Back on board I rendezvoused with my three new friends – the solo travellers – for dinner. Our conversations are infinitely better than most I have had on cruise ships. The first night we all learned a bit about each other beyond the usual “Where are you from” with “Oh” being the response if you name any location outside the USA. We even ventured into the taboo ground of religion and politics. Tonight we began to understand the age spread amongst us, realized that one was an avid soccer fan while two were successful businesswomen. Also learned that two enjoyed gambling while the other two thought gambling was a guaranteed waste of money long-term. Of course, those two were missing the fact that if you enjoy the thrill of gambling, the losses are just the price you pay for that entertainment.
As one of the gambling nay-sayers I also learned that if you spend enough at the casino you get invited back on a future cruise with the cabin paid for. And on the 6th night I would get a free, fabulous meal at the ‘sel de mar’ seafood restaurant courtesy of that same gambling friend who got offered dinner for two plus a bottle of wine while at the casino the day before. Drinking at the bars, buying coffee at the crows nest, listening to BB King’s All Stars every damn night, and attending most of the stage shows doesn’t generate any such largesse!
Day Three Already – Djupivogur
Day three dawned beautifully sunny to find us at anchor at the tiny town of Djupivogur in south-east Iceland – and, no, I still cannot spell or pronounce it. 500 residents, a few small fishing boats, and a row of giant granite birds’ eggs on pedestals along the shore road are its chief claims to fame. Yes, polished granite birds’ eggs on pedestals – guess they hope to become a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Birds’ eggs on pedestals – people flock to Djupivogur from miles around to see them!
And to photograph them. Over and over again. The ultimate ‘build it and they will come’ enterprize.
The sculptures represented every bird known to nest in the vicinity. Each egg was the correct shape and color (I presume) for the species, but outrageously over-sized. And the pedestals were arranged between the road and the sea in a great arc around the harbor. One might have expected various touristy shops along that road, but, no, just a gas storage plant. But the tourists flocked. A bit like the pigeons I saw at Heimaey. But the tourists did not peck; they snapped. Cell phones at the ready, a few real cameras, and a steady, audible clicking of shutters, as they photographed the granite eggs from every possible angle with frequent pauses for selfies.
I noticed that the eggs closer to the center of town were photographed more; perhaps the fascination was wearing off as the flock of tourists wandered from egg to egg. Each granite egg had a small metal nameplate on the top of its pedestal which gave the species’ name in Icelandic, English, and Latin. And not a damned other bit of information, not even a picture of the said bird. Have tourists and need an attraction. No problem. Stick anything up on a pedestal and promote it, and the tourists will come and photograph it.
Truth be told, I took four pictures myself. Which proves I have some tourist genes in there somewhere.
In place of Heimaey’s vertical cliffs there were long gentle slopes from shore to hilltops, vegetated with grasses and small shrubs, nary a tree in sight, and tourists, once more, scattered across a cobweb of trails and roads out of town (actually, the town was so small that you were out of it from the moment you stepped away from the welcome sign on the pier).
I went for a walk along the coast and then back a bit more inland. Did not see any jogging teens, but did see a small black sand beach, lots of seaweed, and various coastal plants. Also, some rugged basalt ridges running from up in the hills down to the coast and out to sea creating the small beaches. On close inspection, these ridges were old lava flows. Some even looked a lot like Hawaiian pahoehoe. Lots of people visible walking, but I walked alone and did my own thing, photographing, and gazing at the serene but stark scenery. Snow on the tops of the peaks, but not too cold. Sort of sunny in that wan northern way.
Black sand beach, seaweed, and a prominent basaltic lava flow in the distance. Plus tourists wandering aimlessly. Why were we here?
Most of us were there to see the navigation light – why does the only human-made structure elicit such interest?
Yes! Definitely pahoehoe. A bit too bleak to be Hawaii though.
The town itself was little more than two cafes and the gas storage plant. Not even much in the way of tourist crap for sale. Two young boys, maybe 9 or 10 years old, were at the pier with a small table selling rocks. I regret not buying one and taking their photo but by the time I saw them I was touristed out and heading back to the ship. I had no Icelandic money anyway, and they did not have a machine to take credit cards. Talk about entrepreneurial spirit! Those guys had a half dozen rather nice crystals and similar specimens at inflated prices, and a bunch of rocks at more affordable prices. They had obviously learned two things. Tourists will buy anything if you set it out on a table and collect their money, and with cruise ships delivering tourists on a regular schedule it is possible to operate a business with collection days when you wander about tossing rocks into a pail and selling days when you smile sweetly, behind your table of rocks, beside the gangplank that every tourist will have to walk down. They may live in one of the tiniest settlements in Iceland, but those two boys are destined for greatness.
Day four was spent at sea as we sailed from Iceland to the Isle of Skye in the Inner Hebrides of Scotland. I needed the day without walking. It was overcast again and chilly. But I took the opportunity to take some photos around the ship.
Outside or inside… definitely a Holland America ship. Where are all the people?
Looking at those photos now I realize that it looks exactly like every other Holland America ship, and, as on every other Holland America ship, there are plenty of ways to find peace and quiet with no people around. On this day most of the people seemed to be playing pickleball which has supplanted basketball on these ships since covid. Inside the ship has an impressive main stage – far more impressive than the entertainment put on there – and a doubly impressive (because it offers a mezzanine) lounge for the BB King Blues band.
The Isle of Skye and Fossil Traps
Morning of day five dawned to find us at anchor off the Isle of Skye with low, gentle hills covered with grasses much like the scenery outside Djupivogur, minus the basalt ridges – a very soft and gentle landscape. Bleak again also comes to mind.
I went ashore to the tiny town of Portree – well, tiny by any standards other than Icelandic because it was much bigger than Djupivogur. Portree’s chief claim to fame seemed to be the colorful set of buildings that lined the path from the pier. I wonder if it just developed that way or was there a neighborhood or municipal authority that told each owner the color to use on his or her house. Either way the result was picturesque – and if you are a small town on the Isle of Skye you’d better be picturesque.
The wharf at Portree, Isle of Skye.
Idling tourists. At least I think most of them came off my ship. The town oozed idleness.
I made my way past the row of colorful houses and up the hill to what some would call a grassy knoll, others a park, at the top. In the middle was a tower of uncertain age, not very tall and only large enough to incorporate a circular stair. At the top there was a marginally better view than at the base. Our ship looked splendid in the middle distance.
The tower at the top of the knoll.
The ship as seen from the knoll. At least there are a few trees around.
After satisfying my need for semi-rural, island vistas I wandered back down towards the harbor and waited for the next ender back to the ship. I imagine some of our number were busy tasting unique single malt whiskeys. Otherwise I am unsure why we bothered to stop.
Back on board, I was getting into a rhythm: lunch, preferably at the Dutch Café or the pizza stand, a lazy afternoon, a drink before dinner with my new solo traveler friends, followed by whatever was on at the main stage, or straight to BB King’s for some music before bed. In other words, a totally unproductive existence.
On Day 6 we were anchored off Kirkwall in the Orkney Islands, and once again it was a day of high overcast, not raining, but clearly thinking about it. Kirkwall has a cathedral and two ruined castles, all three in the centre of town. I caught a tender to shore and wandered into an amazingly drab town (at least in the blocks surrounding the port). Every building was gray or taupe stucco, unenlivened by signs or windows filled with merchandise. There were precious few people about, but as I wandered I noticed a sheet of paper stapled to a telephone pole. Felt tip lettering proclaimed “Kirkwall Fossil Shop 500m” with an arrow. I did not think too much about it, but I was wandering in the direction of the arrow and soon came to another sheet of paper stating, “Kirkwall Fossil Shop 300m” and another arrow.
Becoming mildly curious, I continued along the exceptionally uninteresting street, and came to a sheet of paper saying, “Kirkwall Fossil Shop, you’re nearly there” with yet another arrow. Another 100m along, I came to a nondescript building with a sign in the window, “Kirkwall Fossil and Mineral Shop” and on the wall nearby “Kirkwall Fossil Shop, First door doon the lane.” I eyed the narrow laneway and thought, “What the hell, I am not really hunting fossils but…” So I walked up the lane and pulled on the latch on what was obviously the back door of the building. It opened and I was in a small room, lined with tables around the walls and with a little old man standing quietly to my right. He was dressed about as drably as the buildings and did nothing to make me feel welcome, although he did speak when spoken to. A bit like those farmers who sit on porches and say little while they watch the corn grow. Only he was watching a cruise ship sucker that had been lured into his trap. The door had quietly closed behind me.
What could I do? I looked at the various fossils arranged on the tables. There were a couple of gorgeous fossil fishes at gorgeous prices that had come from nearby. I learned from the proprietor that the Orkneys had some fossil-rich deposits of Devonian age – the Age of Fishes – and these were local specimens. I looked at them admiringly. And then I realized I was firmly trapped. Having engaged in brief but friendly communication with the proprietor, and being the only potential purchaser in the shop, or indeed within 500 m of it (I had seen no other people following those signs), I realized I could not leave without buying something. So I began a casual perusal of the lesser fossils on display. Shark teeth, dinosaur teeth, ammonites, trilobites from various places scattered around the world. I did not particularly want a trilobite, but at 8 British pounds it was the cheapest thing on offer, so I bought it. To be carried back to Canada, for what purpose? To remember my walk in Kirkwall, of course. Yet another otherwise useless rock to sit beside my cinder from a fumarole on the slopes of Kilauea, collected in 1968, my small glass fishing float that was collected by a friend on Enewetak atoll in 1969, and which contains within it a sample of mid-Pacific water from that time, my 10 inch slab of pahoehoe collected god knows where or when in Hawaii, and my large, delicate, juvenile baler shell collected at One Tree Reef in 1987. What a cluttered house I have.
Emerging from the Fossil Shop, Turkish trilobite in hand, I wandered off to see the cathedral and the castles. They were located more or less across the street from each other on the crest of a gentle hill in the center of town.
St. Magnus Cathedral is the most northerly cathedral in the UK. It was founded in 1137 by the Viking, Earl Rognvald, in honor of his father, Magnus Erlendsson, Earl of Orkney, who had shared the earldom with his cousin, Haakon Paulsson. Construction took about 300 years. Jealousy and greed culminated in Magnus being martyred on the island and his bones were apparently later interred within a pillar in the cathedral. At various times in its history the cathedral has been part of the Roman Catholic Church, the Norwegian Church, the Scottish Episcopal Church, and the Church of Scotland (Presbyterian). (Ah yes… Google is wonderful.)
Rounded, not particularly soaring columns.
The impressively eroded lintel.
Built of red and yellow sandstone, the cathedral is relatively modest as cathedrals go, a bit drafty, and uncomfortable, with rather massive circular columns. The sandstone lintel at the main doorway is impressively eroded, and the various statues inside seem mainly to be local heros. I did not spend time exploring the graveyard adjacent. Instead, I wandered over to the Bishop’s and Earl’s palaces across the street. Yes, they were palaces, not castles – I have no idea what facts lead to these classifications.
The Bishop’s Palace, not much left to see except some falling down outside walls.
These ruins date from the 12th and 17th centuries respectively. The Bishop’s palace, constructed around the time that the cathedral was built, was the home of the reigning bishop as its name implies. The lower floor is a row of small arched rooms of no great architectural interest, while the upper floor, which may have been more magnificent, is largely gone. Some imposing windows remain. They would have led to a drafty living unless they were glassed as I presume they once were.
The Earl’s palace was constructed around 1606 by Patrick, Earl of Orkney. Known as ‘Black Patie’, the tyrannical Patrick ruled the Northern Isles with an iron fist from 1592 until his execution 23 years later. More of the splendor of this building remains although the lower floor is again one of small vaulted storage rooms. The main hall on the second level, with its 5m wide fireplace and expansive windows, must have been an impressive venue. And the Earl’s bedroom was likely to have been a particularly comfortable place – because, as the sign makes clear, this was where he carried on his various illicit liaisons.
The main room with its gigantic fireplace and impressive windows would have been quite impressive once.
Earl Patrick’s bedroom. Ah yes. No secrets remain to be revealed here.
In buildings like these, I find it very easy to go into a strange reverie imaging what life would have been like back when the building was in use. In such imaginings I am always one of the elite and I gloss over such things as cold, clammy stone walls, drafty windows, and fireplaces as the only source of heat. As for lack of indoor plumbing… I manage not to notice.
Part 3 will follow soon…