Thank you to Intrepid Travel for the discount on this Iceland Express trip
Long day today! And it could have gone
really badly – yet didn’t. Which is always good.
From London to Reykjavik - yes! Iceland! At last! - is a long way, so
I got up early. Just as well, because having caught the train from Wandsworth
to Victoria via Clapham Junction, all ready to take the Gatwick Express from
there to the airport, it turned out the system was experiencing a "massive
signal failure", trains including the GEx were being cancelled left, right and
centre, and people were apparently even being encouraged to stay home from work. A bunch
of us with trolley suitcases and anxious expressions were directed onto another
train that took us back through Clapham Junction and eventually to the unexplored wilderness of East
Croydon, where we got finally onto a train to Gatwick. I was SO glad I had
heaps of time in hand, unlike some other travellers whose stress levels I
really didn’t envy.
Now, I know the following is going to
discredit me entirely as a travel writer with assumed experience and know-how:
when I booked my Icelandair flights online, somehow, and entirely without
noticing, my ticket for the flight there was business class. I know! This is me, I’ve never opted for
business class in my life, when I’ve been paying (although, in fact it really didn't cost very much: only $345 return, which seemed reasonable even for economy). I couldn’t believe it when
the tickets were issued – but, having done it, I thoroughly enjoyed the special security lane where they’re friendly and polite (lots of "my love" and "madam", plus smiles and pleasantries that are a million miles from the authoritarian hostility of LAX), and you’re whisked
through in no time. And I also liked having access to the lounge with the food and wifi
and the comfy chairs, and then with being called first onto the plane.
Turning left is always good, even on an
older plane, and I enjoyed the service though it shouldn’t give Emirates any
concerns. At least I got a decent meal with French wine – everyone down the
back had to pay or go hungry, except for little kids. I was amused, incidentally, to read in the inflight magazine that "sheep are integral to life in Iceland" and that they take pride in there being a whole two sheep per head of population. Ha! But then, THE DISAPPOINTMENT!
I checked out the movie channel, and it didn’t
have ‘The Secret Life of Walter Mitty’ listed! It’s just so wrong. That
movie is the whole reason I was going to Iceland at all.
Anyway. From the air England looked gorgeous,
all mown hayfields and woods and hills; and Scotland was empty, with lots of lochs
and edged with improbable bays of golden sand; and then Iceland was much
flatter than I expected when we arrived just under 3 hours later.
Yes, regular reader 😄 I am on another Intrepid tour, pretty soon after last year’s one
to see the gorillas in Rwanda. This one too is Basix level, but thankfully
without the tents – it’s to be shared rooms in guesthouses instead. We met up
with our tour guide straight away. Páll is low-key, experienced, 60ish and made
us feel probably in good hands – though time, of course, will tell. He gave us
the introductory talk and then took us on a walk around Reykjavik's old town, which looked
bright and lively on this sunny evening. We heard that the last 60 days have
been relentlessly grey and damp, not in the least bit summery, to the locals’
frustration and disappointment, so they were all out making the most of today’s
mostly blue skies: walking, sitting, playing, parading through the narrow
streets in an unlikely procession of 1950s American cars, eating and drinking
inside and outside the many restaurants. We certainly felt happy to have lucked in, weather-wise.
Restaurants and souvenir/art shops seem to
dominate Reykjavik, and puffins are very big, if you see what I mean. Tourism
is huge here, as I knew already, and the streets were thronging with people
from everywhere with cameras and phones in hand. As, of course, were we, as
Páll led us downhill along cobbled streets to a restaurant
for dinner. The houses were pretty: two-storey, made of wood or corrugated iron
or plaster, painted red, green, orange, yellow, blue with contrasting features
and corner gables. Very Scandinavian.
After being shown a little caravan with a long queue of people waiting to order "the world's best hotdogs" (previous customers include Bill Clinton), we ate pizzas at an Italian restaurant, which
seemed inappropriate, but acceptable to everyone: we’re a group of 12, all
Australians apart from me, and another woman my age who’s from the US. Most of
the others are in their 20s, just out of university, and busy travelling. Four
of us are solos.
After dinner, which was cheerful and
friendly, we scattered to do our own exploring, and I ended up down by the
glossy harbour admiring the colourful boats, the large and modern glass
convention centre, and wondering about the whaling tours (given that whales are hunted here). Everything looked
bright and pretty in the golden light, the ambiance was cheerful and safe,
there looked to be lots to enjoy, and it seemed a real shame to be, eventually,
heading off to bed when the sun was still so high. But it had, truly, been a
very long day.
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