Planes, Horses and Automobiles

Our Icelandic holiday has had some transportation issues.

The first mode to rear its ugly head – and they don’t come much uglier – was flying. Yes, we flew to Iceland and, surprise, surprise, we flew back, much to the consternation of my email inbox, which must now contain every possible perm and com of: You didn’t fly did you; I trust you didn’t fly; Please tell me you didn’t fly; and You did what?

My conscience however is clear. This is the first time I’ve flown since January 2020 (thank you, Covid) and I won’t be flying again until at least 2024. The only reason I do fly is because Hubby wants to, and as he does loads-a stuff he doesn’t want to that I want to, we give and take and compromise, a concept that is alien to the wokerati, Remainers and the aviation industry.

Hubby and I are not usually for souvenirs of our travels, but this time I couldn’t resist the purchase of two tealight holders, made from lava from the most beautiful, glorious, Mother-Nature’s-revenge volcano ever, E-15 or Eyjafjallajökull – pronounced Ay-ya-fyach-la-yuh-kutch (thank you, Google translate). She erupted in 2010, grounding all flights over Blighty and beyond, leading to the most pristine period of quiet skies since before the Wright Brothers were invented and not emulated until Covid and lockdown. From now on, when Luton Airport et al tick me off, I’ll light my candles, chant Eyjafjallajökull over and over, until this Heavenly force of nature does her business again. Creepy, eh?

A mode of transport we both enjoy is equine. We’ve ridden a few times in Colorado (yes, we flew there as well – get over it), but this time it was on Icelandic horses, cute little ponies really, with a distinctive and attractive gait. Up we got and off we went. ‘Walking’ was fine. Trotting was not. Everything bounced. Including bits that had no right to bounce at my age. Our guide, being young, slim and firm, was at a loss to explain how to stop the bouncing. Eventually I worked out that if I thrust my legs forward and my butt against the rear of the saddle, and squeezed my thighs around the poor nag’s girth, I was more in control of most things. The guide was impressed with my quick learning, also complimenting me on my trot. Never had that before.

Then I royally screwed up when the topic of conversation veered onto the local cuisine. I told her that I had recently enjoyed a fillet of foal. Not only was she a horse-lover, she was a vegetarian.

Back at the ranch, as they say, we dismounted, inelegantly, and my jeans have smelled of horse ever since. Because we were travelling around the island and living out of suitcases, all my clothes became similarly tainted. Before leaving the ranch, we led the horses out to the field where they rolled onto their backs and squirmed around to relieve the discomfort of the saddle. I got confused as to which one of the horses was mine, until one of them let off a tremendous fart.

“That one’s yours,” I said to Hubby.

Which brings me (somehow, with a leap of faith) to automobiles. Plural.

When we first arrived at Keflavik airport, we hired a car. So far so good. We took it onto various gravel roads with no incident. So far so good. Towards the end of the holiday, we were driving on a perfectly paved major road, when an oil truck driving in the opposite direction kicked up a stone and BANG, into the windscreen. Actually, it was more like a BANG and a CRACK combined, which would make it a BRACK or a CRANG. Or a BACK or a CANG. I like BRACK.

We flinched like crazy. Hubby carried on driving while I scrutinised the windscreen. Couldn’t see a thing. Phew. Strange but phew. Not long after, I spotted a funny line at the base of the windscreen. Sherbert Pips, said I. Flipping Heck, said Hubby. We stopped in a layby, examined the outside of the windscreen and gasped at a 50p-size ‘hole’ at the base, just where we couldn’t see it from the inside. Using his phone (sometimes I’m grateful for technology) Hubby located an Avis centre this side of Reykjavik. We drove there directly and explained the situation to the nice little man behind the counter, who looked like a Gurkha, in that he was of that colouring with cute features but, I hoped, without a hidden knife.

You need a new windscreen, he said. You didn’t take out the windscreen insurance. 87,500 krona please.

Eighty-seven-thousand-five-hundred krona sounds a lot, but don’t worry. Iceland must have had a period of 1920’s-Germany-type inflation because the cost equates to just – er – £575.

How much? For a piece of glass??? Sherbet Pips!

He gave us a replacement rental car, pointing out a scratch on the rear bumper as being the only defect upon handover. Hubby noticed a very faint scrape on the front bumper as well: “How anal do you guys get about things like this?” he asked.

From the look on the Gurkha’s face, I concluded that Icelanders don’t understand the term “anal” in that context.

‘Happily’ ensconced in the car, we drove into Reykjavik centre and went to find some lunch, a.k.a comfort food. While lunching, Hubby looked Heaven-ward. I know that look. He wasn’t praying. He was doing some mental arithmetic (which for an accountant is akin to praying). He calculated that paying for a replacement windscreen was still cheaper than paying for the insurance premium to protect us from having to pay for a replacement windscreen, taking into account the excess. In other words, if we’d taken out the insurance to pay for a replacement windscreen, we’d have been worse off!

Suitably cheered, we enjoyed our lunch.

Indeed, in Reykjavik’s neo-Gothic Cathedral, I lit a candle in memory of Mum and Dad (I’m still an orphan) and to say thank you to the Almighty for the greed of the insurance companies that this time worked in our favour. The candles were beneath a shrine to some Renaissance (not sure they had that in Iceland but never mind) Archbishop or other. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Justin Welby thank goodness, or Mum and Dad would have haunted me for the rest of the holiday.

And in the Lutheran Cathedral, I marvelled at the beautiful organ pipes visible from the chancel, so found a staircase up to the organ itself. Oh. It was actually quite dinky and the impressive pipes were incongruous. 

“Blimey,” I said to Hubby, “Dad would’ve made mincemeat of that thing,” a comment that failed to impress the other tourists, but then they didn’t know Dad.

Outside, the church clock struck 3 o’clock, such a quaint, friendly little chime that I urged Hubby to quickly take a photo before the chimes ended. (One too many glasses of wine at lunch, methinks.)

We drove out of Reykjavik towards our hotel over an hour away. The car drove well but we intensely disliked the too-oft bi-bi-beeping: reversing too close to a wall – bi-bi-beep; left the lights on when we got out – bi-bi-beep; not moving away from traffic lights quickly enough – bi-bi-beep; beginning to stray over a white line – bi-bi-beep. At one point we drove along a recently resurfaced bit of road that hadn’t yet been painted with white lines.

“Ha!” said Hubby. “Little blighter will be quiet for a few minutes, then he slightly cut the corner and from out of nowhere came the bi-bi-beep.

“Oh *beep* off,” exclaimed Hubby.