The Golden Circle (Part 3) - Gullfoss, Rain and Þingvellir

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Gullfoss is where the Golden Circle gets its name from, literally meaning ‘Golden Falls’. It is also the furthest inland we can get along this road; Route 35 becomes Route F35 from here, and while I have no idea what the ‘F’ stands for, it basically means if you’re in a minibus with a bunch of other tourists the only way is back, come back another day in a souped up 4x4. As we pulled up onto the car park, the weather looked worse than ever. “I normally give people a good half an hour to look round here, but because of the weather I’ll say 20 minutes”, said Herman. “You’ll be back in ten”.

Herman had a point. We stepped out of the minibus and the howling wind very nearly blew us over, while the rain was turning to ice as at travelled through the air, blowing upwards from the waterfall and causing some genuine pain to our faces. We were determined to make the most of the time here, however, and while John and Tina looked ready to head back to the minibus after a minute or two, Lyndsey followed me up some rickety wooden steps to a better vantage point, and eventually the other two followed. From here we saw the real power of Gullfoss; millions of litres of water flowing happily along a huge river, then suddenly an 11 metre drop quickly followed by a 32 metre drop, then it all disappeared into a huge crevice ready to continue its journey. Eventually John and Tina headed back to the minibus, the wind and the ice too much for them. Lyndsey and I carried on for a while, heading towards the memorial stone in honour of Sigriður Tómasdóttir, who threatened to throw herself off the falls when foreign investors toyed with the idea of turning it into a power station in the early part of the 20th Century. Though tempted at seeing the memorial of Iceland’s original environmental protestor, we realised that everyone else had gone back to the minibus a good while ago and were probably getting annoyed at having to wait for these two wet, adventurous fools. Once back at the minibus, nobody seemed too annoyed, but even Herman seemed amazed that we had endured it for so long.

The final stop on the tour was at Þingvellir, or ‘Parliament Meadows’ in English. Iceland was the first country in the world not to be ruled by some warlord, or son of a warlord, with a stupid name, such as Ivar the Boneless or Ethelred the Unready, instead deciding to get the community together and elect their decision makers, bringing about the world’s first parliament. There isn’t some grand building here where representatives have conned the taxpayer for centuries, just a big meadow, an official stone and some cliffs, which were apparently used to amplify the sound so that the speakers could be heard by the people not paying attention at the back. By the time we got there, the weather had subsided, and though cold and wet, we were able to take a good look around without being battered by the elements. Autumn is apparently the best time to come here, and I have never seen such colours as flowed across the plains here, and will probably never see again. The cameras really didn’t do it justice, not only because it couldn’t reproduce the colours and the detail, but also because the weather had finally taken its toll and the lens wasn’t showing much more than a steamy kaleidoscope any more. As always in Iceland, it’s not just the immediate foreground that catches the eye, and add to the meadows snow covered mountains, high cliffs and the parliament stone, and this is one of few genuinely unique places in the world.

Herman let us roam Þingvellir and arranged to meet us at another car park at the top of the cliffs, safe in the knowledge that we couldn‘t get lost if we followed the paths. Of course, we did get lost, but we assumed we were heading in the right direction because everyone else on the tour was going the same way, and only realised that they were just following us when somebody asked if we were sure that this was the right way. Eventually, we found our way back to Herman, and, this being the end of the tour, we headed back to Reykjavik, entertained by Herman‘s views on Icelandic politics, British and American occupations of the country, the Cod Wars and aluminium smelters. Eventually, the tour dropped us back at the doors of the city hostel around about five o clock, getting on for 9 hours after we left. We were cold and wet, but rather glad that we booked the tour.

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