waterfalls

the campground dog looking for food

Skogafoss are one of the falls that appears on the tour itinerary for every tour group heading along the southern route.  We arrive early as the clouds are lifting, but the place is already heaving.  The village has a youth hostel (dorm bed £50 each per night - member's rate), a small shop (a butane gas cartridge is about £20) and a campsite that ranks as one of the worst in the world.  For about £30 you can camp in the carpark of the waterfalls.  You will be surrounded by visitors walking around your tent going between toilets, falls and vehicles.  And there's little shelter from the wind.

going to see the top of the falls

We brew up to one side of the carpark and have breakfast before having a little look at the waterfalls and moving on.  Neither of us is particularly comfortable with the volume of people.  However. it is fun people-watching.  Further along the main road we take a turn off along a track to a place up a small side valley.  After a short walk along a rocky path we come to the swimming pool mentioned by the Russians.  It's spring-fed by hot water and it seems that it is well-known.  Despite the rustic set up (a tiny blockhouse for changing and nothing else) theres a steady stream of people coming and going.  I am disappointed.  The water is not so hot.  However, we do get a free wash, albeit without soap.  The pool is fantastically dark green and sinister.  The surfaces are soft and furry with algae.   After a good soak we dry off and move on.

hanging on for dear life at the deep end

Not far away are more falls.  Same big carpark, same long line of tourists completing the triangle of vehicle-toilet-falls.  The twist to these falls is that you can walk behind them as a path cuts into the rockface behind.  I am feeling a bit blase about these places now.  It's all so ho-hum-ha.  There's got to be more to Iceland than these 'honey pot' places.  Gayle checks out prices at the food van in the carpark.  Twenty quid for a sandwich and cake.  The van is staffed by teenagers.  Where are all the adults?  Gone somewhere warm for the summer?

Determined to break off the ring road we follow the side road northwards.  It soon turns to a dirt track that suddenly becomes a ribbon of loose rocks.  It's barely navigable.  However, there is an old bridge crossing the huge wide river beside the road.  There are large rocks placed to stop vehicles using it, but we can see from tracks that locals still do.  We check the map.  On the far side is an an enormous open plain.  Except, in the near distance, an isolated hill, the larger brother of the one on ourside of the river.  These two hills are the rocky incarnations of legendary figures mentioned in the Icelandic Sagas.  Or so I imagine.  I really don't know.  While I'm trying to invent some myth about why they are located here, separated by the river, Gayle is halfway across.  On the other side we camp beside the dyke which is preventing the river from moving even wider across the plain.  After only cycling twenty minutes off the ring road we are suddenly in a quiet empty place. It's wonderful.

In the morning we continue north along a rocky dirt track that brings us to Glugafoss.  These falls are little visited but are quite unusual as the water has formed a chimney into the rock and then worn 'windows' into the chimney.  The water gushes out of three separate windows.  Not a coach tour in sight, too.