 Rebecca Hayman from Kelowna, BC
My family decided they wanted to educate me on the Norse mythology of some of the local sights, We passed by Goðafoss, and Sigrún told me the story of why it was called Goðafoss or.. God’s [water]fall. The story is: "Þorgeir Ljósvetningagoði Þorkelsson {say that 10 times fast} was born in 940 and worked as a lawspeaker in Iceland from 985 – 1001. In the year 999/1000, Iceland had beenintroduced to Christianity and was in the debate between following the Norse paganism they knew or converting to Christianity. þorgeir was a pagan priest and had favored after Christianity but decided that compromise must be made –allowing, for those who wish too continue, the practice of the pagan religion in private. Þorgeir converted to Christianity andtook the idols of the Norse gods from his farm and threw them over the water fall – now known as Goðafoss." We drove into a canyon, the walls standing high into the sky and the rocks being in a similar formation as the rock walls we had just seen. The canyon of Ásbyrgi had a story of its own, one the Sigrún and Ottó told me about as we drove further and further into the canyon. The canyon from above, was sort of like a horse shoe, with a U-shape formed by the walls and the inside formation completing the look of the U. This U-shape reminded people of a horse shoe, so legend has it that Óðinn had a horse with 8-legs and one day that horse took a step and the ground sunk, leaving the hoof imprint in the ground. Of course I asked “do they know how the canyon was actually formed?” and apparently as Ottó explained it was from the glaciers as they were there, the land formed around them until they melted, leaving the U-shaped canyon. There are other explanations as to why the canyon is shaped this way, but this is the one that made the most sense to me when I learned some of the other explanations. The canyon is also apparently the home of the hidden people. These hidden people are also known as the “Huldufólk” and live among the cliffs. There was a little sign with a blurb about them there at the canyon. After a little bit more driving and a few stops, we pulled into another parking lot and followed the path down the rock stairs and got closer and closer to the the loud rumbling sound I could only imagine was Dettifoss. I had looked up pictures of the water falls and they looked amazing but walking up to the falls with the rushing sound getting louder and stronger until you were literally right there, right beside this powerful waterfall.. it was something different. I had never been so close to something so powerful and so strong before – other than ‘The Mountain‘ of course.. The canyon went on and on it seemed and the amount of water coming through the river, down the fall and into that canyon – can you image how much water that is per second – per minute – per day – per year!? Where does it all come from and how does it always have that power! It should be labelled as a wonder of the world. I imagine that Niagara Falls is just as impressive as it is bigger but.. this was nature, you could go right up and touch the water as it flowed by, you could feelthe mist coming up from the massive amounts of water falling below. You could stand on the rocks just inches from the cliff the water was running over. No rails, no cement barriers to hold you back and nothing taking away from the raw beauty and pure power that the famous Dettifoss was showing. I was in complete and utter ‘aww‘. I didn’t want to leave but it was COLD! We sped walked back to the car to where there was no wind and it was semi-warm! To read Rebecca's blog please go to: https://afreshsnorri.wordpress.com
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By Justin Gailey from Port Angeles, Washington
I spent a week of my homestay up near Geysir, the ultimate namesake for our English word “geyser”. It was a lovely area full of mountains, fields, horses, and geothermal activity. But what part of Iceland isn’t? I worked at a bed and breakfast where I got to meet a lot of interesting people from all over the world who were passing through on their own Icelandic adventures. It was especially fun watching the Iceland vs. England football match with a bunch of foreigners who also cheered Iceland on. Except for our English guests. They stayed in their room. I finished up my stay at Geysir with a trek up into mountains in search of some solitude and spectacular views. And man, were there ever some spectacular views. From the top, I was in the middle of a sea of volcanoes, fjords, glaciers, and rivers that seemed to stretch on as far as you could see. Iceland has a habit of reminding you at every turn that you’re living in one of the most geologically active and interesting places on the planet. 
By Kimberly Miller from Edmonton, Alberta Having grown up in the world’s second largest country by land area (Canada, for those unknowing of this factoid), where the population is much higher and considerably more spread out, and yet denser at the same time, Iceland is a funny little country. Not funny ha-ha, mind you, but funny huh-I-didn’t-realise-that-was-a-thing. I have been staying in Selfoss, a small-ish town outside of Reykjavik by roughly 45min in a car. The population is around 8,000 persons, and I don’t know how many horses. I have to mention the horses because not only do my cousins own seven—and had one competing in this year’s Landsmót—but so do their neighbours. And Icelanders have as much pride in their horses as anything else, so it is a massive sporting event. Unlike some sporting events however, where the human is the object upon which judgement is made, at Landsmót the horse is the athlete, and the jockey merely an accessory—or a way through which to judge how smooth a horse’s stride is. This year at Landsmót, I was able to attend for free in exchange for volunteering. It was during this weekend that I learned that, indeed, Iceland is a very small country, and makes the world feel exponentially smaller. Especially when considering my cousin’s wife went to school with Björk, and I am technically related to The Mountain. I also learned that, while the theory Six Degrees of Separation is all swell, it does not quite apply to this beautiful, fascinating nation. Here, it is much more like Two Degrees of Separation, or perhaps Three Degrees of Separation, if you really push it. I saw a friend also on Snorri over this weekend, and one of the guest’s staying at his cousin (of some distant relation)’s guesthouse is an instructor of some fashion at her school, and that he worked on the same farm as my cousin’s brother (so… my cousin). The world is a small place, my friends, and Snorri helps to shrink it just a little more! By Thomas Arnason McNeil from Halifax, NS
It is a difficult thing to define the people of Svarfaðardalur, Iceland. The residents of this small valley, just a few kilometres from the fishing town of Dalvík, continue to farm and raise livestock as their ancestors did. Despite their association in popular culture with “Bakkabræður”- a series of folk tales staring three notoriously stupid brothers- they tend to be practical people of many talents. Ask my cousin Kristján Eldjárn Hjartarson what he does for a living, and he’ll probably tell you that he works as an architect. But he’s also a farmer, an electrician, a carpenter, a performing musician accompanying his wife Kristjana Arngrímsdóttir, a tour guide and an expert on birds and wildlife. But then there are those in the valley who chose to pursue careers so singularly unique, so utterly impractical, and yet – somehow – essential to their community. “Have you met your ancestor yet?” Kristján asks me as we sit together on his back porch at Tjörn, the family farm. I shake my head. We walk a few steps to the small church next to his home, and as we come to the entrance he stops and stretches out his hand. I take it, expecting to walk inside as part of some strange ceremony. But instead, we pace meaningfully towards a rusted Iron cross directly facing the church’s doors. It is here that my great-great-great-great grandfather Arngrímur Gíslason lies buried. He had only one job, so much a part of him that it would become a moniker: Arngrímur “málari” – the painter. His tiny turf-roof studio overlooks the church, built in the 1870s out of cheap plywood. His frantic pencil scratching still cover the walls, splattered with faded paint. He painted portraits and church idols in an attempt to feed himself or repay others. As a young man, he repaid a preacher’s hospitality by sleeping with his daughter – Þórunn Hjörleifsdottir – who bore him a child. Publicly shamed, Þórunn was made to marry an older farmer while Arngrímur’s name was never spoken in the household again. Arngrímur and Þórunn would meet by chance several decades later in Svarfaðardalur, having each married and subsequently been widowed. Arngrímur’s name could still not be spoken in front of Þórunn’s bedridden mother, until one afternoon when she needed to be turned over. As she was quite heavy, Þórunn could not do it by herself – and all the men were out working in the field. As her mother was very insistent, Þórunn confessed there was one person she could call. Out of options, Arngrímur was begrudgingly summoned. The two were married shortly after. Their daughter – Petrína Soffía – would emigrate to Manitoba in 1895.
 By James Callahan.
Iceland is certainly different from Atlanta, Georgia. Having lived in Georgia my entire life, subject to the conditioning of America, I can clearly see the undeniable importance and inexplicable effect that living in Iceland has had, is having, and will have on my entire life. The midnight sun, the mountains that seem to never end, the power of the earth herself energizing nearly the entire country. All of this has deeply touched my sense of life in such a way that positive change is inevitable. I bask in the history of this country through natural, linguistic, and cultural immersion. The paradisiac, dream-like landscape is one that has embedded itself into my heart where by I am humbled at almost every moment. Since June 24th, I have been living in a town called Reyðarfjörður. My cousin Kristján and his lovely wife Álfheiður have lived here for decades, creating family and certainly all kinds of memories. Kristján's grandfather is the younger brother of my great-great grandmother, Björg Stefánsdóttir. The connection here is deep and true. My cousin Frosti describes the mountains here as the Eastern Alps. They are truly magnificently serene and noble. Perched among the clouds in the most silently confident of ways, I wake up every morning to the breathtaking landscape. For the past week, part of my volunteer work experience has as a museum attendant. The French maritime museum and hotel in Fáskrúðsfjörður, the next fjord south of Reyðarfjörður, holds in it, a very unique and meaningful history of the French-Icelandic connection through the fishing industry. The interaction with French, German, Icelandic, and Spanish speaking people has broaded my scope of human perspective. And of course, ten minutes of the mountain view on a clear day might be enough to end wars. Learning about even one aspect of Icelandic history is enough to explore the infinite possibilities each life held during those times. It is again, humbling and awe inspiring. Every day here is a new life. Truly. I feel at home here, even though I do miss seeing the stars. Perhaps I must come back to see them. I will continue working at the museum until my time to leave on July 14th, where at that point, I will reunite with the rest of the Snorri members in Reykjavík. For the next day, we will begin our trek to Hofsós as well as exploring all kinds of areas in Iceland. The emergence of the recognition of a psychogenetic familiarity among the Snorri members as well as Iceland in general is beyond words. It is truly a heart opening experience. |
Ásta Sól KristjánsdóttirBlog editor and Manager of the Snorri and Snorri Plus Programs Archives
August 2016
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