Clayhaus Ruminations

Our second day in Tokyo is to be an abbreviated one as our evening destination is the shogunate shrine and burial grounds of Nikkō, slightly less than two hours by train north of the capital. But before jumping on that train, we rise early to visit the world's largest wholesale seafood market: the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Wholesale Market more commonly known as Tsukiji Market.

It's a relatively short walk to the Tsukiji area (Tsukiji means "reclaimed land" as the land was originally 'reclaimed' from Tokyo Bay in the 18th century) but first we need to work our way through the maze of modernity of Shiodome, once again. The sky is overcast, which lends a bit more of a leaden atmosphere to the looming skyscrapers.

If you get to Tsukiji (meaning the market, not just the area) early enough, around 5am, you can try to get in to see the tuna auctions. This is supposedly a scene worth seeing, where thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of maguro and toro are auctioned off. We are not there near early enough for that, but that's okay as there are over 45 acres of stalls, and tanks, and fish, and more fish to wander through and explore.

What a wonderful place and experience for fish lovers! Or, rather, for those that love to eat fish. A huge, swirling mass of activity confounds one at first. Small cars and forklifts zipping hither and thither all the while trying to avoid buyers with clip boards, vendors with handcarts, workers riding bicycles balancing boxes, and tourists with wide eyes and cameras. There clearly must be some order in the seeming chaos but I just let my eyes pull me along.

From clams to snails to eels (live and not), blowfish, shrimp and flash-frozen tuna, uni, tako, anago and ika and hotategai and things I have no idea what they are....it goes on and on and on. I take hundreds of photos and the more I wander, the hungrier I get. Nothing puts me off my growing appetite. Not the squirming baby eels and not the bloody maguro carcasses. Certainly not the fugu or kazunoko.

Our hunger finally gets the better of us and we venture to the outer market area where there are a dozen or so small (tiny, actually: 7-10 stools each) sushi restaurants. We have an incredibly fresh sushi breakfast. (Sound good to you? Perhaps not, but to this day, it is still one of the best and memorable breakfasts.)

Why does the market not smell of fish? It really doesn't. Could it be that because of the combination of extremely fresh, flash frozen, and packaged seafood, the thousands (tens of thousands?) of fish just do not have a chance to go off? That may be the case, but I don't want to test the theory in the midst of summer!

By late morning it is clear that the 1000's of workers are wrapping up for the day so we move on and eventually end up watching some kind of strange activities at an elementary school. Strange to me anyway. The children are all wearing white shirts and white caps with black shorts for the girls and white shorts for the boys. There must be different teams and what differentiates them are brightly colored gloves. There is some kind of quasi-organized, pseudo-choreographed jumping and hand-waving accompanied by lots of smiling and mugging and grinning. Then it is down to the serious business of running track. I can only speculate that the previous gyrations and gesticulations were a bit of cheer-leading. I can only guess.

Prior to heading to our hotel to gather up our belongings for the train ride, we briefly stop at the very Southeast Asia looking Buddhist temple of Tsukiji Hongan-ji. We didn't go inside, though it is supposed to nice.

It's been a bit of whirlwind Tokyo visit but with acres of sushi behind us — minus quite a few ounces in our bellies — we are ready to move to bright greens and lacquered reds of Nikkō.  


Shiodome Highrise
Shiodome Highrise
Shiodome Highrise
Mollusks and other Delicacies
Ikura, salmon roe
Clams, etc...tasty looking, no?
One of my favorites: Uni, or sea urchin roe
It takes two to wield a maguro bōchō
Buyers and sellers
Unagi...barbequed eel...ummmmmmm
It glistens, must be fresh but not sure what exactly it is
And yet more Unagi!
The expensive, deadly and supposedly very tasty fugu or puffer fish
Miles of fish aisles
Weave your way through the boxes
Colorful seafood goodness, packaged and ready to go
Gotta love that tako (octopus)
I think the difference in color indicates cooked (dark red) and fresh
I ate sea snails once at a sushi restaurant in Berkeley...an 'acquired' taste, shall we say
"Everyone act normal: the health inspectors are here!"
Ika (squid) or perhaps cuttlefish in their own ink
Flash frozen tuna
BIG tako
The hurdy-gurdy business that is tsukijiMind your fingersIt is big and serious business
Our breakfast spot
Another one of the small restaurants in the outer market
Directing tsukiji traffic
A local tsukiji elementary school
Too much fun, apparently
Not sure really but they are having a good time
Yes, and more of that hand-waving business
Check out the determination on these girls' facesTsukiji Hongan-ji
A fitting billboard end to our tsukiji experience

 After six hours of restful sleep, I feel ready for Tokyo.

I meet mama-san for what I swear will be my last Western-style breakfast in Japan and by 8 we are out the hotel door and ready for adventure. A light drizzle greets us but we remain undeterred from our day's goals: the Imperial Palace gardens and a stroll through Ginza.

For almost 300 years, until the Meiji restoration in 1868, the Tokugawa Shoguns governed Japan from their castle in Edo, modern-day Tokyo. Once the shogunate was deposed, the Emperors ruled from the castle. Nothing lasts forever though, and World War II saw the almost complete destruction via aerial fire-bombing of the palace, and indeed, most of Tokyo itself. Following the war, the palace was rebuilt and gardens re-planted. The emperor and imperial train still reside there, though 'ruling' is no longer their role. The buildings and inner gardens are not open to the public, however the extensive outer gardens are open for strolling. With a few remnants of the original walls, ponds, extensive trees and walkways mixed with splashes of flowering color, stolid rocks, and the occasional restored traditional building, the gardens are usually teeming with tourists and natives alike, seeking quiet respite from the modern chaos that is Tokyo.

By the time we emerge from our short subway ride and the long, underground walkway tunnel from the station to the Imperial grounds, the word 'teeming' can only be applied to the rain falling. From drizzle to torrents in short order. Donning rain-jackets and opening umbrellas we are ready for what Tokyo is gives us...I just wish I had galoshes with me as well. 

It is hard to see the smoking ruin that we left Tokyo in 1945 for all the green now around us. Once again a reminder that re-growth and rejuvenation can always be possible, is, in fact, the 'natural' order of things, given time. The exquisitely built bashōs (guard houses) and tea pavilions, lovely ponds (with obligatory koi), swan-adorned moats and sculptured walkways transport one far away from the proverbial hustle and bustle outside the grounds. It is a pleasure exploring and despite the continuing, actually relentless, downpour, we are refreshed by what we see.

To a point. After a couple of hours, the completely soaked through shoes begin to chill as the squeege-squeege sounds of walking begin to annoy. The thoughts of food, hot tea and warm shelter entice. Where to go on such a beastly day? Mitsukoshi of course! The grand dame of Japanese department stores. The Harrod of the East (never mind American upstarts like Macys or Nordstroms), Mitsukoshi was founded in 1673 and began by selling kimonos. Now a huge conglomerate, the main store in the Nihonbashi area, is just a few steps from the Imperial grounds.

After beating our way through a few blocks of torrential downpours, we arrive at our destination. Petite Japanese women in matching uniforms bow and greet the soggy patrons as they enter, including us, the soggiest of the lot. We wander through ten floors, admiring the Japanese aesthetic in the various displays, and prices, not for the faint of heart. There are restaurants on the 4th, 5th, 7th, and 10th floors and when we finally choose one, the warming donburi ramen and tea are just what we need.

Fortified, we set out to wander more floors of this teeming shopping metropolis and stumble quite accidentally upon a floor with the 54th annual exhibit of Japanese handicrafts. Beautiful colorful kimonos, stunning displays of pottery, intricate baskets, and finely wrought lacquer ware greet us as we move from room to seemingly endless room. We could, as I am sure many locals did, spend the entire rest of the day wandering through the department store-cum-museum, but instead we elect to weather the weather once again.

Stepping outside, the rain has mercifully let up and we beginning walking towards the Ginza District. First we must cross the Nihonbashi. "Japan Bridge" was originally Edobashi in the 1600s, a wooden bridge that was the beginning — or ending, depending upon your direction — of the ancient Tōkaidō road between Edo and Kyoto. From this bridge, once upon a time, travelers heading south could see Mt. Fuji. Renamed and rebuilt with stone in the Meiji period and now more or less covered by an expressway, one could cross the Nihonbashi and be forgiven for not immediately grasping its historical significance.

Ginza, now known the world-over as one of the most upscale of botiqueries and shopping areas, got its start in the early 17th century as the location of the silver mint for the shogunate. Appropriate, as anything you buy on this street will cost you that said mint. We are not here to shop though, but instead to stroll and soak in the experience. We luck out as on Sunday — during the daylight hours — the main Ginza drag has been turned into a pedestrian-only zone. Walking the normally frenetic streets with casually strolling Japanese, umbrellas on shoulders, is a visual and photographic treat.

We eventually end up back at our hotel and after freshening up — and changing our thoroughly sodden shoes for dry ones — we venture back out for dinner and the nighttime version of Ginza. Dinner was superb: sushi, tempura, rice with fish and sake, all in a small, crowded restaurant where we are the only English speakers. Perfect.

After few photos of Ginza at night, the long day finally takes its toll on us: sleep, sleep and the next day...a new adventure.
Underground Walkway from Shinbashi Train Station
Imperial Palace Walls
Basho or Guardhouse
Castle Walls
Imperial Gardens
Imperial Gardens
Imperial Gardens
Imperial Gardens
Imperial Gardens
Walkway to Tea House

Tea Pavilion
Imperial Gates
Imperial Swan
Gates sans Tourists
Nihonbashi 
Ginza
Ginza
Ginza
Ginza
GinzaGinza
Ginza
Ginza
Ginza
Ginza
Too much sake

In 2007 I traveled to Japan with my mother. That year my wife — who is usually my traveling partner — and I had already journeyed to Sicily in the spring and Iceland in the fall. She was not up for another international trip but my mom was. Of course the Japanese are too polite to inquire about personal relationships, but I thought it was still important to learn this phrase: "Kore wa watashi no oka-san"..."This is my mother." 

My wife and I will finally visit Japan together later this year and in the process of planning that trip I came across my old journal from my travels with oka-san almost 6 years ago. I thought it would be interesting to serialize that trip with a number of Clayhaus Ruminations posts...tanoshimu!

In a Yellow Cab driven by a Haitian immigrant, watching a beautiful orange and blue fall sunrise, I head to to the airport. I do wish Bonnie was sitting beside me — as she normally would be — but I am looking forward to two weeks in Japan with oka-san. Tokyo, Nikko, Takayama, Kyoto, Nara and finally Kamakura are on our agenda. And between sushi and sake, imperial castles and shogunate memorials, Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, bullet trains and ancient paths, I know we will have very memorable trip.

My flight to LAX is uneventful and after a couple of hours waiting in NWA's equivalent to Delta's Crown Room [in those days Northwest Airlines still existed and I was corporate traveler with beaucoup de Skymiles], mama-san finally shows up.

I have a most excellent seat on the plane — aisle, exit row, and no one in front of me — and mom lucks out as the Japanese guy next to me exchanges his seat for mom's. I doubt I would have done the same, but his karma bank is surely fuller than mine!

Considering the vast expanse of water we must cross, the flight seems relatively short: "only" eleven hours. It is smooth as well and I catch a few cat-naps — though no deep sleep — in between studying some Japanese and processing images from my last and very different trip: to Iceland.

Arriving in Narita in the late afternoon of the next day we are struck by how quiet the airport is...eerily so. Immigration and customs are a breeze and once the luggage is gathered up (always a stressful few minutes: Did my bag make the connection? And, if it didn't, how will it ever be delivered to me?) we troop over to the Japan Railways (JR) office where we exchange our rail vouchers for passes. [The JR pass is a convenient and usually cost-effective way to travel about the country.] The JR staff are incredibly pleasant, efficient, and helpful. I have a feeling that this is going to be a common refrain.

On our way to our train I find a watch and for a moment think about keeping it. Second thought: what would the Japanese do? Return it, which I did, to the ticketing agents. Note to self: while in Japan, score many karma points.

Later, whilst waiting to board the train to Tokyo, I see an Indian gent frantically looking for...something. A few minutes later he returns, big smile planted on face, holding his — and mine, so briefly — watch. I think of saying something to him, but why? No, let it go and perhaps be a bit of a happy mystery to him.

Oka-sanThe train ride into Tokyo is mercifully brief: just about one hour. We emerge from the Shimbashi train station to night time. Despite never having been here before, despite not really having slept since who knows when, despite being confused as to whether it really should be night or day, despite not seeing any sign I can read, I feel damn sure I know which way our hotel is. Pointing yonderly we start out on foot through a maze of busy streets and then into a kind of corporate wasteland. The wasteland being the modernist Shiodome area that at this time of night has been pretty much abandoned to the wandering and potentially lost gaijin tourists seeking hotel refuge. Seek and ye shall find and more or less directly we find our lovely Park Hotel.

Park Hotel, TokyoClean, simple, non-fussy elegance greets us in the lobby as we step out of the elevator on the 25th floor of the Shiodome Media building. Shortly we ride the elevators higher and though our rooms are small, they are comfortable with the famous Toto toilets and razors, slippers and PJs.

It seems past time for dinner so I ask the concierge where we might find a restaurant open. He says "Why not eat in our restaurant?" Why not indeed! The food is exotic and wonderful and satisfying and yes, very tasty. I am going to like eating in Japan! 

After dinner I feel my usual travel-related restlessness and we wander outside for a quick stroll. Neither of us lasts long and tiredness descends as quickly as our elevator rises. Sleep and a comfortable bed beckon and I yield.  

Strolling along the Danube promenade our first day in Budapest, we came upon a puzzling display of cast-metal shoes, clearly of the 1940′s vintage. They were fixed to the cement of the walkway and designed to look like the owners had just thoughtlessly left them there, cast-off and in disarray. There were men’s and women’s and small shoes for children. I thought it was an art installation of some sort. There are many of those in Europe, usually of a whimsical nature, designed to bring a smile. We played along with that thread and I had my traveling companions stick their feet in amongst the lost shoes while I took a few photos. 

I was seeing one thing but not its meaning. They are a memorial and as such are designed to bring tears not a smile to the face. The sixty pairs of shoes represent the uncounted Jews (and their supporters) that were shot and pushed into the river during the Arrow Cross (Hungarian Fascists) terror of 1944-45. 

I see the thing and now I cannot see it but for it’s meaning. What compels people to do such things? What were the victim’s last thoughts, standing naked and shivering, awaiting that bright flash. Incomprehensible. And though I am saddened by what it represents, we must also never forget, and for that, I am also thankful.

In our last post -- What's in a Name -- we left off with discussing Katla, one of the more violent volcanoes along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Capping Katla is the ~600 sq. km. glacier called Mýrdalsjökull. Looking at a map of Iceland you will see some some eleven jöklar (plural for jökull, which by the way is pronounced 'yokel', more or less, and other than that, has no resemblance to our local breed) scattered about the island. They cover about 11% of the country's landmass and a jökull is of course a glacier. However, due to global warming, all of the glaciers are in rapid retreat. The largest, at around 8,300 sq. km in size, is losing about 4 km. per year.

Now we know what a is but what is 'Mýrdals?' If you remember from the previous post, the coastal town of Vík is actually formally know as Vík í Mýrdal. The latter word translates into English as 'mire dale.' Those are two words you are more likely to run across in Lord of the Rings rather than Facebook, as they are the more antiquated forms of 'boggy' or 'swampy' or 'marsh valley.' Mýrdalsjökull = Glacier of the boggy valley and Vík í Mýrdal = bay of the marshy valley. The reason for all the mud is the fact that the region receives up to 90 inches of rainfall annually.

Close by Vík are a set of basalt sea stacks known as Reynisdrangar. They rise from the stormy north Atlantic sea like the petrified masts of some ancient man-o-war. In fact, there are three similar legends related to them and at least two feature a ship. The most colorful tells the story of three trolls -- Skessudrangur, Laddrangur and Langhamar (but I think of them as Larry, Moe and Curly) -- who, whilst trying to drag a ship to shore, are caught, turned to stone and frozen in time and place by the rays of the dawn's sun. The stacks are very photo-genic from either the black basalt sand beach to the east or the high cliffs of Reynisfjall, directly above. If the weather is relatively calm (all things being relative here), you can lie upon the edge of the cliffs watching the puffins wheel about in the void between you and the stone trolls.

From those same cliffs, much further to the west, a headland thrusts into the sea, with a quite large puncture mark in the rock. Dyrhólaey it is, meaning, "the hill-island with the door-hole." Tour boats will float through the opening and a stunt pilot is said to have flown through it as well. The cliffs are crowded by puffins and the view from the edge of the promontory is spectacular if not vertiginous.

A little ways inland and with a peaceful gaze at both Dyrhólaey and Reynisdrangar, is Loftsalahellir, "upper chamber cave." Before the Vikings began arriving in the 800's it is rumored that Irish monks seeking "green martyrdom" in the time of St. Patrick (6th-7th century) voyaged to Iceland to live solitary lives of hermits. No physical trace that I am aware of has been found of these monks. Perhaps their lives were so devoid of any physical comfort and artifices that all has been obliterated by time and the elements. Or, perhaps it is all just a myth. Regardless, an Irish monk was said to live in this cave, Loftsalahellir, sometime before the Icelandic Sagas place Viking council meetings there. Either way, it makes a lovely spot to have lunch as well as end this 'saga' of a blog post.

Bless í bili

See the full gallery on Posterous In our last post -- What's in a Name -- we left off with discussing Katla, one of the more violent volcanoes along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Capping Katla is the ~600 sq. km. glacier called Mýrdalsjökull. Looking at a map of Iceland you will see some some eleven jöklar (plural for jökull, which by the way is pronounced 'yokel', more or less, and other than that, has no resemblance to our local breed) scattered about the island. They cover about 11% of the country's landmass and a jökull is of course a glacier. However, due to global warming, all of the glaciers are in rapid retreat. The largest, at around 8,300 sq. km in size, is losing about 4 km. per year.

Now we know what a is but what is 'Mýrdals?' If you remember from the previous post, the coastal town of Vík is actually formally know as Vík í Mýrdal. The latter word translates into English as 'mire dale.' Those are two words you are more likely to run across in Lord of the Rings rather than Facebook, as they are the more antiquated forms of 'boggy' or 'swampy' or 'marsh valley.' Mýrdalsjökull = Glacier of the boggy valley and Vík í Mýrdal = bay of the marshy valley. The reason for all the mud is the fact that the region receives up to 90 inches of rainfall annually.

Close by Vík are a set of basalt sea stacks known as Reynisdrangar. They rise from the stormy north Atlantic sea like the petrified masts of some ancient man-o-war. In fact, there are three similar legends related to them and at least two feature a ship. The most colorful tells the story of three trolls -- Skessudrangur, Laddrangur and Langhamar (but I think of them as Larry, Moe and Curly) -- who, whilst trying to drag a ship to shore, are caught, turned to stone and frozen in time and place by the rays of the dawn's sun. The stacks are very photo-genic from either the black basalt sand beach to the east or the high cliffs of Reynisfjall, directly above. If the weather is relatively calm (all things being relative here), you can lie upon the edge of the cliffs watching the puffins wheel about in the void between you and the stone trolls.

From those same cliffs, much further to the west, a headland thrusts into the sea, with a quite large puncture mark in the rock. Dyrhólaey it is, meaning, "the hill-island with the door-hole." Tour boats will float through the opening and a stunt pilot is said to have flown through it as well. The cliffs are crowded by puffins and the view from the edge of the promontory is spectacular if not vertiginous.

A little ways inland and with a peaceful gaze at both Dyrhólaey and Reynisdrangar, is Loftsalahellir, "upper chamber cave." Before the Vikings began arriving in the 800's it is rumored that Irish monks seeking "green martyrdom" in the time of St. Patrick (6th-7th century) voyaged to Iceland to live solitary lives of hermits. No physical trace that I am aware of has been found of these monks. Perhaps their lives were so devoid of any physical comfort and artifices that all has been obliterated by time and the elements. Or, perhaps it is all just a myth. Regardless, an Irish monk was said to live in this cave, Loftsalahellir, sometime before the Icelandic Sagas place Viking council meetings there. Either way, it makes a lovely spot to have lunch as well as end this 'saga' of a blog post.

Bless í bili

See the full gallery on Posterous The passion for naming things is an odd human trait. Many a scientist claims to have explained some phenomenon when in truth all he has done is to give it a name. — George Gaylord SimpsonOnce you label me you negate me. — Soren Kierkegaard
You can know the name of a bird in all the languages of the world, but when you're finished, you'll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird... So let's look at the bird and see what it's doing -- that's what counts. I learned very early the difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something. — Richard Feynman
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. — Gertrude Stein
Gertrude said it most succinctly and perhaps most elegantly. A thing is what it is, not what it is called. Yet, the ancient Chinese proverb — The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names — intimates that words do matter. Perhaps the Chinese were conflating wisdom with knowledge, for clearly names are important in knowledge whilst wisdom tells us that a rose is indeed a rose.Recently I began reprocessing images of a trip to Iceland I took some years back. I started labeling the images with more specificity than just “Iceland,” and began wondering about Mýrdalsjökull, Hjörleifshöfði, Reynisdrangar and other tongue-twisting place-names I was finding on my maps. Is there a history behind the name? Does the name mean something? Is a rose truly just a rose? Or, in the case of Iceland, is a vík a vík.
On the southern most nub of Iceland’s coast is a small village of some 300 souls. It’s full name is Vík í Mýrdal, but everyone calls it simply Vík. Cast your eyes on a map of Iceland and scattered around the coast of the island you will find other víks: Keflavík, Grindavík, Ólafsvík, and of course the most famous vík of them all, Reykjavík. What’s with all the víks? It is not, strictly speaking an Icelandic word but rather Old Norse for ‘cove’ or ‘bay.’  
Some 15 kilometers east of Vík is the isolated 220 meter high headland of Hjörleifshöfði. Named after the Viking Hjörleifur Hróðmarsson, who settled there in 874, the small mountain was once a much larger promontory.  Successive eruptions of the mighty Katla over the eons has caused so much flooding and carrying away of rock that Hjörleifshöfði stands isolated, a mile and a half from the sea. Returning to Mr. Hróðmarsson, apparently he was not a good provider as a year after settling on the rock his slaves revolted killing him and his free men. He is said to be buried at the highest point of the hill. His farmstead was clearly visible next to the rock for over a thousand years until the 1918 eruption of Katla finally washed away the remnants.
The cause of all these volcanic disturbances lies some 20 kilometers north of Vík (as the puffin flies). Katla (derived from the Old Norse word for ‘kettle,’ the shape of which upside-down the volcano is) is a large, very active volcano partially covered by the Mýrdalsjökull glacier. It has erupted 20 times since 930 AD and is due for another, any time now. The flood waters created by one eruption is estimated to have been comparable to the combined output of the Amazon, Mississippi, Nile, and Yangtze rivers. Not something one would like to be caught in. In old days, traveling along the southern coast was greatly feared because of the deep rivers and frequent glacial floods. In July of 2011 there was a small eruption on Katla that created a jökulhlaup (glacial ‘leap’ or glacial outburst flood) that destroyed the bridge across the main highway. Watch this short video and at the :34 mark you will see Hjörleifshöfði in the distance.
Next: Mýrdalsjökull, Reynisdrangar and Dyrhólaey

The passion for naming things is an odd human trait. Many a scientist claims to have explained some phenomenon when in truth all he has done is to give it a name.

— George Gaylord Simpson

 

Once you label me you negate me. — Soren Kierkegaard

 

You can know the name of a bird in all the languages of the world, but when you're finished, you'll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird... So let's look at the bird and see what it's doing -- that's what counts. I learned very early the difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something. — Richard Feynman

 

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. — Gertrude Stein

Gertrude said it most succinctly and perhaps most elegantly. A thing is what it is, not what it is called. Yet, the ancient Chinese proverb — The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names — intimates that words do matter. Perhaps the Chinese were conflating wisdom with knowledge, for clearly names are important in knowledge whilst wisdom tells us that a rose is indeed a rose.

 

Recently I began reprocessing images of a trip to Iceland I took some years back. I started labeling the images with more specificity than just “Iceland,” and began wondering about Mýrdalsjökull, Hjörleifshöfði, Reynisdrangar and other tongue-twisting place-names I was finding on my maps. Is there a history behind the name? Does the name mean something? Is a rose truly just a rose? Or, in the case of Iceland, is a vík a vík.

 

On the southern most nub of Iceland’s coast is a small village of some 300 souls. It’s full name is Vík í Mýrdal, but everyone calls it simply Vík. Cast your eyes on a map of Iceland and scattered around the coast of the island you will find other víks: Keflavík, Grindavík, Ólafsvík, and of course the most famous vík of them all, Reykjavík. What’s with all the víks? It is not, strictly speaking an Icelandic word but rather Old Norse for ‘cove’ or ‘bay.’

 

Some 15 kilometers east of Vík is the isolated 220 meter high headland of Hjörleifshöfði. Named after the Viking Hjörleifur Hróðmarsson, who settled there in 874, the small mountain was once a much larger promontory.  Successive eruptions of the mighty Katla over the eons has caused so much flooding and carrying away of rock that Hjörleifshöfði stands isolated, a mile and a half from the sea. Returning to Mr. Hróðmarsson, apparently he was not a good provider as a year after settling on the rock his slaves revolted killing him and his free men. He is said to be buried at the highest point of the hill. His farmstead was clearly visible next to the rock for over a thousand years until the 1918 eruption of Katla finally washed away the remnants.

 

The cause of all these volcanic disturbances lies some 20 kilometers north of Vík (as the puffin flies). Katla (derived from the Old Norse word for ‘kettle,’ the shape of which upside-down the volcano is) is a large, very active volcano partially covered by the Mýrdalsjökull glacier. It has erupted 20 times since 930 AD and is due for another, any time now. The flood waters created by one eruption is estimated to have been comparable to the combined output of the Amazon, Mississippi, Nile, and Yangtze rivers. Not something one would like to be caught in. In old days, traveling along the southern coast was greatly feared because of the deep rivers and frequent glacial floods. In July of 2011 there was a small eruption on Katla that created a jökulhlaup (glacial ‘leap’ or glacial outburst flood) that destroyed the bridge across the main highway. Watch this short video and at the :34 mark you will see Hjörleifshöfði in the distance.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQlkGO5KsPY?rel=0]

 

Next: Mýrdalsjökull, Reynisdrangar and Dyrhólaey

 

Chasing Reality | TAO • The Arts Organization