking like floating candle flames in the winter storm.
My final destination was Stykkisholmur — a quaint colorful fishing village with a ferry that departs every morning to the Westfjords. I spotted my yellow fishing cottage right away and snuggled up for the evening.