Today marks the last day of riding in Iceland. I’ll pass through town and head up into Seyðisfjörður where my ferry arrives early tomorrow morning.
The ride into town is uneventful, and I stop by the campsite to cook a meal and replenish my water. Here I meet a German cyclist about to head to Seyðisfjörður himself. He warns me to bring food for the ferry ride and I warn him about a maniac riding around waking the innocent from their well deserved slumber. Just then a young man comes out of the camp bathrooms clutching a thumb covered in blood soaked tissue paper. He introduces himself and explains that he had just cut himself quite badly while cutting vegetables. It looked real bad. The German gave him some actual bandages to wrap the wound and the three of us chat about our cycling experiences. When I mention that I’ve just come down from Laugerfell the newcomers eyes light up. It was him! He laughed and confirmed that he had tried to get my attention out in the highlands that morning. Considering he was slowly bleeding to death and had just gone out into the remote regions of Iceland without a first aid kit, I figured he was not long for this earth anyhow so I forgave him.
We parted ways and after a quick stop by the store I made my way up to the foot of my last big climb. Seyðisfjörður is a remote fjord on the other side of some pretty steep mountains. It was a hot day today with no clouds, so I stripped down as much as was socially acceptable and heaved my bike up and over the mountain. At the top things got very frosty very quickly. I had packed away my warm clothes so there was nothing to do except coast down the other side before I froze to death.
The valley to the fjord was picturesque, as was the town itself. The campsite, however was a hideous thing, packed to the tilt with all manner of vehicles and tents. The ferry had space for maybe 200 caravans, and they were all parked here ready for tomorrow. I found the German and after a quick set up camp for an early night.
I awoke at some ungodly hour to find that the sky had turned to flames. The dark clouds covering the valley were being lit up by the crazy sunrise/sunset amalgamation only possible here near the Arctic.
I sighed and ran back to my tent to get my camera gear and spent the early hours of the morning shooting before retiring to bed as it started to rain.
The next morning the rain had done its work and I slowly peeled into my waterproofs and out into the downpour. I didn’t want to leave the wet tent packed inside the ferry for a day, so I loosely wrapped it onto the back rack, and rode down to the ferry check in. I was placed in the motorbike queue along with a few other cyclists. I don’t want to brag, but standing there next to a small army of bikers wearing bulky insulated kelvar armour, while I’m wearing my handmade knit gloves and beanie (<3 Katie), feet clad with socks and sandals, I’m pretty sure anyone would recognize that I was the coolest guy in the street. And only partly because I was slowly but surely freezing over.
As it turns out, the bikers in front of me were Aussies, and we got chatting about our plans for the Faroes as the ferry let literally every single caravan, truck and car get on before giving the poor soaked bikers and me a go.
We were eventually allowed to roll up into the bowels of the boat, were the cyclists were directed to kind of prop their bikes against the side of the ship and hope for the best. I unfolded my soaked tent and draped it over the bike before doing the best damned prop job you’ve ever seen. The boat would have to tip over before the bike was going anywhere.
I dumped my belongings in my cramped 6 person couchette and settled in for a long ride to the Faroes.