Iceland at last

30th May 7am (or 6 Iceland time or 8 Danish time)

Outside it's grey, drizzle, the forecast grim. From the day I left home the weather, until now,  has been better than I would have expected. Dover was hot. France, Belgium, Netherlands and Germany were warm and dry. Denmark was hot and sunny, with a cool north wind. Torshavn was sunny and warm. Now comes the real test. How will I cope with a cold wet introduction to this place I've waited 50 years to experience.

I woke at my usual time, though after so many time changes it's hard to pin it to the clock. Two of my cabin mates were getting up and though I was quite relaxed, I decided to do the same. Yesterday morning the deck was almost crowded at 4:30. Today it's empty. It's now 10 to 7 and the corridor seats on deck 5 are mostly occupied, but we are all spaced out like gulls in a field, each with our personal space. We are all I assume, waiting for breakfast.

I'm really out of my comfort zone here. We are completely at the mercy of Smyril Line - their schedule and their rules. They are a Faroese company so naturally they wish to promote their homeland. This is from their website:

"While you let yourself be carried across the sea, our staff will try to tend to your every need, to make sure that your stay on the Norröna is an unforgettable experience. There is no need for anyone to feel bored aboard the Norröna. Experience our unique restaurants, they will allow you to sample a culinary tradition rooted directly in the Viking era."

Well, I've got news for you Mr Smyril. Sure there's plenty to occupy you if you like films without subtitles, or in German, or if  you like Bingo or, to my ears, talentless and incomprehensible singer songwriters. You may well be able to enjoy sampling the culinary tradition if you can afford more than £30 per head for a meal. This is what I would say to you:  

Dear Mr Smyril (or Mr Merlin in English) 

As you are well aware, you are the first impression of the Faroes for most of the 800 or so passengers you carry. Your staff are helpful and pleasant. The ship is comfortable and the meals offer the sort of range most Europeans are used to. The information staff can answer whatever you throw at them in at least 3 languages, and they are willing to charge phones and laptops free.

I was quite surprised at this because in other ways you convey the impression that the Faroese spend their time thinking up all sorts of clever tricks to part the tourist from his or her  money. After Denmark I wasn't surprised to find everything very expensive, but I would never have dreamt that, having paid a flat fee for a meal, I would then have to pay extra for a glass of water! I can understand alcohol being extra, but cans of soft drink and bottles of water cost next to nothing to buy wholesale. This is just mean. You should also consider the morality of selling plastic bottles of water at all. They are a massive pollutant and completely unnecessary.

The other really mean thing is charging for wifi. Free wifi is now a staple of the hotel and catering industry, and your isn't just not free it's very expensive - 7 euros for an hour - and very slow.

I went to a café in town, ordered a coffee and asked if wifi was available "Of course" said the girl and immediately wrote down the code. So it's not the people of the Faroes, it's you Mr Merlin. 

Waiting.

I don't like  all these old people - all these people like me. Individually I would find something in common with any one of them, and I have to admit that apart from the fact that my belly fat is under control, I look like them, but I feel myself to be different. Perhaps some of them feel that too? So few of them walk properly. They shuffle or hobble or waddle.  It would be too easy to dismiss them as "The Germans", the idle, the fat, the boring. I know I would find a similar group from Wales or England just as off-putting. but they and their like from other countries have one thing I entirely lack - a desire to join guided groups. The idea of joining a bus tour or a sea cruise has never even fleetingly crossed my mind. I would absolutely hate it.  

The group here are the people who made the new Germany I so admire. They have worked hard all their lives and deserve this "adventure" tour of the north Atlantic. The destinations are those of adventure, but how will they be challenged? They have comfortable cabins, seats on comfortable coaches. They will be guided in groups to see the things these Nordic countries want them to see. I don't see that as any kind of adventure.

The challenge for me is not so much discomfort but communication. Starting a conversation is always a big risk - that I will simply be unable to hear properly what is said. Is it an advantage to be able to communicate in German and French as well as English? I'm not sure. I tend to give the impression that I am a master communicator whereas if I just used English and shouted I might do better.

Later - much later.
Simply getting off the ferry took well over an hour and by then I was worn out. I stopped in a layby, brewed some coffee and started to feel better. The winding road into the uplands on the way to Egilstadur reminded me strongly of the mountain road from Pontardawe to Llangadog at home - though in winter. The view from the other side was very different though. This is a valley of Loch Ness proportions with the small collection of buildings which make up Egilstadur in the distance.

I'm now in the town campsite, which is well run and not expensive, so I have some time to catch up and get ready for the next adventure.

Torshavn, Faroes

Today was strange. I knew I needed to wake early so I did - 4am. Knowing we would dock at 5 I wasn't in any hurry to get up, but then - the curse of the deaf traveller- the tannoy - incomprehensible in any language - started up. It could have been calling us to prayer, but more likely was telling us to wake up. I dressed quickly and warmly, loaded camera and binoculars and made for the top deck.

Expecting a cold grey scene, I was exhilarated to see  an orange sun rising in a near cloudless sky, and there before us -  the higher buildings picked out in gold -  the lower ones sill in shadow,  was Torshavn, and all round it the green and rocky slopes of Streymoy, the largest of the Faroe Islands.

We, the brotherhood of the early risers, watched in awe as the captain or pilot or driver or whoever was in charge of the operation, slowly and carefully docked the ship - sideways! The space available didn’t look any longer than the ship and yet this master of the thrusters, bow and aft, having lined it up parallel to the dock side nudged the huge ship slowly but confidently into place. Docking complete we could then get to our vehicles, and I have to admit it was a bit like coming home to slide open the side door, turn on the lights and make myself a cup of tea! At last I could sort out a change of underwear, get a cushion to rest my head on at night, and really think through what I would need for the 8 or so hours in the town and then the last night at sea. I spent far too long sorting out kit and I still got it wrong! In the end it was 6am and time for breakfast so I stoked up with small portions of meusli, yoghurt, fruit, eggs, crispy bacon, fresh roll, jam and two cups of coffee.    

From my guidebook reading, I was ready to love the Faroes but I did not know what to expect of Torshavn. My plan was to walk up through the town on the north side which looked like the way to open country and the shore, where I might get a sample of the bird life. Taking this route also opened  up all sorts of back streets and byways, where very modern industry lived alongside the local wild and not-so-wild life. Also too a reminder that there are many in the world who hate the Faroes for killing whales. I'm agnostic on that.

Everything is smart and neat, the houses mostly timber or metal clad and painted and lots of charming gardens, little parks with statuary and well-endowed public buildings.  At the edge of town are industrial and trade buildings, plenty of new cars, no dirt, and a palpable air of prosperity and economic growth. Where you see large shops devoted to paint, you know that there is money being spent on houses. From what I read in the guidebook it seems the Faroes have never had it so good. It has the air of a hard working egalitarian society, but I'm pretty sure the money doesn't come from tourism, so when I can get some internet without having to pay a king's ransom, I'll do some more research.

Fellow passengers

It was still warm when we left Hirtsals in North Denmark, and some of the passengers were getting very relaxed:

As we sailed up the coast of Norway the sunset (and a lighthouse) made for some interesting pictures:

27 May (I think)
Now I know why there are so many age and girth-challenged German couples here. There are 2 big tour coaches on a tour of the North Atlantic. They are all watching a film and filling the café. It's hard not to feel a bit anti. So far I've only spoken to a Swedish couple who are keen bird watchers. There is one Frenchman but I've not identified any Brits.

In the bunk opposite is a large dark haired man with a trimmed beard - probably in his thirties. He was there sleeping when I arrived in the afternoon. Every time I went into the tiny cabin with its 9 bunks, all male, he was asleep. When I settled in for the night he was still there, still sleeping. It was not until today, mid morning, when I finally found his bunk empty, and this evening he was sitting there awake.
Do you speak English, Deutsch?
English - this said with a smile.
Where are you from?
Poland.
He lives in Iceland - Akureyri - and had just driven back from a month's holiday in Poland. It sounded like he did the whole 22 hour trip in one go.
I've also met the Frenchman - from Grenoble. We spoke in a mixture of French and English but I did not learn much about him.

30 May (Filling in gaps)
I also had long conversations with two ladies from Switzerland, one of whom was a keen bird watcher. They seemed to be in their early 60s and were travelling in a basic van with just beds.
The only person whose name I got was Ralph from Belgium. He was the one with the telescope rooted to one corner of the deck - a proper twitcher, but a very pleasant companion none the less.

Judging from the surprised looks a left hand drive vehicle gets, I think I may have been the only Brit on the ship. I'm very OK with that!

Copenhagen 2

Tomorrow I will take Thelma to the station for the train to the airport where she will embark for Bristol and then home. I then  head due west. First to Odense to fill my LPG tank for cooking and heating. There are only 5 LPG stations in Denmark, and none in Iceland. Then I head north and camp somewhere within easy distance of Hirtsals the port at the northern tip of Denmark where I get the boat to the Faroes and Iceland.
It's going to be a big change from warm sunny Copenhagen to cool strange Torshavn, and I can't say I'm not nervous about it. Here we've enjoyed 21st century urban culture at its best. When I  dock at Torshavn after 2 days at sea, I will meet an isolated culture, a tiny self-governing nation with its own language and a long tradition of survival in a harsh climate.
I'm really looking forward to it, but I will also look back with pleasure at the gentle beauty of Denmark's great city:

Copenhagen

It spawned one of the worst pop songs ever - "Wonderful...." I can't bear to continue. It goes round and round in my head and I have to think of something else.

It's Bristol on dope, Amsterdam with more bikes, Paris without the dirt; it has a brewery and an organ both propped up with elephants:

It has a hippy commune with houses to die for:

Bicycle graveyards:

Segway tours:

A Royal family known to answer the phone personally, but which knows how to do pomp, and in the 18thC brought up a boy prince with a commoner -guess which is which. 

The Endless Motorway

20 May 2017

20:24

I could have done France in half an hour if firstly, I hadn't stopped to stick bits of plastic on the lights so that our British light wouldn't dazzle the poor continentals, and secondly if the wretched van engine hadn’t been sick. It has a bronchial problem which has weakened it so that it takes an age to get up to motorway speed - Belgian, Dutch and French speeds that is. There is no mechanic on earth who could have persuaded it to chase after the slick, black, low slung cars which flash past in the outside land in Germany. Whenever I did manage to get the van up to 70 I would see a blur to my left as another bit of forsprung durch technik disappeared into the distance up ahead. 

Belgium passed with little to differentiate it, and the boundary between the Netherlands and Germany was not even marked - just a single letter D above one of the road signs. I had hoped to get to Munster or even Bremen, but first I had to get through the infamous Ruhrgebiet, the industrial heartland of Germany, and it seems the entire district was being dug up. Google maps very helpfully outlined in red all the bits where I would be delayed, and even found short cuts for me so that I got an unguided tour of the back streets of, I think, Hamborn. When I finally got clear I'd had enough and decided to look for a camp site some miles south of Munster. I seem to have an instinct for odd sites with nobody there. This was it:

I walked through the lovely beech woods round the site

and suddenly came across this:

All around the area and right up through the Ruhr and the north, the fields and the forests grow these mighty wind turbines - just small groups - 2 here, three there, five there, but all as tall as they come, the great 80 metre, slow moving monsters. They seem to me much more at home like this than the massed ranks of them that disfigure our mountains.

On Friday I got off early to get to Bremen where I had located a Citroen main dealer. I hit the motorway just after 6am and was amazed to find it as busy as the M4 at rush hour, but of course this was rush hour - at least for the cars, but the other impressive feature of all the motorways through Holland and Germany was the roughly 50/50 split between trucks and cars. The entire slow lane in both directions is taken up by an endless stream of huge 6 axle 40 tonne trucks. This, together with the ships that link up with them, is the growth engine of our economy, and it frightens me.

Arriving at the showroom, I explained as well as I could in my once fluent but now very rusty German, that the van lacked "kraft". The workshop manager took a drive in it and soon recognised the problem. He would link it to their computer and get a proper diagnosis, but first I must show my passport and the log book and agree to a 50 Euro diagnosis fee. OK by me and I sat in the comfortable waiting area with free coffee and a book. About 40 minutes later he returned with a document explaining that something to do with the air supply to the injectors needed replacing. The bill would come to 170 Euros altogether, but they could not get the parts until Monday.  Ahrr! I explained about meeting my wife in Copenhagen, paid the 50 euros for an incomprehensible diagnosis which I  hoped a garage in Copenhagen would understand, and set off again nursing the beast on yet more endless ribbons of concrete and tar. 

If the Ruhr was stressful, getting past Hamburg was even more so. I have never seen a bigger or longer programme of road enlargement, and we Brits are old hands at road works. Two hours of temporary narrow lanes, mostly slow moving but sometimes frighteningly fast moving.

At last I got to the Danish border where there was an actual barrier and we all had to slow right down - but were waved through. Almost immediately 80% of the trucks disappeared. I'm still pondering that one. Looking for a campsite near the motorway I picked the nearest which turned out to be yet another small site with nobody there. It was on the edge of a small town called Vojens and next door was an enormous arena:

A small part of it was being occupied by some sort of office party with live music from this lot:

How else a small town in a rural area fills a place large enough for a symphony orchestra or a Barry Manilow concert is a beguiling mystery in a fascinating country.

Poppies

This is for Heie, who said she was "looking forward to more pictures and poetry". Long drives are very tedious without music or radio, and I got to thinking - well what about it? I haven't written poetry for perhaps 50 years but the same would apply to serious photography. Perhaps it would be a good way to keep my brain active while driving. Or did the poppies come first? I'm, not sure, but here is the result of some hours of driving and thinking:

Flanders - the Flanders Fields

Wide, flat and acid green

Factories for human food

And not a flower to be seen.

Poppies are not wanted here.

They're surplus to requirements,
A red too vibrant for these over-fertile plains,
Symbols of a million deaths.

Yet as I drive along the triple lanes

Of concrete tar and metal

I see a flash of colour:

There in the long and dusty meadow

Between the barriers that keep the cars apart

That's where the poppies are,

With the other refugees from chemical death,

The oilseed rape and the big white daisies.

There, nourished by the fumes they prosper,

Mile upon mile, they call out to me

"We're still here"

First day horrible

You set off full of hope and relief that the day of departure is here. The van is as near finished as it's going to be in the next few months, you have everything you need and ahead lies adventure.

Then, a few miles down the so familiar road, the power to the wheels falters. So that was what young Simon at the garage was talking about - something I didn't understand about the air supply. Is it the carburettor? Whatever it is, the van does not seem to be pulling as it did when I had the first test run. The fuel consumption according to the magic gadget on the dashboard, is not what it should be. I'm carrying more weight, but not that much more. There's nothing I can do but drive on, fretting and unhappy. This is my state of mind when I come to a turning I've made dozens if not hundreds of time. For the usual road from Raglan to Newport you carry on past the Monmouth turning. This time, anxious and confused and feeling very old, I turned left towards Monmouth. That one moment of inattention cost me 45 minutes and a big detour - to Monmouth and then over the foggy hills to Chepstow and the old Severn Bridge.

Still I pressed on and stopped for lunch on the M25 southbound. That was when I realised my phone was not getting any data, despite, or because of, the fact that I had just changed to a cheap contract with 500gig of data. Google maps don't work without a connection of some sort and I had no paper maps.

Still I press on and at around 15:30 arrive at the Eurotunnel terminal. You drive up to a kiosk which asks you to tap in your reservation number. I had not made a reservation. "How much is it to buy now?" Almost £200 - twice the cost of an online booking. "How do I get out of here?" He was a kind young man and helped me escape, but now what? I had no way of booking online, so I decided to find a campsite with wifi and see if I could book for tomorrow.

So this is where I am, just under the white cliffs of Dover with almost no mobile signal but wifi from the café. You have to peer through the windows to see the code on a notice at the counter. The view is amazing; it's a beautiful site, but how am I to get to Calais?   

Two Days to go

Wales  has never looked so gorgeous. There has been an explosion of Lady's Smock in the fields around us, and in the woods there are bluebells everywhere.  This evening Thelma and I drove in the new van up to the Dinas, the conical hill near the head of the Towy valley where Twm Sion Catti's cave is. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twm_Si%C3%B4n_Cati) There is a plain little stone church there which has no lights so services are only held once a month during the summer.  

ON Wednesday I set off for the Channel Tunnel on my way to Iceland. I will be leaving this:

For this:

But I know Wales. I've seen bluebells before, many times, but I've never seen Iceland and it's a place I've wanted to visit since I was a student.

Tomorrow I still have a few things to do to the van - a good clean amongst them. I'll also be working on all my lists. This is the one for the photography gear - the bare minimum as I'm sure you'll agree:

Photography list		number	location
Cameras	Sony compact
	Canon 5D
	Canon 70D
Lenses	Tamron 16-300
	Canon 16-35
	Canon 100-400
	Canon x2 extender
Rucksack
Harness
Sling
Straps	male	1	bins
		1	rucksack
		1	70D
	female	1	bins
		1	rucksack
		1	lens
		1	spare
strap adaptors	male to male	1	rucksack
		1	rucksack
	female to female	1	rucksack
Remotes	cable	1	rucksack
	infra	1	rucksack
batteries	canon	2	rucksack
		1	70D
		1	5D
	sony	1	camera
		1	day bag
chargers	canon	1
	Sony	1
mians lead		1
image storage SD cards		1	70 D
		1	5D
		1	Sony
		2	rucksack
camera rain cover			rucksack
rucksack cover			rucksack
glasses +3		2	rucksack
card readers		2	van
allen keys		2	rucksack
pen		1	rucksack
notebook		1	rucksack
polarising filter		1
lens cleaner		1
hide		1

First test run

2 May 2017

Here I am just a mile or two down the dismantled railway which forms the spine of the grandly named Welsh Wildlife Centre aka Teifi wetlands, a beautiful reserve where I once watched an otter fishing, but have never seen anything as interesting since. I still go there though, and will be at the best hide by 6am tomorrow. The site is one of my favourites, but tonight there's nobody here. Even the farm is deserted. Suits me. The former railway is now a farm track but there are still bridges and embankments. One of the fields had a nice mixture of lady's smock and dandelions.

later 

It's an extraordinary experience sitting here, black windows all round me, pools of light on the dark red surfaces, the more rufous upholstery and the deep brown wood. I'm reading a romantic novel by a woman called Jojo and feeling at peace with the world. I've managed to turn a dirty, over-worked van into a thing of beauty. Of course it's gone over budget but not dramatically.

I have a long list of things that have to be done in the next two weeks, but so far I've all the problems have been solvable, so I think I'll get there.

3 May

It would be good to end my relationship with Castle Garage in Newcastle Emlyn feeling that they were a fundamentally decent bunch, but alas they are just car salesmen. It's easy to leave the place feeling cherished, but the charm is skin deep. Both the partners, Paul and Mark are native Cardies, very laid back, easy going and charming. Karen the office lady is English and also has a pleasant manner. She is marginally better at answering emails than the men, but that's not saying much. I found it impossible to convince them that for me email takes the place of the phone. If you ask a question on the phone you expect an answer. If I know the person is online when I email, I expect the courtesy of an answer. To simply not answer a question at all as the days go by, is the equivalent to me of putting the phone down. This continual lack of response led to weeks of delay in buying the vehicle and getting the work done on it, delay which has meant a hectic and stressful schedule to get the conversion done on time. 

I had a 3 month warranty. "Can you send me the warranty terms?" Evasion. "What does it cover?" I asked Paul. "Everything" he answered and that was it. Twice I took the van there for warranty repairs. Nothing was done properly. Should I have expected more? I don't know. They clearly thought I was a pain in the arse with my nagging emails, but I was always greeted in a friendly fashion and always left feeling I had been looked after. Then came the realisation that they had only done the minimum to get me out of their hair.

So goodbye Castle Motors. At least I got an excellent respray from the man who does their cleaning and painting - Geraint. He has real pride in what he does, and I'm still pleased with the paint. I'm not really angry with the garage either. In some ways I am a pain in the arse.

Saturday 6 May

Yesterday the van was at the garage in Llandovery. Simon, the boss, has always looks after us well, and his namesake, a younger Simon, seems to be a real expert at camper vans. I took it in for them to check for faults - anything which might cause a breakdown. I used 8mm copper pipe for the gas supply. It leads from the underslung tank up through a 10mm hole in the floor and on to feed the 4 gas appliances. I'd gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that the joints were sound, but had not realised, until Simon the younger pointed it out, that the pipe would rub against bare metal of the hole in the floor. Eventually it could wear through with potentially disastrous consequences. He said I need to enlarge the hole and fit it with a rubber grommet. I couldn't enlarge the hole without removing the pipe first. That meant taking up the whole of  the raised section of the floor under the sofa where the batteries and all the electrical gear were positioned. Bollocks.

Having begun my woodworking career as an antique restorer I know the value of making, as far as possible,  everything I do reversible, and there was nothing in the van which could not be unscrewed and removed if necessary.

I began at 7am, first removing some wiring from the sofa box, then taking the box out. This was something I wanted to do anyway because I could not fit the hinges on the lid in its fixed position and I wanted to make it 20mm lower. By 7:30 the box was out, the batteries disconnected and removed, the inverter, fuse box, solar charger and mains charger removed and the wiring pushed to the back. Then I could unscrew the floor section and get to the copper pipe. Before working on it I had to drive the van up onto its wedges so that I could crawl underneath and turn the gas off at the tank. Then I had to make sure the pipe was clear of gas before I could cut the pipe, remove the section going through the floor, enlarge the hole, fit the grommet, cut a new piece of pipe and reconnect with a compression elbow joint. By nine the whole job was done.

Good, but it had not been on my list and the next job was a stinker - a very fiddly fitting job which involved making several templates, and innumerable trips to and from the van and the workshop. So it went on - brief stop for lunch  - double espresso and back on a  high. Bad move: working too fast and making mistakes. Belly ache; slowing down, exhaustion but I keep going. Total exhaustion at 5 - stagger to the shower room.

Friday 5 May

It's late and  I'm looking at my route to Denmark in more detail. The first day will get me from Wales to Folkestone or Calais. Could I get from there to Bremen in a day? I'm not good at long drives and can only manage if I break up the day into roughly 2 hour sections, starting the first before breakfast. I look at campsites - prices better than in Britain. If I can't make Bremen I could get to Munster. The direct route from there to Copenhagen involves an expensive ferry crossing - 78 Euros. To avoid the ferry I need to take a big detour north - more driving but the same time and cheaper.

Nine days to go before I leave.