Það er bara þannig/ That's just the way it is (Week 2)

Þetta reddast/ It will all work out OK

Week two ended with an incredible experience of observing the annual autumn horse réttir (muster or roundup) at Skrapatungurétt, about a 20-minute drive from Skagaströnd towards Blönduós. The event is quite an undertaking, as was organising the excursion. There was a lack of detail initially, trying to find online sources, local information, times, and then getting hold of a hire car.

There's a small Hertz outlet in town and I rang to find out what was available, only to have to sit down for a face to face chat that could have been scripted from a comedy skit. I was left with no certainty we'd have a car (the only other car was already booked), and was told I'd get a call on Friday - the day before we were due to head to the réttir.

Having investigated a few other options in other towns, preparing Plans B and C for the weekend, consulting with the other 11 artists, and trying to get more information from our local contacts, eventually by late Wednesday afternoon and another phone call to try and get an answer on the hire car, we secured it...for A$166/day for 2 days. It was a hybrid Kia SUV, which ended up being a very nice car to drive and took only A$33 to refuel. All up it was going to cost each of us about A$40 for the car.

The weather forecast for Saturday was looking grim, with a predicted 6-10mm rain/hour and 11-13 m/s winds from the north. However, I was told that I should only worry when the coloured Icelandic weather map had purple patches on it, which means rain of 16-22mm/hour and storm conditions. By Saturday, there was a purple patch edging close to our vicinity, due around 5pm. I was assured that all would be "Þetta reddast" - it will all work out OK.
I was the chief driver with Carol from Ireland my co-driver if needed. I studied the Google satellite maps the day before based on the directions we'd been given, and did a reccy on the way back from a grog run to Blönduós in the car on Friday afternoon. My only concern was how to cross the river near the yards - not something to be done lightly. It looked doable on Friday. Keep in mind I've only driven on the right-hand side of the road twice in my life (in 1998 and 2016) - and they weren't confident or even successful attempts...just ask my family.

The next challenge was not knowing exactly how many wanted to go. Communicating successfully with a dozen people isn't straight forward as I should have well known. By Saturday afternoon, it was obvious there'd be two trips to get everyone to the site, with 9 people turning up at the first departure time. The timing was tricky, because of the weather and obviously not wanting to miss the action of the horses coming down out of the mountain to the yards.

In summary, it was a full afternoon of driving in freezing cold, horizontal rain. The river had flooded more overnight and after dropping one group off on the 'wrong' side of it, we found another road that all the local traffic were using, that led to the yards but was narrow, potholed gravel with no shoulder. It was slow due to the conditions and the passing traffic - too narrow in places to pass. The second group finally ended up at the yards, waving to the other three across the river. By the time I got back to pick up group one to take them to the other side, they were keen to go home instead - straight to the sauna in our house. In all I spent three hours in the car driving, passing big four-wheel drives with horse floats, riders on horses, tourists driving too fast in rental four-wheel drives, and finally mobs of horses themselves (they didn't come down in one big herd but in groupings driven by the riders). The only time I got out of the car was to check for a suspected flat tyre when the car started to make a thumping sound between points - probably after I was run off the narrow gravel road, picking up a rock or something. Thankfully it wasn't flat and the noise stopped when we got back on the main road. My friend, Debbi was with me, thankfully to keep me calm when I couldn't find anywhere to get the car off the road. I'll admit I was slightly anxious by this stage.

When I pulled off the road to let the horses pass on their way to the yards, I nearly bogged the car. And then, to top it off, on the last run home we almost lost visibility in the storm - the wind became gale force by 5pm. But the 15 minutes I was parked to let the horses pass on the mountain road made my entire day. Everyone but me was soaked to the bone regardless of how waterproof their clothing was, but they all said it was worthwhile, some getting very close to the action and others having conversations with some of the riders. Apparently, some riding clubs come over each year to be part of the event. I didn't get to have those chats or to get close to the horses, this time. I'm hoping I have another opportunity just for me later in the month.

You can see the video I managed to get on my phone from my Goldsmith's Studio Facebook Page.

Það er bara þannig/ That's just the way it is

The start of the week was much more sedate, developing a rhythm in terms of my daily schedule. I wake early - usually between 5.30-6.00am, get out of the house between 7.00-8.00am, depending on what house jobs I'm doing, getting to the studio by no later than 8.15am, or earlier on some days. It's quiet then. Often there's only me, sometimes a couple of us just tapping quietly in our respective corners of what's a very large space with 12 work stations and a central lounge area where we gather to talk about group activities. There's a storeroom, office, kitchen, toilet and a cute little library with a lounge in what looks like either an old storeroom or transition room into the factory floor.

Then there's The Freezer. It was a freezer when the studio used to be a fish factory. The big steel doors are still attached and inside is dark, quiet and just the right temperature even though it's now heated. The studio space gets hot and stuffy with the geothermal heated radiators heaters* going 24/7. The Freezer is quiet and there's a couple of comfy lounges in there, a speaker system and projector to playback on when I need to.

*I've had to start saying "radiator" as no one knows what I mean when I use "heater"...then there's "sweater" (jumper), "trunk" (boot). I'll have to be careful when I get home.

Communication between the artists, who are spread across three houses and three working spaces - the other two spaces being a dance studio and library across the other side of the harbour, happens by email and WhatsApp messages (although not everyone is on WhatsApp). There's been a flurry of communication this week about organising trips away to see and do other things - bus trips to Sauðárkrókur (population 3,000+) for some shopping and sightseeing, the réttir, and field trips to gather material. There's been guided meditation sessions in the village at the gym, a visit to the Museum of Prophecy (to be followed by some fortune-telling sessions), film screenings in The Freezer, and the organisation of a possible guided walk along the sea cliffs with a local when he gets time and the weather clears (that's just how it is here).

The weather calls the shots

Being a weather watcher from way back, I check the weather first thing every morning, again mid-morning, lunch, mid-afternoon and then again that night. That's about how often it changes around here. For much of this week, it's been drizzling rain - sometimes all day, sometimes just in the morning. I need still, preferably dry weather to fly my drone, so I take close interest in the weather. Some days, you just have to say to hell with it and go out in the wind and the wet to clear the head or get some 'wet' material. Luckily, my action camera is waterproof and I've rigged up some protection for my small sound recorder.

Even when the sun does shine, the wind can cut straight through you. Four layers and sometimes five is becoming more normal on a daily basis - something I'm familiar with winters at home. However, with the heating in the houses here - you need to be able to strip down quickly when you come inside. Thermals this week have become a must. I haven't been outside this week without longjohns under my jeans. I haven't done that since my farm prac days at uni when I worked at Georges Plains near Bathurst during the winter.

And to end the week, we have snow. We woke Sunday morning to blue skies and icing sugared mountain tops behind us and across to the Westfjords. Beautiful but very, very cold.

Who am I?

Our co-director and onsite coordinator asked me the other day if anyone had thought I was Icelandic. Apparently, I look Icelandic. Blending right on in. It did happen at the supermarket last week, and became a bit of a joke with the girl serving me who said she'd test my Icelandic next time I came in.

This week, I walked into the Olís service station - a place I'd been told you meet the locals over a coffee, where a grizzled old fellow sitting over a coffee told me I was Irish. He knew that from my colouring even though I was rugged up with several layers, cap on head. Well, he's certainly half right. It led to a conversation about the Irish slaves the early Viking settlers brought to Iceland that has given them Irish ancestry too (just as well I'm up on my early Icelandic history), farming in Australia, my project and the Nes residency. He said he'd come along to our open studio event at the end of the month.

Even the service station attendant joined in the conversation and we got talking about the different cultural meanings attached to ravens - messengers of death, or symbols of memory and thought...depending on your beliefs. When I told him two ravens I'd been looking for at the sea cliffs had flown away from me on my way there, I took it to mean I'd live another day. He laughed and said it could mean all my memories and thoughts were leaving me! OK, Huginn and Muninn - I'm in your world now, please come back.
Ravens (my favourite corvid if you hadn't worked that out by now) are so ingrained in the culture and landscape here. Hrafn (pronounced Hrapn) or "raven" is the prefix to locations and names. "Ravenswood" was the name of the property I grew up on and my high school...purely coincidental. But the non-Indigenous Australian relationship with the birds is fraught. Here, their significance is proudly displayed but it's also a complex relationship, as you'll read in my project blog.

Fundraising for the school

The local high school here only goes to Year 10. After that, the kids have to finish their schooling, be it academic or industry training, Saudarkrokur or Akureyri. At the end of their final year here, they go overseas somewhere, but their families have to fund it. A few of the kids with a dad in tow driving the vehicle with a trailer behind, called into the studio this week to claim our plastic bottles and aluminium cans. I raced up the house with them to rifle through the recycling bins there to contribute what we could, promising more in a few weeks time. I asked where they thought they'd like to go. The jury is still out but Spain and Portugal seem high on the list. I've been told that Icelanders LOVE Spain...for pretty obvious reasons. Who wouldn't want to escape a dark, cold winter?