InkSpired Magazine Issue No. 41 | Page 25

Wading and waiting at the Blue Lagoon (B​láa lónið)​for the dawdling ten am sunrise. Lavishing in the natural geothermic spring is easy for visitors and the resort offers varying levels of poshness to suit the agenda of their patrons. The amenities (massage, saunas, pampering) were enticing, but nevertheless, this situation was more “get­in, get­out,” considering the mere six hours of daylight to illuminate our Suðurland drive. However, I was not about to leave before a couple pool­side beverages. Celebratory make­shift mimosas (fresh carrot ­orange juice and sekt) from the wade­up lagoon bar brighten the morning. The surrounding landscape here is nothing short of surreal. Nestled in a lava field, the bright, supple waters and white silica mud­-covered cheeks contrast starkly against craggy moss-­ covered black rock. Icelanders are as fond of their heritage as they are of the lore of the island. Quick to spin a yarn for a wide­ eyed outlander, one might be fortunate enough to find themselves in Grindavík, regaled over a fisherman’s breakfast about the “hidden people” and a company of unlucky, capitalist boatmen. This story did not end well. Rútshellir, two man­made caves carved into a tuft pillar below the Eyjafjöll mountains, an dilapidated sheepcote is the most prominent structure from the roadside. The caves were used to store hay and either housed a smitty or heathen altar. Legend tells that Rútur, an evil troll or evil chieftain was plotted against by the locals (or slaves, depending on who is telling the story) by burrowing a tunnel underneath his bed. While asleep he was run through with spears, effectively rendering him dead. Another version tells of Rútur catching onto the dubious plot and chasing the perpetrators into the hills, slaughtering all. InkSpiredMagazine.com 23