Wading and waiting at the Blue Lagoon
(Bláa 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.
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