Bless Bless

It wasn’t just that it was cold. I knew enough to expect that, given the name. But this was a bone jarring, lung aching kind of cold, my fingers so frozen I fumbled when I tried to take a photo. And up there amongst the staggering beauty of far northern Iceland, that was often. Snow crunched under my boots as I stamped my feet, trying to keep warm. We were standing in the valley between two small fishing villages, Ólafsfjörður and Siglufjörður, up near the Arctic Circle. The only signs of civilization were the tunnel mouths cut deep into the mountain on each side. From the peak, my red coat would have looked like a tiny splash of color amongst the endless white. Siggi pointed to a cluster of rocks. ‘A writer I know held a book launch here: he read to the crowd on this spot.’ I gazed up at the muted palette surrounding us, from the thick snow to the pale clouds. ‘Did a crowd actually come?’ I asked. Siggi snorted. I watched his breath shoot out his nose in two thick plumes. ‘This is Iceland – twenty people is a crowd! But it did bring attention to Fjallabyggð, so we loved it.’The two northern towns of Ólafsfjörður and Siglufjörður together make the municipality of Fjallabyggð. Once a flourishing fishing community, resident numbers had shrunk since the herring started disappearing in the 1950s. Hundreds of miles from the capital Reykjavik, tourists didn’t exactly flock there. They didn’t know what they were missing. It was the most extraordinary place I’d ever seen. On a sunny day the colors were astonishing; bright blue sky over black volcanic dirt, dusted with snow. The mountains curled around the villages like a cupped palm. The old harbour of Ólafsfjörður, once the heart of the village, was beautiful and hypnotic, boats creaking as they bobbed gently on the water. As much as I loved funky Reykjavik, the magic of the quiet northern towns was much more compelling. The scenery on the seven hour bus trip made the journey worthwhile in itself. There were a few guesthouses scattered throughout the area, as well as artistic residencies like the one I was staying at. And although October was already considered winter, the light snow and aurora borealis conditions made it the perfect time to visit. I stood in the valley between villages, watching snowflakes flutter. The silence was soothing, the landscape ethereal. I imagined the book I’d write, and how I’d launch it on that very spot too. I’d send the words into the blue Arctic sky, as high as they could go.