adventures · babies · Iceland

Rolling With It

The second half of our Iceland trip has been just as beautiful, sunny, and amazing as the first half. Also just as tiring, to be perfectly honest, as baby Bean has gotten very used to sleeping next to Mama in the tent and waking up several times a night to be nursed back to sleep. (That’s us sleeping in at our AirBnb in Siglofjordur,  in all our sleepy glory.) We’re rolling with whatever gets us the most sleep right now, although I have this creeping sense that it’s going to be a struggle to return to normal night-sleeps once we are back home. As hard as we try to make it dark for her in our tent, there’s just no hiding the fact that the sun only goes down for about an hour or two around midnight. (I took the sunrise photo below at about 130 am, when we were camping just a few kilometres below the Arctic circle.) 

The weather though – I don’t think it could be better! We have been so thankful to have these weeks of sunshine and overcast, with only two misty nights on record, one at the beginning and one at the end of the trip. Camping is so much nicer when you’re dry, not to mention how much easier it is for babies to stay entertained when they can get their wiggles out crawling around on the ground. Bean has figured out how to crawl up hills but she isn’t very good at getting herself down again except by the Very Fast Method (i.e. falling). 

Although we had looked forward to visiting the much-touted Akureyri and Myvatn, we found that the unexpected and unsung places were by far our favourites. The large crowds felt stifling after the freedom of being the only visitors in Rauferhofn, or fishing with the locals in Vopnafjordur. We took several wonderfully spontaneous detours in our faithful rented Subaru (Sailor Soob) before making it back to the Ring Road and all the typical sights on the south part of the island, on our way back west to Reykjavik. We spent last night on the island of Heimay, part of the Vestmannaeyjar, where a 1973 eruption threatened the whole town and made international headlines. One last bowl of Icelandic fish soup (plokkfiskur), found in many variations around the country, and one last soak in a hot pot, and our travels here are over. Tomorrow, provided we aren’t held up by an air traffic controllers’ strike, we are on our way to balmy England, with cousins and new babies to visit, and ploughman’s lunches and endless tea eagerly awaited. 


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