The six person room in the hostel is full. Among other guests is a man who keeps sighing loudly.
It does not rain yet. I drive to Austurfjara or to the east side lagoon to look at the same mountains from the other side. There are a few cars but no-one has decided yet to ask for money. I walk around a couple of hours. Somewhere here has to be a boat wreck. I don’t find it but I find a whale wreck and some other stuff that the sea has thrown off. Finally two angry birds come to tell me to go no further.
On the other side of the light house waves hit with a loud bang against the rocks.
Driving back it appears that the cloud that was nice to photograph from far is a vicious rain cloud from up close. I sit in the café to read and look what will happen. What happens is that after some time I go back to Höfn and sit in the hot tube. The radio says that here somewhere is wind 30 meters per second and trampolines fly in the air. Strange.
I spend the evening getting on track with my memoirs and chatting online. Hostel is taken over by Spaniards. The storm arrives.
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