The ceiling of the turf-roofed Litlibær, or Little Farm, was so low my hair brushed against it. But when I sat down in the drawing room, sipping a hot cup of coffee and looking out the small, multi-paned window to the fjord and snow-flecked mountains beyond, I felt quite at home. I chatted with the sixteen-year old great-great grandson of the man who had built the original farm, and who now helped greet visitors from far flung corners of the globe curious to see what an old Icelandic farmhouse, built on an isolated fjord in an isolated corner of an isolated country, was like. I smiled as he explained his plans to travel the world – Canada to the US and down through Latin America, then over to South Africa and northwards; what a much more
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