I think I'm in love

So many to choose from, but only one made the grade.

Firstly, it wasn’t the Icelandic tour guide with the biggest put-you-off-your-puffin builder’s bum I’ve seen in a long while. He needs to forgo carbs in a hurry if he wants to keep his job plodding up black (can I say that?) sandy cliffs with even more overweight tourists in his wake (not me and Hubby, I hasten to add).

And what about those puffins, eh? As if they couldn’t get any cuter, I learned (from the builder’s bum) that they don’t sit on their eggs; they tuck them under their wing to keep them warm. So much more heart-string-plucking than a Mills & Boon nausea-fest. But I’m not in love with puffins.

There was a cute server in the diner where we had coffee and cake en route to the fjords. He had been dealing very efficiently with a long line of customers at the till, and then it was my turn. I asked for two Americanos and two slices of pear cake. He looked horrified, even panic-stricken. I quickly scrunched my hair in case he had a frizz-phobia, but that wasn’t it. 

Eventually he said, “I beg your pardon?” so I repeated my order and he laughed. Straight white teeth. Flawless complexion. Honey blonde thick hair. 

“I am very sorry,” he said. “I was expecting another German, so when you spoke perfect English I was confused.”

Hear that, you slovenly southerners? Perfect English! Northern flat vowels are de rigueur in Iceland. God, I love that waiter, but I’m not in love with him.

When we got to our hotel that evening, I had just enough time to check my emails between shower and dinner. (The horse carpaccio, by the way, was scrummy. A bit like beef but not at all like beef.) One (email, not horse) in particular was rather ego-boosting.

“I am writing to ask whether you would please consider returning to XXX again when we start up again. We have missed you so much and it would be so lovely to have you on board again.”

It’s always nice to be loved, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I love them back.

Yesterday afternoon, we went for a wander and stopped at an information board by a farm entrance to see where we’d end up if we followed the marked trail in front of us. The farm Border Collie trotted up to say hello, so we made a fuss of him then carried on studying the map. The cheeky monkey proceeded to scratch our walking boots with his paws, first mine, then Hubby’s. We tried to get him to stop, which he would for a few seconds then he’d start over again. Eventually, Hubby decided he’d sit by the river with the dog and let me yomp up the hill at my preferred pace towards the waterfall. Poor Hubby’s arthritic knees were giving him aggro.

Life never works out how you plan it. Down Hubby sat, off I walked, and the dog came with me, leaving Hubby looking rather lonesome with just his iPhone for company. The dog was in his element. He ran beside me, just in front of me, dashed off ahead of me, ran back to run around me … I concluded that all that boot-scratching was his way of saying, come on guys you’ve got walking boots on, how about taking me for a walk?!

After a while I decided I’d gone far enough and ought to get back to Hubby before he went off on one of his mega sulks. Defo not lovable when he does that. One problem. Where had the dog got to. I couldn’t see or hear him at all. Not knowing the Icelandic for “Here Boy,” I yelled, “Here Boy” in my perfect northern English, and he bounded up to me from nowhere.

Obedience, devotion, intelligence, humour, fun – all the attributes that would attract me to someone advertising their wares on eharmony.

Yup. I’m in love with a Border Collie!