Hornvík, 17,8 km

It's cold in the night. Sleeping bag is damp and there's condence water on the ceiling.
Patrick gallantly let me have the upper bunk but the ceiling is very low and something is constantly touching it. Stormy outside.
Long sleeping in the morning but by then it is warm inside and outside the rain has ceased, even some bits of blue sky are on offer. Sun peeks through dark grey cloud that is still reaching the ground. After teeth-brushing and beakfast life seems more beautiful. According to the ranger there could be some light rain during the day, it could clear up but then you never know. He dries his stuff outside when it's sunny.
We spread all things on rocks on the beach. They start to dry immediately. Camera comes back to life. Ducks arrange their feathers and climb on the rocks. Some nastily dry hikers pass our miserable camp. We talk about all kinds of things. Patrick sings in choir and Ben likes concerts. Belgium is a party country.
The Belgians have decided to take the boat out. I look at the blue patch in the sky and am not so sure anymore in my wish to leave back to civilization. Aldrei hætta. Anyway, no hurry with deciding, the boat only goes at four.
After a while some things seem to be dry. Decided. I put the tent up and move the rest of the installation to the campsite. Say goodbye to Patrick, Ben and Stefan.
Since tent was wet when I packed it, it's now wet inside. Read a book for a while, waiting for it to get dry. Have a snack. It's warm and cosy, good mood with no hurry and no plan. It doesn't get dark anyway.
The ranger comes to compliment on my choice tent (well, not mine). Hilleberg has a nice custom to attach the name of the person who sewed the tent inside it. My copy was made by Valve Nigul and the footprint by Irina Petuhhova. Of course the best tents are made in Estonia.
Put everything in tent and leave for Hornbjarg. Patrick directs me to the right place to cross the lagoon and a pair of Germans on the beach advise me on tide times. Right in the beginning is a river kind of thing where I have to remove my boots. Since that would have to be repeated soon I continue the next kilometer or so barefoot on sand, moss and vetch.
Wide water should be forded about hundred meters upstream from the waterfall which is on the other shore. Water is about 200 meters wide. First ankle-deep, then a bit over knee. That means that it's useful to remove trousers as well.
Near the other shore a big bunch of fulmars hang out on the water. They decide to leave seeing me approaching and fly low over me. So I'm suddenly surrounded by hundreds of escaping fulmars. Birdshit drops left and right. Luckily they all miss me.
Continue barefoot also through the waterfall formed river so I wouldn't have to walk upstream to practise stone-jumping. Then all clothes back. I've been thoughtful enough to bring a towel.
Trail goes along a rocky wall. Some pieces have decided to stand on their own and pretend to be old Roman columns. Water falls from over the wall and reflects in water. By the waterfall I somehow have sun over me like some strange halo while dark cloud and fog is all around. Very strange and beautiful moment.
Life is like a cookie from the boat. You never know if there's chocolate on the other side or not. Which reminds me of Magnús being angry about too little chocolate in chocolate buns.
In fog is a sailing boat. Yes, Siggi was supposed to be around here about now. Maybe he sees me but maybe he has more important things to do. Make a dozen pics of the boat from all angles. A fox follows me being in the process of changing into summer fur. Barks and disappears.
By the outhouse I meet a man who gives me directions to his favourite viewpoint. Although no view with the fog. Yep, I've already understood that while Estonians have always hidden in the forest then Icelanders simply hide in the fog. Together with all their views and sights. We ask almost simultaneously if the other one is from the boat and we both know Siggi.
I follow his directions up until the cloud and beyond. Really nothing much to see but it's a strange silent world. Soft and white, with birds cluttering somewhere unseen and water gurgling by. Feels like sleepwalking. Path zigzags between high grass and yellow flowers. Sometimes a bird appears to fly into the white again. Big stones covered with patches of moss. A lake almost invisible. You can just hear that it is there. The sound of a lake.
By the thought that I'm probably the only one in the world there's suddenly a big group of colorful people on the trail, eating snacks, talking and laughing. Too astonished to ask anything I continue along the path back into white silence.
From fog appears a high cliff like a ghost. This is the place familiar from photos, only photos were different. With sun, always with sun. Sudden gushes of wind and a void on the other side. Sound of a crow like a warning. Will not continue to the top, leave it for next time.
Going back down I see the big group of people taken to the boat. Ben and Stefan should be there and they promised to wave me. Strange to know someone from both vessels while being here as a total stranger. And somehow liberating to be left behind here in the wilderness with no schedule or obligations.
Fog descends and it starts to drizzle. Life here is a constant battle against wetness. Socks for example have long ago ceased to belong to cathegories 'clean' and 'dirty'. They are either totally wet, less wet, almost dry or absolutely dry. The country should be re-named Waterland. Not that water was a problem...
Landscape takes on layers, opposite shore of the bay disappears altogether. Jump over the river along rocks. Crossing the lagoon seems like a habit already. No birds trying to bomb me this time. Find a path with a bridge over the next river.
Dinner. Some things are wet again. A fox comes to peak into my tent.
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Búðir-Hornvík, 11,9 km
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Hornvík-Veiðileysufjörður, 11,76 km

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