For the first time in my three night sojourn in Ísafjörður there was no pita-pata of rain on my bedroom window when I woke up to my alarm. It was 4:45 am as I had a 6:00 am ferry and dislike rushing my final packing and maybe forgetting something. I had already checked out where the correct jetty was at the quay, and inevitably, when I arrived 30 minutes early, no-one was around. Gradually hikers began arriving in their cars and congregated, eying each other's kit, at the top of the jetty, but quiet at this early hour.
When the departure time finally arrived we boarded in a rush, our bags thrown below decks somewhere and were on our way. Although the fjord was calm, on reaching the open sea, the modest, one metre swell caused the small boat to heavily roll and yaw. Great sheets of white spray covered the boat as it hit each wave, dripping in where there were gaps in the covers. Soon a few people on the crowded boat were sick in the bags provided. I asked the captain if it was particularly bad today, but she said no and that it would be much worse on the way back due to the wind direction. Fortunately I was not going back today. A great deal of baggage was unloaded, and other luggage plus several children were taken on board at one location, watched by a curious seal, its head bobbing above the waves. Then we sailed to the next stop where four other hikers and I were put in an inflatable boat that hung off the stern, the outboard was pulled into life, and we were taken to the shore of Hornvik, climbing over mounds of washed up seaweed to reach the grey sand beach.
After carefully surveying possible camping spots in the area designated, I erected my tent at an arbitrary location and enjoyed a delayed breakfast. I decided to explore to the west side of the bay today and set out along the beach by the orange emergency shelter and the faint remains of ancient farmsteads. There was an awkward section with a rope to help you up and down (which I tried to avoid using on principle) before I turned inland and headed over a pass towards Hlöðuvik. My surroundings reminded me of Northern Skye in Scotland, the same geology of stacked lava flows forming terraces on the hillside, and the same wet and marshy land in flatter areas with scattered pools of water. However I do not recall seeing Angelica growing in Skye, here it grew lush beside streams near the sea, bent over and crushed in places by the recent high winds.
Returning to the coast I continued along a path heading north. As it climbed up the side of a steep slope I felt somewhat precarious as the ground dropped away steeply from the little used, narrow path, one footstep wide. Thinking that no-one knew exactly where I was if I lost my balance and fell down the cliff towards the sea, I decided to retrace my steps. Coming towards me was a brown, cuddly looking, arctic fox. I stopped and he or she trotted up the slope above me and turned to stare at me. After taking a few photos I moved on as a sign at the campsite warned that while the foxes may looked unperturbed by your presence that may actually be very stressed. Earlier I had passed what might have been a fox's den. There were seagull wings scattered nearby, no doubt the remains of the fox's meals or that of its cubs, and there were "mewing" sounds from a cavity beneath a sheet of corrugated steel.
That evening I walked along the beach, looking at some of the driftwood washed up, some large tree trunks which I have read come from Siberia, spending five years reaching Iceland. Being July it never seems to get very dark, being so close to the Arctic Circle, which makes me feel that I am always snuggling down into my warm sleeping bag far too early, but then I did have an early start this morning....
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