The main attractions of Reykjanes peninsula are Blue Lagoon and Keflavík
international airport. It is very time-consuming to avoid the airport,
lagoon can be managed more easily.
After DIY breakfast I drive to
Seltún which means steaming ground and boiling mud. Colors, vapour and
screaming schoolkids. A photographing man asserts that we have arrived
too late. I look around and provoke a fellow tourist to ask what am I
waiting for. Nothing, I just look around.
From the car park goes a trail to something that is 5 km away. I'll go to check it out. On top of the mountain is the prohotographer who is pleased to have found a tourist-free place. Almost. Futher the traces stop, the trail pointers are there for some time then these also disappear. A thin layer of snow could hide a worn path. I follow it until this as well flows into oblivion and there remains only wind. The landscape is like graphic art. I climb here and there randomly on hills. When I get back to the car a snowstorm starts.
I labour through the snow towards Gunnuhver where steam should come from the ground. Intercontinental bridge on the way. This is a place where people make a selfie called 'me, Eurasia and America' that depicts one or more persons and a big amount of rock. The horizon is level in best case. The scene could happen anywhere. This crack looked better from under water.
Especially angry steam at Gunnuhver. Hisses from the ground with abrupt yanks and buries the surroundings in white cloud. Snow hits in the face. Not much to see in other words.
Further along the coast to the lighthouse where Snæfellsnes should be visible when the conditions are good. The conditions are not good but there's hope. Airplanes flash above.
Only burger from gas station for lunch. The pool in the neighbourhood just closed. Saturday.
I check into hotel. Basically I sleep next to the airplanes. In front of the house is a field full of boxes with wheels, such as the one I'm driving with. Breakfast starts at half past four. Huge room. I spread all my things around and move out of the car. Rubber boots and tripod have to go back to the backpack. At least I don't have to blow-dry my socks tonight.
For sunset I drive once more to the tip of the peninsula. Snæfellsnes is visible through pink haze. Then I sit in the car, listen to Úlfur Úlfur like some local teen and look how the sky turns more and more pastel. Wind rocks the car. A picture of me, rope and Iceland arrives.
From the car park goes a trail to something that is 5 km away. I'll go to check it out. On top of the mountain is the prohotographer who is pleased to have found a tourist-free place. Almost. Futher the traces stop, the trail pointers are there for some time then these also disappear. A thin layer of snow could hide a worn path. I follow it until this as well flows into oblivion and there remains only wind. The landscape is like graphic art. I climb here and there randomly on hills. When I get back to the car a snowstorm starts.
I labour through the snow towards Gunnuhver where steam should come from the ground. Intercontinental bridge on the way. This is a place where people make a selfie called 'me, Eurasia and America' that depicts one or more persons and a big amount of rock. The horizon is level in best case. The scene could happen anywhere. This crack looked better from under water.
Especially angry steam at Gunnuhver. Hisses from the ground with abrupt yanks and buries the surroundings in white cloud. Snow hits in the face. Not much to see in other words.
Further along the coast to the lighthouse where Snæfellsnes should be visible when the conditions are good. The conditions are not good but there's hope. Airplanes flash above.
Only burger from gas station for lunch. The pool in the neighbourhood just closed. Saturday.
I check into hotel. Basically I sleep next to the airplanes. In front of the house is a field full of boxes with wheels, such as the one I'm driving with. Breakfast starts at half past four. Huge room. I spread all my things around and move out of the car. Rubber boots and tripod have to go back to the backpack. At least I don't have to blow-dry my socks tonight.
For sunset I drive once more to the tip of the peninsula. Snæfellsnes is visible through pink haze. Then I sit in the car, listen to Úlfur Úlfur like some local teen and look how the sky turns more and more pastel. Wind rocks the car. A picture of me, rope and Iceland arrives.
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