We're happy to reach Vik. It's at the southernmost tip of Iceland's south coast and when we've been looking at the weather it definitely seemed to be the point at which we would start getting sunnier days. So of course we expect the rain as we close in on the village. We don't expect to see David stood outside a campground along the road. We thought he'd be well ahead of us now. He's smoking a cigarette and looking a little disheartened. Who wouldn't be. Cycling here is tough and it must be even tougher on your own. Nadine, the cyclist we met on the ferry, has written saying that she now calls the island Scheisseland because she's had so much rain and bad weather - lots of headwinds. After a brief hello and goodbye we leave David debating whether to stop at the campground or not. "He probably didn't smoke before he got here", Gayle comments.
Outside the supermarket are four loaded bikes. It's drizzling but one of the cyclists chats with us. They're Russians. Aha, we think. "Where did you camp last night?" we ask. Er, just over there, at the end of the street, Ivan tells us sheepishly. "A lady told us it wasn't really allowed, but it was raining....." Ivan is happy to share some tips - free hot baths along the route and in Reykjavik too. They've been battling the headwind going east but of all the cyclists we've seen, they look the most determined.
Leaving Vik on one of those steep climbing roads that you always find leading out of coves, we pass the road display board telling us weather conditions on the passes ahead. The only problem is that we don't know where the passes are on our map and we don't understand the code of the display. We soon find out.
Towards the top of the climb the wind whips up behind us, helping us along. And then it gusts sideways and pushes us both across the road. There's traffic in both directions so you can imagine how frightening this is. The wind is so strong we can't trust ourselves to ride. There's nothing to do but get off and walk. And walk. And walk. We even walk down the other side, because there's no leeward side - everywhere is exposed to the wind. We drop into a short valley and ride for a bit before struggling up a short climb at the other end. It's very tricky and the road is not very wide. Cars try to squeeze past us and oncoming traffic as we wobble uphill and I snap. I start shouting and swearing and waving my arms and basically stop the cars behind us. I am utterly outraged. They wouldn't come so close if we were pedestrians or motorcyclists - why do we deserve such a lack of care or respect? I sum my arguments up into some short, pithy and angry curses, which are blown away on the gusting wind as soon as they leave my mouth.
Over the hill we look out aghast at a wide open plain, not a sign of shelter anywhere in the distance. It's raining again now, and we can see a turn off in the distance which might lead to shelter behind a mountain, but it's miles away. Dropping down to the bottom of the hill, we spot a church next to a couple of farmhouses. So we veer off along the track and hide behind a small outbuilding next to the church. Relief. No wind, just a touch of rain. We try the door handle, no luck. Gayle goes over to the church door. No dice. We stand around for half an hour contemplating the situation. Maybe we could just camp here in the church carpark? Gayle goes off to ask at the farm. The old fella who opens the door doesn't speak English but directs Gayle to the neighbours. Yes, they tell her, no problem. Result. The ground is rock hard and covered in large pebbles but with a bit of groundwork we have a shelter for the tent out of the wind. Phew.
The relief of the evening is not borne through the morning. The wind has died and the rain has stopped, true. But after breakfast there is one morning ritual that remains undone. I am a creature of habit, and after breakfast I am usually to be found, trowel in one hand, bog roll in the other, looking for a quiet spot to 'phone my broker'. We head off along the road, out into the big open plain, through fenced off fields separated from the road by big ditches. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. The call of nature is loud and cannot be ignored. We get to a roadside restplace, one where drivers can pull in. These come along every 50kms or so, and they sometimes have a picnic table. They are always in windswept exposed positions and this one is no different. However, the road at this point is about two or three metres higher than the surrounding land. The road sometimes resembles a dyke, and the restplace has a slope out of sight of passing vehicles. So off I go to answer the call. I am just finished with the old 'buff and polish' when Gayle calls out. Perhaps my lookout had drifted off, but her warning comes too late. I turn around to find a car parked just above me, and the driver getting out and quickly looking away in horror. There's a whole family in the car and I guess they change their minds about getting out to stretch their legs when they see the view. I get my shorts back up super fast and dutifully refill the hole. But oh, the indignity, the shame.
It's now illegal for cars and campervans to camp at the roadside or anywhere other than a campground and the reason is simply that too many tourists were just going to the toilet everywhere. For some reason no-one has thought to provide more toilets. What price a chemical toilet at every reststop? I think I'll write to the Head of Tourism about this........
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| shabby chic |
Outside the supermarket are four loaded bikes. It's drizzling but one of the cyclists chats with us. They're Russians. Aha, we think. "Where did you camp last night?" we ask. Er, just over there, at the end of the street, Ivan tells us sheepishly. "A lady told us it wasn't really allowed, but it was raining....." Ivan is happy to share some tips - free hot baths along the route and in Reykjavik too. They've been battling the headwind going east but of all the cyclists we've seen, they look the most determined.
Leaving Vik on one of those steep climbing roads that you always find leading out of coves, we pass the road display board telling us weather conditions on the passes ahead. The only problem is that we don't know where the passes are on our map and we don't understand the code of the display. We soon find out.
 |
| shabby |
Over the hill we look out aghast at a wide open plain, not a sign of shelter anywhere in the distance. It's raining again now, and we can see a turn off in the distance which might lead to shelter behind a mountain, but it's miles away. Dropping down to the bottom of the hill, we spot a church next to a couple of farmhouses. So we veer off along the track and hide behind a small outbuilding next to the church. Relief. No wind, just a touch of rain. We try the door handle, no luck. Gayle goes over to the church door. No dice. We stand around for half an hour contemplating the situation. Maybe we could just camp here in the church carpark? Gayle goes off to ask at the farm. The old fella who opens the door doesn't speak English but directs Gayle to the neighbours. Yes, they tell her, no problem. Result. The ground is rock hard and covered in large pebbles but with a bit of groundwork we have a shelter for the tent out of the wind. Phew.
 |
| shelter from the wind |
The relief of the evening is not borne through the morning. The wind has died and the rain has stopped, true. But after breakfast there is one morning ritual that remains undone. I am a creature of habit, and after breakfast I am usually to be found, trowel in one hand, bog roll in the other, looking for a quiet spot to 'phone my broker'. We head off along the road, out into the big open plain, through fenced off fields separated from the road by big ditches. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. The call of nature is loud and cannot be ignored. We get to a roadside restplace, one where drivers can pull in. These come along every 50kms or so, and they sometimes have a picnic table. They are always in windswept exposed positions and this one is no different. However, the road at this point is about two or three metres higher than the surrounding land. The road sometimes resembles a dyke, and the restplace has a slope out of sight of passing vehicles. So off I go to answer the call. I am just finished with the old 'buff and polish' when Gayle calls out. Perhaps my lookout had drifted off, but her warning comes too late. I turn around to find a car parked just above me, and the driver getting out and quickly looking away in horror. There's a whole family in the car and I guess they change their minds about getting out to stretch their legs when they see the view. I get my shorts back up super fast and dutifully refill the hole. But oh, the indignity, the shame.
 |
| the long empty road |
It's now illegal for cars and campervans to camp at the roadside or anywhere other than a campground and the reason is simply that too many tourists were just going to the toilet everywhere. For some reason no-one has thought to provide more toilets. What price a chemical toilet at every reststop? I think I'll write to the Head of Tourism about this........
 |
| and the occasional wonderful view |
