Life in a Nordic Town
After four days (of beer, gin, rain, slushy snow and fantastic people) in Reykjavik, I travelled yesterday to Skagaströnd to begin my artist’s residency. It’s a town of about 500 people along the north west coast, on the eastern side of Húnaflói Bay. My journey took around five hours in which I observed the dark morning stubbornly shift from black to petrol blue to thick grey to yellow and pink. It doesn’t get bright here till after 10:30am. The houses along the motorway became less frequent as we left the city. Most were still adorned in Christmas fairy lights. Icelandic homes glow from the inside. The ‘haven’ element is more pronounced than in other places. Scrubby, desolate land of bleached ,burnt grass, heather and barren trees sat against a sky that changed hue with every mile. Stopping regularly we were joined by polite Icelanders who timidly asked could they take obviously empty seats. Climbing in elevation toward Staður I promised myself I would take more notes – hence being able to now mention ‘Staður’. I’m also proud of learning how to type the strange looking ð – which is actually pronounced ‘th’. Staður is also where I realised that what has been is gone – and what will be – is firmly in my hands.
Riding onward, we saw the sun win its battle and rise above the clouds, reflecting on distant snaking streams like silver thread along the mountain side. The colours were peachy plum. I munched my lunch while reflecting on the oddness of Icelandic culinary expressions. The ‘Prikid’ bar in Reykjvik rather proudly advertised their ’sweaty burger’. I declined. TUC crackers come in bacon and ‘Gout’ flavour and my violently overpriced egg and ham service station sandwich bore the unappetising label ‘Skinka’ which, for me, rides a little too close to ‘skanky’. That said, Icelandic people seem universally kind with their use of English. They are friendly, hospitable and they have a certain twinkle in their eye. There is a sense of kindness and curiosity.
Changing bus at Blönduós, I met two other artist’s from the residency. We conversed comfortably for the last leg of the journey, quickly becoming friends. Our house sits on the main road next to a modern Lutheran Church. The only bar in town opens for two hours on a Saturday – between 11pm and 1am. Once I was over the panic I realised the epic surroundings will most likely keep me from going ‘postal’ on a beer-hungry rampage. Most of the pints I drink in London are from boredom and habit. It was time to cut back anyway. Residencies here usually last 2 months. Today we met the artists that have already completed their first month. It’s a lovely mix of painters, writers, videographers and even an embroiderer. The studio space sits down by the water and peers toward snow tipped mountains. The skies are stunning – the waves are within earshot. I’m calm and motivated. It’s been a good start.
Paul Scannell Photography 