View from the Pier

Vik, Iceland

Enveloped in a cocoon of elderly Icelanders, my husband Tom and I listened to an aged docent perform on a dulcimer-like instrument, the haunting melody both melancholy and medieval.  The museum volunteer then shuffled toward an old upright piano and fingered the chords of “Amazing Grace.”  His countrymen encircled him, and lifted their voices in a variety of keys.  The resulting cacophony was somehow sweet and beautiful.

Held hostage by the herd of rosy-cheeked geriatrics encircling us, we moved like the tide through the Skogar Folk Museum.  Room after room was filled with densely-packed displays of household articles donated by generations who have called home the wild shores of Iceland’s southern tip.  The ingenuity behind the everyday items made clear that life itself was a precious commodity here.

Many of the pieces were made by local farmer Sigurjón Magnússon, who lived from 1889-1969.  A talented handyman, Sigurjón’s work spoke to the survival instinct of people who lived in remote areas in the old days. They couldn´t go a store to buy the things required for daily living. Instead, they had to be able to make everything themselves, using whatever material they had available.

Pétursey is the largest exhibit in the Museum. Built in 1855 by farmers Jón Ólafsson and Sæmundur Bjarnason, the boat had a crew of 17.  She was used for fishing off the harborless coast, where boats had to be launched from the sandy shores. The boat was also used for traveling to the regional trading center in the Westman Islands. In her final days, she brought cargo ashore from ships anchored near Vik.

Some of the artifacts on display were connected to folklore and the supernatural.  For instance a comb, a pair of scissors and a hairpin were said to have come from the elves or “hidden people.” The Museum collection included certain rocks and stones believed to have magical properties.  Some were reputed to protect the owner from lightning or fire, or to guarantee that he would always have bread to eat. Others were healing stones of various kinds.

Outside, we ambled over to a very authentic-looking recreation of a tiny village, with small houses, outbuildings and a church.  Several of the structures appeared to be built into the hillside, their roofs made of turf, the walls built of basaltic rocks.  Most of the timber used for construction was driftwood. Typical of the local architecture, the Baðstofa—a communal room where the household slept, ate and worked—was located over the cattleshed, so the family could benefit from the warmth of the animals.

As Tom and I traversed the winding roads through Iceland’s verdant countryside, we drove by numerous tiny communities nestled at the foothills of glaciers, no more than homesteads, each with a cluster of buildings painted in cheerful shades of reds.  I felt profound respect for the people who had the spirit and fortitude to carve out a life in a corner of this vast open space.  Iceland, with a population of 300,000, is the size of Kentucky, which has population more than twelve times larger.

A short drive away from the Skogar Museum, we found our accommodations on the outskirts of Vik, a rustic but comfortable lodge tucked back against soft green hillocks.  While Tom took a pre-dinner nap, I took a walk around the grounds, accompanied by a friendly black Labrador who appeared out of nowhere to join me.  We crossed a footbridge over a pond and came to a wide, shallow river, beyond which was a farm, its three buildings dwarfed by the massive mountain rising behind them. 

The scene appeared both solitary and cozy at the same time.  In the lengthening shadows of the waning day, I stood in the valley and had my first glimmer of a new possibility–being alone and yet comfortable in an immense and powerful wilderness.

As I recall the sensation, I am in a hotel room not far from where my terminally ill mother resides.  Like many mothers and daughters, our journey together has been full of peaks and valleys, eruptions and aftershocks, as well as moments of magic and harmony.  She is a survivor and she has taught me to be one too.  

Beyond a lifetime of lessons in tenacity and willpower, in recent years she has become fond of saying “When you are right with yourself, all will be right with your world.” Tonight, I am grateful for the peace I have in the wilderness that is this stage of my life and hers.    

For more images of Iceland, see Travel Photos, http://www.viewfromthepier.com/travel-photos/