Höfn for a good time - Saturday, February 25th

To say that I was woefully unprepared for this camping trip is an insult to the woefully unprepared. I had no hiking boots, no Tupperware, no waterproof jacket and, importantly, no sleeping bag. This all seemed to add to Bernat's general sense of frustration with me.

Last night he very kindly provided me with a blanket. Unfortunately it was very much designed for a summer in Spain, not Iceland. As a consequence I woke up rigamortised with cold and shivering uncontrollably like a paint mixer. I decided then and there that I really needed to be less shit at camping.

It was late morning by the time we got everything squared away and most of the campers had gone. This was a problem as we needed a lift out or risk being stuck here for another night. So we began the now familiar act of prospecting for rides like a pair of out of date hookers.

Fortune came in the shape of two more German girls who were very much like the ones who had dropped us off. One blonde, another brunette, students in their final year of university with a refreshingly rye, self deprecating sense of humour.

It turned out that they were on much the same trajectory as us so we decided to spend the day travelling together. As soon as we got underway, Joana (the brunette) turned and asked me what my thoughts were on Brexit. I immediately turned to see Bernat's eyes widen and his nostrils flaring.
"I don't really want to talk about it right now."
Bullet dodged.

Our first stop was the Kalfafell waterfalls. By now in was getting rather weary of waterfalls. Now I love a good waterfall as much as the next man, but I'd seen about twenty yesterday and it really is just water falling into more water at the end of the day.

After a fourty minute hike, it was much as expected. In fact it was one of the poorer examples of the form I'd seen, having been spoilt for them yesterday. No matter, another twenty minute hike promised us sweeping views of the glacier and our breathtaking surroundings.

But of course, our arrival at the peak confirmed our clawing suspicious. The low lying cloud meant that we might as well have been in a brownfield site near Coventry.
'Fuck clouds.' I mused. 'Oh, and fuck Brexit too.'

With that done we made our way to a glacial lake. As with most other sites near Route 1 on the south coast, it was crawling with old people and half of Asia. Once again the weather made any enjoyment of the glacier nigh on impossible because it was impossible to see it.

As a sort of subconscious retaliation we began throwing rocks at a passing iceberg. Our own, rather empty assault on nature. Since she seemed so determined to obscure herself in clouds, we would throw stuff at her as punishment. It sort of helped.

Comic relief came in he form of Bernat's decision to strip down to his underwear and swim in the water, which was swarming with icebergs. Once bathed we continued to the visitor center, with its nest of geriatrics.

Not content with his swim in one bank of the glacial lake, Bernat decided to do the same in front of the tourists. Needless to say, it caused a stir.

Found the time for a spot of whale watching

Soon we were back on the road and on our way to my final destination. Höfn was in the south east of Iceland, around 450km from Reykjavik. As suspected, it was just a smaller version of Reykjavik. Best avoided if you can.

On our way into town Joana pointed to a car's roof box. "We call thoze children's coffins in Germany." A pause. I wasn't sure how to respond. "Well, my fazer does.... He has kind of a dark sense of humour."
I told her it was one of the funniest things I'd ever heard a German say. And I wasn't lying.

Spending two days with a pair of nice German girls had done some wonders for my chronic xenophobia towards our Teutonic bretherin. A kind of accidental theraputic treatment.

Next, perhaps a cycling holiday with a squad of Parisian men. On second thought, there really isn't any point. They will always be wankers. It's just the way they are.

We settled down to a hearty 'just add water' pasta supper at our distinctly unremarkable camp site. It was Bernat's birthday so we washed it down with generous helpings of vodka and bourbon.

There had been rumours in camp of a party in town next to the local swimming pool. After a few reassuringly expensive beers at a local bar we strove out into the night. Which wasn't actually night because it was still very much daytime. Incidentally beer was banned here until 1989 which seems completely bonkers considering spirits and wine were deemed safe.

The party turned out to be at the local high school assembly hall. Some locals near the entrance assured us it was one of Iceland's top DJs playing. As we entered the school we were told that the price for entry was 3500kr or £23 to you and me.

This seemed almost criminal so we chose to loiter in the outside car park and drink beer with a Hungarian couple that had also been a our campsite the previous day. They offered us some Palinka, a traditional Hungarian brandy that kicks like a mule with a bad cavity.

It was quite the event. At one point a vintage fire engine appeared, bursting with tuxedoed local boys and girls in clothing that (sadly in most cases) left very little to the imagination.

Once we had our fill of conversations with drunken locals we made our way back to camp and had more drunken conversations about Brexit.

Bernat had decided to stay at the party and try his luck. It was his birthday so you couldn't blame the man for giving it his best efforts.

As I went to bed it began to rain again. Try to avoid coming in Iceland when it rains. It rather dampens the whole experience.