It doesn’t take much to get me feeling nostalgic for Iceland. This week I’ve been feeling it acutely – and as a result, I’ve been madly trying to concoct a plan to get back there sometime in the next six months. It’s prompted by two things:
1) The BBC Travel website published an article I wrote about one of my favourite parts of Iceland: Seyðisfjörður. It’s a tiny town at the head of a stunning fjord on the east coast, and my time there was so memorable – from the drive down into the town, when the scenery took my breath away, to the blissful 90-minute kayaking trip I took with the town’s resident casanova, Hlynur (my god, that man could flirt!).
2) And then this arrived in the mail:
Yes, it’s that book. The one that caused all the euphoria, the stress, the many sleepless nights etc. It’s so wonderful to see the finished product in print, of course. And yet, it’s somehow a little sad. How does one small book convey all those crazy emotions, and all the work that it entailed…?