Iceland Hopping or From Ugljan to Iceland by Bike

If you want to hop over to Iceland on a bike, first you need to take a ride through Europe. After that you need to board a ferry in the Danish port of Hirthals and after three days and two nights you will dock in the port of Seydisfjordur.

 
I was looking at the same images you are looking at now during the first stages of preparation for the trip. Is the destination worth all those travelled kilometres? Iceland has generally been regarded as a biker heaven for some years: empty roads, open skies, bendy roads, off-road possibilities and friendly locals. These are the pros. The cons, on the other hand, you don’t tend to think about while preparing for a trip; You place them in the back of your mind. Therefore, we will not talk about them here. But they will catch up to us, don’t worry.  At a time when they’re supposed to occur.

Over yonder

After a pleasant, but by no means exceptional, ride through Slovenia, Austria and Eastern Germany, winding through alpine valleys, passes, lovely European villages and towns, we arrive at Jena, Germany. The hotel is near, and Ana’s joy is a testament to that.

 Jena

  

Leibnitz, Schelling, Fichte, Marx, Zeiss, Martin Luther. They all studied in this town, not far from our hotel room and the bed I just crawled into. They breathed the same air. I pull the covers over myself with a certain unease. What will happen in the morning when I wake up? Will I wake up with some idea that will resonate with the human kind in such a way that I will be remembered for centuries? Or will I write a poem that will make the world cry? No chance! You don’t give up on yourself that easily. No sleeping today. I’m going for a beer.

Looking at the lovely portraits of professors who taught Leibnitz, Schiller , Marx and others, I realized that it wasn’t enough to crack open a window and let in the evening air previously absorbed by the greats to make a change. Because, as usual, I woke up with no ideas. There was no actual danger of that happening, really, because the greats were capable of looking their professors in the eye and arguing with them. I, a weakling, would be killed by the sheer sight of them.

 Lübeck

We continue the ride through Hanseatic roads.

There once lived an artist here who, in the early 1950s, the local government commissioned to restore the heavily damaged frescos damaged in the RAF bombings. Lübeck was practically levelled in the war. Just 20km from here is the beach in Travemunde which the British remembered so well that they came back in 1943 to repay the debt. Anyway: The artist! The business of restoring was going well for him, but as time passed he became bored with it. He missed being creative; he was a painter! He switched from reconstructing to constructing and painted all the walls with his own frescoes. Time went on and no one noticed the difference. Besides money, the painter’s vanity was also fuelled by the need for recognition, which was lacking. Not being able to take the indifference toward his work, one morning he got up and reported himself for fraud at the first police station. That didn’t go over so smoothly for him as nobody believed him, and even the art historians firmly shook their heads, “The frescoes are authentic!” It took a while for the wretched artist to prove that he was on the wrong side of the law and that he deserved punishment.

 

A 1.5m2 protestant backyard. Feel free to come in and sit down. The concept of public space is inexorably broader in this part of the world than at home where the walls are growing ever higher. The houses have open passageways which connect the yards and other houses with streets and new yards. Naturally, the Protestants have nothing to hide, so even the windows have no curtains and one is free to peek inside. You will be welcomed by a courteous smile.

 Velkomen til Danmark. The town of Ribe

Ribe, located in the south of Jutland, is supposedly the oldest city in Denmark. Every evening, for hundreds of years (, with a short break between 1904 to 1935), after sunset the night watchman goes through town and informs the residents by song that the town is safe and it’s time for bed.

On the way to Skagen, the northernmost point in Denmark, i.e. Jutland, the peninsula which connects Denmark to the rest of Europe by land. Yes, the rest of Denmark is composed of are islands. An endless plain upon which Danish cows graze peacefully, without any passion, as if lost in thought. The 400km road is all ours. The automobiles have taken to the highways.

During our entire trip through Denmark, we were riding alongside an asphalt bicycle lane. And the whole country is on bicycles. Why wouldn’t they be when the government is smart enough to encourage it? I’m sad to say that we are trailing by a hundred years in this respect.

We can go no further by bike. This is the northernmost point of Denmark where the straits of Skagerrak (left) and Kattegat (right) connect the North Sea with the Baltic.

 The Ship

Strangers are friends whom we yet haven’t met. With a “friend” from France who practically lives on his bike. He says he goes home, which is somewhere around the Ardennes forest, only occasionally.

We meet him in the bowels of the ferry, after boarding.  His original three-wheeler is not a mere show of eccentricity. The man lost an arm ten or so years ago in a biking accident. He does not give up easily.

From Seydisfjordur to Husavik

First impressions. Iceland is and island chock crammed full of surprises. Our first day in Iceland, for example. Sunny, a pleasant 13 degrees. A ride through the landscapes of Mordor, the Moon and wind-beaten rocks of Pag (island in Croatia) painted black.

We stop at a gas station which also fulfils a certain social role here. We’re sipping our drinks, soaking in the rays. I go inside to settle the bill. I return outside to a different season. The icy wind carries tiny rain droplets which aren’t falling but are piercing us in rapid fire. The fog or the cloud has snuffed out the light from the low yellow sun and our trip suddenly took on a November gloom. Iceland (Is ice nice?).

Husavik. A fishing town that was once known for whaling. Today, the catch is cod and many other things. The food here is sensational. Scampi and lobsters are as sweet and expensive as their Adriatic kin, and the fish is prepared in hundreds of ways, just like in Portugal, though the fish is never ever grilled! Take note of the ships, or rather boats, in the marina. Judging by size and design, this photo might have been taken in some Adriatic cove right before a storm. It’s surprising, really, I would have expected something different in terms of size and weight considering the frequent and dangerous storms of the North Atlantic. There is a reason people say that there are two oceans and the North Atlantic. We might not be a maritime nation of the same calibre as the inhabitants of the North Atlantic. After all, the Adriatic is a cove inside a relatively small sea. Small cove, small sea and small minds who regard it as normal that ferry lines get suspended because of high winds.

 

We continue on. We will stick to the north and northwest side of the island because Iceland, although seemingly small, has the double the surface area of Croatia. Yet the island is inhabited by only 350 thousand Icelanders. The BBC noted the following records: Iceland is a country where 10% of the population are published authors, where there are most musicians per 100 people, the lowest number of murders and the most Nobel laureates per capita ( there’s only one, but still!). This is also the country where Coca-Cola is consumed the most.

Between 2003 and 2007 the stock values in the market rose 9-fold. It all collapsed a year later when the country was struck by recession. The Icelandic Krona lost 2/3 of its value, real-estate became worthless and the meaning of the word wealth started gaining new elements. The main secretary of the Bright Future Party, Heiða Kristin Helgadóttir, who had just won the mayoral election in Reykjavik then said, “Artists are rich even when they have no money. They run on different fuel. Shouldn’t we learn something from this?”

Carried by the southern wind we travel south to the Westfjords. This wind is nothing like the Southerlies  we have at home. It’s viciously beating us so hard, we can barely keep our balance. It is 5 degrees outside. Occasionally a cloud will unload a torrent of rain on us. In other words – I’m thinking of Viking heave. The nature is unreal in its beauty. In the short video, you can see the bike rocking in the wind while we stopped for a photo (The bike, with Ana, me and the equipment on it weigh just under 500kg!). Ana is a real trooper. She’s not complaining or whining, she stoically withstands Thor’s gifts. Not many women would handle it so well.

Here in the Westfjords, the land of Trolls, where anything is possible. We passed under the rainbow (photo) several times, just in case. 

 Isafjordur

One of the small number of towns that sprouted on this climatically and geographically roughest side of the island. The avalanches that slide off the cliffs in the winter can cover the whole town in a moment. This is also the furthest point of our trip. From tomorrow, we’ll be closer to home with each kilometre.

We decided to peek in and get a feel for Reykjavik. It would be a shame to miss visiting the capital after coming all this way.

The temperature will stay the same tomorrow, but there will be more sun and the chance for rain is only 43%. This should make the journey through the unforgettable Westfjords landscapes a bit more humane.

 

Why do we travel

What makes us travel? What do we hope to gain by setting off? Is it the new experience that we can directly live through? Do we travel in hope of finding happiness? Is travelling an escape from the boring routine of everyday life? Is it the need for change? If you come back from a trip on a Saturday, are the Sunday and Monday then filled with joy? Has a change occurred whilst travelling? Have we been enriched by a new experience? Why do we keep on travelling then?

Alain de Botton, the English philosopher, gave this a great deal of thought and told the story of an eccentric French noble who couldn’t stand people, so he lived alone on his provincial estate (The Art of Travel). One day, while reading a London travel guide, he decided to visit the city. Inspired by the descriptions of parks, museums, concert and theatre events, unlimited options for elegant shopping, Tiffany’s of London, etc., he booked a carriage and started packing. “Your carriage awaits, sir”, reported the butler. His man took the luggage and the noble vigorously took to the door, skipping over steps, only to walk slowly and thoughtfully by the time he got to the exit. He never got to the carriage. He told the servant to cancel the ride and to take the luggage back inside. On his walk to the carriage he thought that it might rain in London; the ship to Dover might roll in the surf and the trip will not be pleasant; the theatre play might be awfully boring; the museums crowded and stuffy; the waiter at the restaurant might be too subservient and not creative enough… Then he remembered how much he enjoyed reading the travel guide, and concluded that the uncertainty of the reward he might receive from the undertaking the trip was too much of a burden.

Can happiness be found in Torremolinos, Vodice, Opatija or on Iceland? Or is it just a human figment no different than that which will take you to Lourdes, Fatima, Međugorje or Marija Bistrica? The trip is worth it only if you can get into the process of travelling. If you disregard the journey and expect the destination to give you happiness, satisfaction or change, your hope is in vain, because you will not find it there. This conceptual fallacy is evident on the lifeless faces of tourists in resorts or, e.g., when they are boarding the cruiser after taking a tour of Dubrovnik. Travel is undoubtedly a significant element of human life: from the journey north and west undertaken by our African predecessors, to conquests, pilgrimages or tourist journeys. And everyone is looking for a change. Only our non-conscious sperm undertakes its journey fulfilling its genetic role. Because evolution is blind, the sperm, carrying its chromosomes, hopes for nothing and takes joy in nothing. Its hosts, on the other hand, especially the ones sending him on his journey, make a big, often poorly structured, deal out of it.

And so, in our motorcycle journey, where both passengers are thermally and acoustically isolated from the atmosphere and each other, lacking the ability to pass the time in chatter, fall into introspective states as the landscape moves past them…

Travel only causes change. The destination is only a part of the journey. And that is why long journeys cause big changes where the ideas that are born are so much greater. Is it not obvious?

Is ice nice?

 

The two photos, as awesome as they are, carry a dangerous message: the glaciers have descended terribly low and are melting too quickly.

It seems to me the only "real" attraction of Reykjavik is that it's so far away because in every other respect it appears to be exactly the same as other modern cities - they all have a tendency to converge and thus all look alike, you know.  We spent the night in a charming apartment (AirB&B), ate an excellent meal in what is supposedly the best restaurant in town (Tripadvisor), took a stroll through the harbour, visited the National Museum, the concert hall, the pedestrian zone, we took our picture at the Sun Voyager and – we’re off.

The food is great everywhere on the island. We started east, making our way to the port where a ship would be waiting. Motorcycle tourism on Iceland comes to an abrupt end in the final week of August. On an island with virtually no forest you can’t seek shelter in the shade because: a) there are no trees; b) you don’t need shade even during the hottest of summers. On the other hand, one morning in late August, as you peek through the window to look at your bike, you might get bitten by the painful whiteness of fresh snow. Snow and ice are the nemeses of bikers so we hurry on our way east, trying to outrun the announced weather changes. We will not see the sun until we board the ship. Rain will follow us through the plains, and snow through the mountains.

We hurry more than usual. The weather really is abysmal. Inconspicuously, as the pain in my freezing hands is growing, as the icy rain goes through even the water-resistant gloves, and the heated grips shyly warm the palms locked around them, behind the foggy visor I’m on the prowl for the heated shelter of bars, which occasionally pop up. We fill ourselves with hot fish soup thawing our frozen insides. Pictured is one such bar that doubles as a museum of wizardry!

This scene deserves a word or two. In this location, one of the eruptions of a nearby volcano in the year 890 AD swept away a farm and killed all the residents, early settlers, at the time. Since then, every traveller puts his rock on the pile in memory of the killed family and for luck. The tradition was introduced by thoughtful neighbours.

However, as the number of travellers grew, and the number of modern travellers (tourists have tripled) the government intervened so every now and again a truck will unload a pile of volcanic rocks as they become scarce. We placed ours as well.

Yesterday’s 400km, not counting the marvellous fish soups we drank on the way, were marked by the debilitating cold, so we didn’t even consider stopping for photos. Frozen fingers couldn’t find the trigger on the camera anyway. The grey and sombre ride in Iceland Minor finally ended in a scorching hotel of some local chain.

At the time, we weren’t aware that the hellish ride of the previous day would be a walk in the park compared to what tomorrow had in store for us. It took us six hours to travel a mere 200km. When we complained in a bar on the way that the icy wind was throwing us all over the road, the waitress told us that it’s impassable during winter as the wind is so strong that it rolls stones over the road.

Again, in the dry bowels of the ship. Three days and three nights in a warm cabin before we rush home on the highways.