It’s unseasonably warm this festive time. Wearing your fully woolly Christmas jumper may leave you breaking into a sweat, but these seemingly tropical winter conditions are something the small Icelandic village of Vík will not be experiencing this year.
Vík, simply meaning ‘Bay’ in Icelandic, is the southernmost village in Iceland. Perched on the south coast in Mýrdalshreppur, it boasts a world famous beach, glistening white glaciers and handcrafted wool so warm it’ll rival the geothermal energy Iceland is most famous for. With winter weather reaching as low as -10 centigrade, forgetting your thermals would be halfway to writing your own death certificate.
One thing that’s striking as you enter westwards along Route 1 (the ring road that circumnavigates the island) is the tranquility. It’s hard to believe that the grumbling of Katla, an active volcano, rumbles silently beneath your feet. A Health & Safety brief is unusual to hear upon entry to a settlement, but Vík is not without its own risk assessment. “At all times you must be have an awareness of the church location”, our party was told quite abruptly. I knew the solemnity of religion in this country, but did not know that a sudden rapture incident could be scribed on a risk assessment as HIGH. However, it was then disclosed to me that the church would be the only building in Vík not to be submerged by an oncoming jökulhlaup (glacial flood) if Katla were to erupt, which apparently is overdue… *gulp*. Nevertheless, the village is well drilled and in the event of this unlikely event, I’d just follow the screaming Icelanders.
Apart from the emerging magma chamber, Vík is also home to other stereotypical geographical features, but with a twist. The black sand beach of Reynisfjara has been listed as Europe’s fifth best according to LonelyPlanet. The fifteen degree centigrade summer average may put off bikini bound holidaymakers, but its masked black beauty volcanic ash deposits would leave any jaw dragging along the ground in awe. Moreover, cliff stacks and stumps visible from Reynisfiara are an item taken straight from a geography textbook, despite their giggly phallic appearance.
As time slowly passes, I stroll by the steep outcropping sheep ridden granite rock face. “Balance”, is the first word that springs to mind, because these sheep are erect on a gradient similar to that of London’s very own Shard building. “I take it these sheep are good on their feet?”, I asked the guide who without spoken word points directly to the crevice at the toe of the outcrop. Revealed to me in the scree is a Bear Grylls family outing meat feast platter, including severed sheep leg, mutton gut and full lamb of head. This to me proves the inexistence of a super being mainly because I cannot fathom why a clumsy four-legged animal would trek across a sheer vertical rock crop with the ultimate destiny of plummeting to a certain terminal velocity splat on the ground. In spite of that I am swiftly told that it has something to do with ewes and fighting. Thank God I’m not a sheep.
Actually, sheep are sacred to the economic industry in Iceland. With most lambs being produced for commercial meat. This is especially true of the south where not only is cattle used for domestic food produce and exports (over 950 million ISK of agriculture goods and services alone in 2007) but it is also used for the thick togged wool, which has been Iceland’s most important export in the country for centuries. Víkurprjón is a wool factory in the centre of Vík, boasting one of the oldest knitwear companies in Iceland. Local employees, producing original Icelandic knitwear designs, practice traditional spinning and hand knitting methods. The factory is split up into a shop and manufacturing, where if you clamber your way to the top of the second floor you can peer over the balcony down towards the mechanical spinning wheels where the wool is woven together. Prices are varied dependent on your woolly clothing needs, but a typical woven jumper would cost roughly 10000ISK (£50), which is money worth spending in the harsh Icelandic climate.
I always make a special visit to Víkurpjón every time I pass through Vík, usually a place to take cover from the persistent rainfall that chronically drenches the village. It gives me a good excuse to buy my mother pure Icelandic wool to be knitted into a scarf to give her clothing business some real authentic variety. With the yarn being 1500ISK per kilo, it is a real bargain worth personally exporting back to the UK, despite my suitcase losing the function to close effectively (to be honest it’s usually those fluffy hotel towels!).
On my way out of Vík I ponder on what I can take away from me from this brief, but valuable time here. Is it the fear that if I misbehave I’ll reincarnate as an Icelandic sheep? Or is it joy of knowing not one bikini will ever be found on one of Europe’s top beaches? Or is it that I know I’ll be forever warm from the functionality of thick togged Icelandic yarn, knitted meticulously together by my maternal being back in the homeland of England? No, none of the above, because wherever I go and wherever I will be, my church building vision and vigilance will always be heightened; since being caught out by a potential volcanic catastrophe will haunt me for the rest of my days.
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