Beer World (part seven) – Lambic adventures in Brugge

Belgium. It is a daunting place, for someone who likes to think that he likes beer. The menus run to hundreds of brews, but it might as well be thousands, millions. And all (with the possible exception of some of the pilsners – take a bow, Stella) will be magnificent. True, not all will be to taste. Personally, I just don’t understand fruit beers. But if you’re going to insist on drinking flavoured beer, it might as well be Kriek.

A weekend in gorgeous Brugge (or Bruges, if you insist) in the snowy chill of February was both a delight and an exercise in restraint. I had decided that if I were not to drown in beer choices, I would have to set some rules. The first rule was easy enough: I was only to drink beers I had not tried before. So while I love Duvel, De Koninck and Grimbergen, all were barred to me, leaving only around 437 beers to try on the extensive menu at Cambrinus.

The next rules were less easy to observe. The ‘only drink local brews’ worked to a point. Local boy, Brugse Zot, is a tasty beer. Far from a lager or a pilsner, it is light and hoppy enough above the malt to be quaffable and quenching.

Its more refined and charming stable-mate, Straffe Hendrick is also brewed in the old city centre, at the Half Moon Brewery. Rich and malty, with a hefty 9% ABV, it is a charmer, one to savour in a brown café with a book. The dark variety certainly, is available at the Dovetail in Clerkenwell, although I haven’t spotted my preferred blond in London yet.

However, after the initial flurry of discovery it became difficult to spot local beers on the menus. Most are organised by style rather than terroir, and even where the locale is specified, my knowledge of Belgian geography is insufficiently developed. After only two attempts, my requests to bar keepers for ‘something local’ sounded horrifically touristy, so I rethought the rules.

Meanwhile, in the Brugs Beertje, another Brugge beer institution, I was directed to the Ranke XX Bitter, a really nice, very bitter Pale Ale. I’d happily sit and drink it all night, anywhere; but I wasn’t anywhere – I was in a temple to Belgian brewing with a sophisticated menu of over 300 brews. Inspired, I decided to focus, like the menu, on styles.

I started with Trappist beer, of course. Belgian Trappists are brewed in one of six remaining  monasteries following this strict branch of the Cistercian order. They are top-fermented and mainly bottle conditioned, and each monastery typically produces a Dubbel and a Tripel variety. The Chimay White is their Tripel (and their blond) beer, and has a sweetness to balance the heft of its 8% abv bitterness.

But for me, the Westmalle Tripel, is a compact explosion of beer loveliness. Lots and lots of hops, and a softness that belies its 9.5% ABV. A single mouthful can be enjoyed for what seems like hours, rolling its creamy complexity around the tongue. Given its strength, it is maybe wise to take it slowly, although the beer goes down all too easily.

Somewhere in a Westmalle haze, I stumbled into the land of Lambic beer. I’ve already mentioned Kriek a cherry-infused staple of Belgian beer bars, and pretty much the archetype of my expectations of Lambic beer. But in a bottle of Boon Oude Geuze, I discovered a whole new world: no fruit but instead the strange sensation of drinking beer champagne, with the easy effervescence and sour biscuit notes of a decent bottle of fizz.

The intricacies of Lambic brewing produce a range of distinct and distinctive beers, aside from the Krieks and other fruit-infused beers I know from London boozing. I stuck with Geuze for a while, and the next day, back in Cambrinus, opted for a bottle of Geuze Girardin 1882. Slightly cloudy, this really did taste of champagne, but with a mouth-puckering sourness (which is much more pleasant than that might sound…)

Then it started to go wrong. Just as I was thinking that I had wandered into a Lambic wonderland, I tried a Lindemans Faro. I’m sure it’s a very fine example of its style, but it was horrifically sweet to my palate: a little like finding yourself with a glass of Lambrini when you were expecting Veuve Clicquot…

Fine, I thought. Not all Lambic beers are created equally; it’s a big world and each to their own. I decided to tighten the rules still further and limit myself to Geuze only. And then the Belle-Vue Gueze arrived.

Not a terrible beer by any means, but simply lacking all distinctiveness: a flabby, pasteurised beer that is instantly forgettable. It was nothing like the real thing, by which I mean the Girardin and especially the Boon Oude Gueze. The Boon will forever be the bench-mark against which all other Geuzes will be judged, and it was this, along with some bottles of Westmalle and Straffe Hendrik, that filled the staining carrier bags I hauled away from the Bier Tempel on the last morning of the trip. Next time, I promised myself, I’d give the red ales a go.

           

The city sparkles

The morning’s cloud, slow and greasy, did not bode well. By lunch time, however, the thick drizzle had melted away; later still, as I crossed London Bridge, weaving through the commuters streaming out of the City and over the river, the West End sat under pinky blue skies. The light to the east was peachy and my target, the Shard, was burnished to a warm apricot.

I have fallen out with people over the Shard. There is a complacent liberal orthodoxy now that the building is an insult to the city, an overbearing one-fingered salute from the rich and privileged, from our callous overlords. Its architecture is ‘bombastic’, ‘intrusive’, ‘ungracious’. Yet these critiques of form never seem far from a railing against the socio-economic context in which that form sits.

I occasionally attempt to point out that the socio-economic foundations of every significant building in the capital are similarly suspect, that to judge St Pancras Station Buildings on the basis of its projection of power, wealth and exclusivity would be similarly negative and similarly pointless. But there is a particular hatred for the Shard, an excessive vitriol from friends who simply don’t like the Shard.

Of course, not liking it is fine. We all make subjective, aesthetic judgements all the time. I personally love the National Theatre and hate the façade of St Pancras Station: since the Eurostar moved in, I have moderated my opinion somewhat, but I still find the building’s profile bombastic and over bearing. An American friend of mine, a proper New York Londonophile, hates the London Eye, which she sees as an arriviste imposition that infantilises a city she loves. I disagree. Horses for courses.

As with the Eye, I find the Shard gracious and elegant. I like the way that it changes our perception of the city, that our understanding of east and west, of the flow of the Thames, is modified, corrected by its presence. Its omnipresence. I love the fact that in any given street in any part of this sprawling metropolis, you can turn a corner and there it is, framed by the familiar street you are on.

So a trip to the top, even at the exorbitant admission price, was something to be savoured. What you get for your £25 is two very speedy lift rides, some of the most highly polished, highly scripted customer service this side of the Atlantic, and then that view.

We’d arrived at 6pm (the 5pm tickets, timed for sunset, had sold out) and the pinkish-orange of the western sky was quickly turning to dusty peach. Dirty contrails smeared the sky, and the lights of the city were coming on.

We moved quickly up from the ‘inside’ viewing gallery to the ‘outside’ gallery on the 72^nd floor. Still enclosed by glass, this level is in amongst the crags of the Shard’s glassy crown, and some of the building’s structure is revealed. Certainly, the irregular angles of the external planes become if not intelligible then certainly manageable towards the apex.

It was getting properly dark, and the internal reflections of the glazing made taking photographs tricky, even with a polarising filter in place. Out to Westminster, the red ring of the London Eye seemed ghostly, almost superimposed, a solar flare, simply a reflection, rather than a real thing. The Palace of Westminster looked puny, insignificant; far beyond it, a thin line of lights signalled the incessant departures from Heathrow. Closer, curious planes passed on their way to City Airport, and I fought the temptation to wave, like a child by the railway tracks.

In the deepening darkness, the greatest city in the world sparkled around us. North across the river, London took on a Bladerunner aspect. The cluster of City towers – the NatWest, the Gherkin, the Heron, as well as the burgeoning Walkie Talkie and Cheesegrater – looked cramped and menacing.

Over in the distant east, the Canary Wharf cluster winked and blinked like stock footage in a film, as if shot from a helicopter. But, looking straight down – to the Tower and City Hall, to London Bridge Station, to Borough Market – you were reminded both of your altitude and of the specificity of your location, of its connectedness: below, at the foot of the tower, tiny trains took commuters back to the suburbs that stretched out into the distance.

As the trains rattled off to Sydenham or Bromley or wherever they were bound, I wondered if their weary cargo, catching a glimpse of the Shard’s slender form, might sense some connection with their city through its needle-point and might, just might, feel like waving to me.

Watching Newcastle United

Instead of a family, I have a city. It is as precious to me as an aunt, as timeless as a grandfather. Its shapes and sounds are etched still into those that remain.

A glimpse of its bridges, arcing over that slow stream, fills me with regret, longing; or simply with a nostalgia for something beyond the reach of memory. It is beautiful to me; it is a thing of pride, a site of unquestioning belonging. A marker of specialness.

It is mine and I am its. But I could not live within its walls: its close familiarity would murder me.

Beer World (part six)

The Reliance in Leeds is a fine place to enjoy a Sunday lunch before heading home. Veggie sausages and mash, some odd mushy peas on the side, and all washed down with the house beer. Reliance Best, brewed for the pub by Acorn Brewery, is a bright, chestnut pint with lots of caramel notes and toasted malt. But it is in no way overpowering or cloying in the way that malty beers sometimes seem to me and, at 3.8% abv, I could imagine downing a few more than the train timetable allowed.

In any case, the Best was much more evocative of Yorkshire than the first pint of the weekend had been. When we walked into the Regent at Chapel Allerton on the Friday night, the giant plasma screens displayed the 5-0 score line, but the pub’s punters were stereotypically stoical about England’s dominance over puny San Marino. A pint and a – relatively – quiet corner to catch up and enjoy the glorious straw colour of Leeds Pale, an old-school pale ale, without the citrus; like Deuchars, but more rounded, easy drinking, light and quaffable if maybe a little too easily forgotten.

The next day we head out to Malham, to walk the well-trodden loop up to Malham Tarn and back. When I was thirteen, all of my friends at school had visited Malham on a geography field trip – I did history, which did not allow for such adventures. Thirty years late, I arrive ready to enjoy the scenery and geology.

We walked up via Janet’s Foss to the gaping mouth of Gordale Scar. Despite the bright blue of the sky, the ground was sodden – there had been a lot of rain, which didn’t bode well for the viability of scrambling up the face of the bottom waterfall. A short look at the rocks, the water, the invisible path through both, and I am decided – the head-cold, the terror, the desire for dry feet; we are not going up through the scar, despite Alex’s enthusiasm.

Back down the gorge to the little bridge and the friendly burger van, then off across the fields. Shadowing a wall, the path above is etched into the steep grass, up to the limestone crags hanging on the skyline. A style, a kissing gate, and we are off and up, following the shortening steps, boot-cut into turf, towards the bright blue skyline.

On the table-top of Malham’s famous limestone pavement, looking back to the south and the sunshine, there are sandwiches and rest. Then there are children, talkative and intrusive in the slow air silence, and we’re ready to go again. Skirting the edge of Gordale Scar, K walking inside the ramshackle wall, safe from the cliff, we amble over sprung turf until we reach the point we would’ve reached had we made it past the rushing waters at the bottom of the Scar. Peering over the edge, back down the sketchy path, K is grateful to be where she already is.

Then we are striding along the broad grassy path between slabs of limestone. Had I been on that field-trip all those year’s ago, I might have been able to describe the geology in terms other than ‘weird’ and ‘sublime’. Half a mile, maybe more, and we reach the road, overshooting at first, losing the step stile in the dry stone confusion. Then the path cuts across the Roman street, which leads off to the east where the map suggests there is an ancient fort, unseen. We continue north westwards, along a gravel track. The wind becomes uncomfortable, a presentiment of winter on the uplands despite the autumn sunshine. The long straight track heads off towards the trees and the glint of water’s dapple.

Malham Tarn is a very large tarn: to me, a tarn is a small reddish-brown patch of water, tucked under the shoulder of a fell, not a small lake beneath a grand house and served by two stone boat-houses. Nor do they drain over a nineteenth century stone race, feeding a broad beck. But such is Malham Tarn, the highest lake in England, and glorious it is under an October sun. A pause by the water’s edge before turning back to complete the loop.

The path leads down through a shallow gorge, a picture perfect location for a prehistoric film or a 1970s episode of Dr Who. Some incongruous Highland cattle punctuate the greenery; their disdainful stares masked behind their ginger fringes. Then the sky opens up above Malham Cove, the deep fissures of the cliff-top pavement home to miniature forests of diffident plants. The views from the lip give onto the rolling lowlands, and to Malham itself. Some walkers have installed themselves with bottles of beer on the cusp, legs dangling over the drop; others, like us, pick their way over the stepping stone surface, while amiable dogs canter carefree, untroubled by vertigo or caution.

Stone steps lead down to the base of the cliffs, in the bow of the cove, and a more manicured path takes us back to the village. Once more on tarmac, we give the Lister Arms a miss (there was a queue at the bar – an actual queue of people, apparently unfamiliar with the etiquette of pubs, standing in a line!) and instead made for the hikers’ bar at the Buck Inn. A pint of Timothy Taylor’s Golden Best, a light mild, all smooth amber tones and soft easy drinking, is the reward before heading back to Leeds.

Around the world in eight houses

The Olympics came to my city, and so did the world: it seemed impolite not to say hello. So, armed with only a camera and an Oyster card, we set off on a marathon of our own. The mission: to visit eight of the national ‘Hospitality Houses’ that have set up shop across London for the duration of the Games.

These Houses act as the national base for most of the competing countries: for their VIPs, their athletes, their media and officials. Many are not open to the public; but some outward-looking countries positively welcome visitors, recognising the value of a high-profile platform from which to promote their countries, their food, their music, and their eccentricities. Some are grand affairs, like the Dutch takeover of Ally Pally in north London; some are ticketed only, like the Czech House at the Business Design Centre in Islington (fronted by a double-decker bus doing press-ups on Upper Street); others still are completely free, including food and (non-alcoholic) drink, such as Bayt Qatar at the IET on Savoy Place, where hospitality goes to another level (the food looked remarkably good); and of course, there is the marvellous Borough of Hackney’s own Hackney House, down on Shoreditch High Street. But these were not among our targets for today

Things started out badly. By the time we’d reached Club France, housed in Old Billingsgate Fishmarket, the queue was stretched along the street. Neither of us could face the wait, failing at our first attempt, so we continued eastwards towards the Tower, thronged with tourists and Olympic visitors wearing or carrying their national signifiers. Always cosmopolitan, today London felt like the meeting place of the entire world. Up on Tower Hill, at Trinity House, was Austria House Tirol, the front terrace of which was open to the public.There was no queue, which immediately increased my admiration for all things Austrian, and with the sun shining, we ate lunch as if at a ski lodge; indeed, skis and snowboard’s littered the scene, and a chair lift seat leaned against Trinity House. Inside a red ‘phone box, there was a ‘yodel phone’; bar staff in lederhosen busied themselves and, had it not been for the thumping Tyrolean Techno, we might have been tempted to linger. But we had a race to run.

Next up were the Danes, who had taken over St Katharine’s Dock, bringing with them stylish furniture, free food (‘100% Danish meat’) and more Lego than you could shake a relay baton at.  The Lego wind turbine was appropriately Danish, but it was the modest plastic rendition of the Olympic park that kept the kids (and me) engrossed.

We had already eaten, so we moved on, taking the DLR to Westferry to find the Deutsches Haus Fan Fest at the Museum of London Docklands. There was good beer and good wine (served in a proper glass no less) as well as pretzels and rye bread and wurst. What’s more, there were tv screens showing the ongoing German/Japanese table tennis battle: actual Germans had showed up in their hundreds to cheer on their women in the ping pong. It was a slick and substantial operation, no entry charge and no queue. Had it been something other on the screens, I would have – again – been tempted to linger over a couple more Weissbiers, but I remained disciplined.

We took the cable car from Germany to Jamaica. The Emirates Air Line, as I suppose we must call it, ferries thousands across from Royal Victoria Docks to North Greenwich and the Dome. The queues were lengthy, but moved quickly enough; the views from the gondola were fantastic, but it too moved quickly, too quickly by far. The Air Line is London’s new London Eye, less an addition to the transport system, more a spectacle for Londoners and tourists, a new perspective on the city (and the City). Despite the queues and the brevity of the crossing, it’s an exhilarating way to cross the river.

After the sophistication of the Germans and the Danes, and the thrill of the ride over the Thames, the descent into the suburban brutality of North Greenwich was unnerving. I hadn’t been here since the thoroughly disappointing production of Damon Albarn’s Monkey; and I hadn’t missed it. The place was thronged with thousands of visitors and hundreds of Games Makers. We had timed it badly, as an event had clearly just finished and the area was filled with people heading for the tube. Getting to Jamaica House, which is inside the Dome and therefore the security cordon, involved a convoluted route around past the tube station and back again. Once inside it became no less manic, and both of us became tetchy. For me, the Dome has become simply an over-packed and over-sized peripheral shopping centre and multiplex; inside it is quite charmless (despite its still stunning exterior). The mood did not improve when we discovered that Jamaica House was full; the prospect of hanging around for a couple of hours did not appeal. Besides we were on a schedule.

The tube whisked us easily to London Bridge, where we struck gold at the House of Switzerland at Glaziers Hall, arriving just in time to see their triathlon winning athlete, Nicola Spirig, being greeted by the crowd and collected Swiss media pack. The excitement of the crowd rubbed off a little and the tribulations of our failure at Jamaica House were forgotten in the swirl of red and white, cooked cheese and beer.

The RV1 (possibly my favourite bus in London) took us to Somerset House, where Casa Brasil has set up camp, taking over the courtyard as well as much of the exhibition space. As the hosts of the next Games in 2016, they are taking this seriously, with live music every night, for the duration. As it was, the performance of Sargento Pimenta (a samba act doing Beatles covers) made everything pleasantly surreal.

By this point we were well into the home straight: only one House was left on our itinerary. Belgian House was scheduled to be open until 2am, and of course the beer would be good. We barrelled along Aldwych and Fleet Street as far as the little alley down to Inner Temple and a little piece of centuries past. We were almost there… but it was full. We stood in the aimless queue for half an hour, waiting to see if they’d release more tickets (it’s £5 in), before we conceded defeat and headed for home, exhausted.

That we finished on failure was a disappointment, but overall I feel proud of our achievement. We failed to get into three of the eight Houses we visited, but when we did succeed, the hospitality of the nations concerned was warm. The quirkiness of the Danes and the Austrians was commendable; the enthusiasm of the Swiss (not a phrase I ever expected to write) was infectious; the grooviness of  Rio was uplifting; and the sheer quality of the Germans was embracing. By the time we got home, to the news of Team GB’s success, we both felt far more Olympic than I ever thought we would.

The Fimmvörðuháls diary

Fimmvörðuháls is a pass between two glaciers (Mýrdalsjökull and Eyjafjallajökull) in southern Iceland. It is also the centre-piece of a 25km walk from Skogar to Thorsmork, now interrupted quite magnificently by the fresh lava fields of the 2010 eruption (yes, that one). It is a classic Icelandic route and each midsummer, hundreds walk the whole trail in one go, under the midnight sun.

I walked it at the end of June 2012, when things were a bit quieter, with a group organised by Utivist. My photos from those couple of days are here; to provide some commentary, I’ve also posted my journal entries from the walk here:

Day One: Skogar to Fimmvörðuháls

Day Two: Fimmvörðuháls to Basar (Thorsmork)

Day Three: Rettarfell

Day One: Skogar to Fimmvörðuháls

I’m at the BSI again. It’s 4.45pm and I’m waiting for the bus to Skogar. It’s been hot and sunny today in Reykjavik, making wandering around the familiar streets even more of a pleasure: it’s a lovely, friendly city that looks so much lovelier in sunshine, like everywhere. But Iceland in the summer has the advantage, on days such as these, of 23 hours of sunshine, broken only by an hour of dusk. It takes some of the urgency out of walking.

I have made myself known to Leifur, the Utivist guide, who has assured me that the bus will arrive soon. But, frankly, sitting in the sunshine, I am in no hurry. But I am nervous again: it is the same anxiety as the last time I waited here with my back pack, before walking the Laugavegurinn, wondering with whom I’ll be spending the next few days…

***

So there are 8 of us, including Leifur the guide: four Icelandic women, a Canadian, and an Icelandic man (without a raincoat, something he may yet regret). We’ve stopped at a service station (so much of this country revolves around its service stations…) for the obligatory coffee stop after rolling through the flat farmland of the southern coastal plain: Hveragerdi and Sellfoss are behind us and the Westman Islands are off in the distance. After the day’s sunshine, the sky has closed in with heavy grey cloud.

I chat with Leifur while he eats an ice cream. He is an air traffic-controller by profession, and guiding for Utivist is a hobby. I mention that I had walked the Laugavegurinn a couple of years before and ever since had wanted to finish it off with this walk. He looks disappointed, then concedes that, maybe, for foreigners, yes; but for an Icelander, these were considered completely separate walks. For a start, an Icelander would always walk south from Landmannalaugur, and north from Skogar (for better views of the waterfalls on the way up), ending both routes in Thorsmork. That they end in the same place does not make them the same walk. I feel chastened.

Onwards, and after a quick stop at Seljalandsfoss, we roll into – for me – new territory and into heavy rain. We are nearing Skogar and the prospect of starting out very wet is a real one. I run a mental stock-take of my waterproofs.

The steep slopes of the mountains we are to cross are closer now, and the strip of coastal plain narrower. The shore is not too distant and, under the slate sky, it is suddenly claustrophobic, despite the vibrant green of the grass and the clumps of yellow flowers that populate it. The near hills are craggier, the higher ones wreathed in cloud. Another river weaves through its broad shale bed and my nervous anticipation is twitching through my head, my shoulders. We are soon for the off.

 ***

We set off from Skogar in the rain, climbing a steep path alongside Skogafoss, at around 8pm. We followed the ravine that feeds the falls, walking trough green Icelandic hills. Countless, striking waterfalls, twenty or more, most of which Leifur could name, indicated the gradient of our ascent. Most of the time it was a fairly steady and even climb, punctuated with the occasional steep section. There was one terrifying scramble along a goat track (to be fair, there were no goats, just confused sheep): the path became simply a faint series of ledges inside the lip of the ravine. No-one paid much attention to the stunning cascade (name unknown) that thundered down across the ravine as we picked our way along.

Somewhere around this time, the vegetation gave way to black ash – a relic of the 2010 eruption – and the sky cleared sufficiently to reveal the top of the offending volcano under its ice cap. The terrain became black and white. On some of the last grass, we stopped by the bridge across the river to eat, rest and refresh our water bottles from the rushing water. We had already had the hut pointed out to us, a small square up on a distant ridge. But this was a cruel hope, as we were still some three hours out.

We crossed the footbridge – I had been dreading the prospect of wading the river ever since it had become clear that we were on the wrong side of it, and had been very pleased to see the bridge: I was wet enough already with the rain – and set off on a new path. The sprinkling of ash became a blanket, covering the remaining moss and the ice banks that should have been snow, making walking springy but tiring.

The path took us past a beautiful fanned waterfall (actually unnamed) before more climbs, more ash and an increasing amount of ice, which was still pebble-dashed with coconut-sized ash bombs from the 2010 eruption. The hut hung tantalisingly close above us on the ridge, but was still an hour away. One last ice field, sloping dangerously into a ghyll; tired legs made it a nervous time. Two of the Icelanders were flagging seriously, but all of us were seriously knackered. We made it up the the final slope to the ridge in time to see the sky pinkening with the almost-dawn.

It is 3am: we set off seven hours ago in the rain and low cloud, and now it is ‘dawn’ (it  never got dark) under a clearing sky. The views are great, both back the way we have come and over the ridge to the next stage, but it is too late and I am too knackered to properly enjoy them.

Others are already sleeping in the hut, and our little group are silently unpacking sleeping bags and whatever else is needed in order to fall into bed and into sleep. I have made my ‘ablutions’ out along the ridge in the chill wind, with what seems like the whole world spread out beneath me. So, it is time to fold myself into my sleeping bag, and take what rest I can before today begins again.

A more complete set of photos is here

Day Two: Fimmvörðuháls to Basar (Thorsmork)

Another sunny morning, after a decidedly damp evening: we’re at the Fimmvörðuháls hut, which sits on a ridge between two glaciers, Mýrdalsjökull and Eyjafjallajökull. I am looking back over the ice and volcanic dust that we crossed last night, exhausted. The sea and the coastal plain are off to the south in the distance; the murmur of the waterfalls that we tracked up here is the only sound. The others are in the hut still.

We arrived at about 3am, the sun just rising from behind the distant peaks to the north. It had been a seven hour slog uphill; a spectacular, arduous walk – one of the hardest day’s (or night’s) walking I’ve ever done. By the end, my legs had just about had enough and crossing the last ice-field (which sloped dangerously into a ravine) was gruelling; the last steep ascent up the black ash to the ridge put a cap on it. Sleep came unsurprisingly easily.

I was glad, after considering doing the walk solo, to have had a guide. Both because Leifur is an interesting character and because – certainly before the staked path on from the footbridge – it would have been easy to get very lost as the route snaked beside gorges and their tributaries.

Some of our group are starting to emerge into the day, cheerfully. It’s almost 10am and we are due to set off soon.

 ***

It’s 4.30pm and I’m sitting in the sun at Basar: it’s like a five star holiday camp compared to Fimmvörðuháls, with families and day trippers wandering around. There are showers and no ash. We got in before 4pm, had some lunch and shook out our gear onto our bunks, in the same hut that I slept in at the end of the Laugavegurinn three years ago – it feels a little like a home-coming. It is very much about doing not very much for the rest of the day, and I certainly feel like I have earned it. I ache in so many places, not least my shoulders: by the end, my pack was feeling very heavy.

We set off at around 10.30am (a leisurely start, but again I think we earned it after our late arrival) and headed a little way eastwards along the ridge before dropping down onto the first of many snow fields. This time at least it was snow, not ice, and it was possible to get a little bite under your boots. Myrdalsjokull was above us, Eyjafjallajökull behind us, and – once we had crested the next, lower ridge – a panoramic view opened up ahead of us. Nearby, still everything was black sand and ash-speckled snow.

Soon the steam plumes from the new lava field were visible, then the lava itself, then the first crater, Magni. We walked on until we had crossed the snow skirt that surrounded it and found ourselves on the still-warm sand. Two of the group decided to forego the climb to the top of what I will insist is the world’s newest mountain, but the rest of us trudged up through the sulphurous steam (which was less rich in the aroma of rotten eggs than in other active geothermal areas, but was still distinctly distinct). Below us the steaming lava field spread away, interrupting forever the previous path. Leifur said that already people had started to cross the field regardless, rather than taking the detour, but to me its craggy, fresh blades looked decidedly uninviting.

At the summit, there were magnificent views down to Thorsmork and back up the route of the Laugavegurinn – I recognised the hooded mountain that had so captivated me three years previously. Below us, was the second, smaller crater, whose lava field stretched down to and over a cliff. Both of these craters appeared before the main show, when the big Eyjafjallajökull crater, under the ice, exploded, throwing up anti-aircraft ash across Europe – today, the glacier just gleamed its innocence above us. I picked up a small, loose rock from the summit: it was still warm; very warm – at least as warm as a charcoal hand warmer. Two years on, at the height of Snowdon, surrounded by snow, in a country where 25°C is very warm for summer at sea level, and the ground was still capable of heating loose stones such that they are uncomfortable to hold. I had a moment of awe and marvel at the power of the thing I was standing on.

We came off the crater to the north: more loose sand and ash, followed by a snow bank, before we rejoined Gunnar and Kristrun further down the trail. We paused on a small crag, from which we let the first of the trail runners pass, before we set about descending a very large and very steep snow bank: its name translates as ‘steep snow slope’. I tottered tentatively down it, grateful for my pole, kicking my heels into the mercifully giving snow, while more trail runners helter-skeltered past me.

At the bottom, the moss was back and then isolated clumps flowers, which multiplied as we descended. We were soon at a small gully, the boundary between the slope and a large plateau, named Morinsheidi, or Morris’s Heath, apparently after an Englishman (we decided that since I’d never heard of an Englishman called Morin – it’s a French name, I think – it must be a corruption of something, and Morris seemed most likely). The other part of the name was also suspect: a flat expanse of moss and rocks is not what springs to mind at the word ‘Heath’…

The gully, complete with lava stacks from an ancient eruption, afforded further views of the lava cascade from 2010, where the molten rock had plunged over a cliff edge and down into the basin of a once deep waterfall. The falls were now only half their original height, crashing down behind the lava that was piled, still steaming, into the ravine. The water re-emerged someway down stream from beneath the new lava, which continued some 300 metres along the river course. My admiration of the view was interrupted by the need to navigate the narrow path across. The descent was made easier by a tethered chain (the first of several that day) and then it was a shallow ridge and a sharp rise.

Then the plateau: rocks and sand and moss. A straight flat path cut across it, until we reached the top of the next descent. I waited there while some of the others continued to the end for the views from the cliff top. I chatted with Leifur, secretly excited by the first appearance of Sea Campion among the clumps of flowers that were now much more common.

The vegetation suddenly became more abundant as the path dropped into something like Alpine grassland, dotted with pink and yellow and purple flowers. It was busier too: families trudged up and runners overtook us on our descent. The path staggered at times but it was largely easy coasting. We met up with Kristrun, who has gone on ahead (she had damaged her leg the previous evening and was still finding the walking tough, so had kept her own steady pace). I went on ahead with her until we came to the last major obstacle: the Kattarhryggur, or Cat’s Spine, a tricky and precipitous ridge above Strakagil. I had been on it before, on my spare day in Basar in 2009, and knew that it was testing of nerves and knees. It didn’t disappoint.

Once past that, there was another rope-assisted corner, then relatively easy coasting until we reached the valley floor of the Krossa and the relative civilisation of the wooded environs of Basar. It was only here that I noticed that the birds had been absent since leaving Skogar. In among the little birch trees were tents and tracks and groups of campers, but we rolled on to the huts and lunch and release from boots and backpacks.

A more complete set of photos is here

Day Three: Rettarfell

It is 9.15am. I have breakfasted on the last of the porridge, which even after just two days has rather lost its charm. I am however on my third cup of coffee and still feel mildly hungover. Last night, abandoning the lacklustre bonfire (it’s an Icelandic ‘thing’, apparently) we found ourselves at a bizarre party hosted by a fitness club camped a little way from the hut – the trail runners and hangers-on. It was much livelier than the tepid bonfire we had left, with much bonhomie.

Two guitarists led a table of about 20 enthusiastic singers, who belted their way imprecisely through a range of classic Icelandic songs, camp fire ditties and a mangled version of Don’t Look Back in Anger. The organisers had provided hundreds of tubes of Pringles, but not booze: everyone had their own odd collection of cans and bottles and wine boxes. The wine boxes in particular were prized possessions. It was a house party in a tent. We shared whatever alcohol we had had the foresight to bring; my puny flask of Dalwhinnie was rather meagre and didn’t last long.

By the time we’d exhausted our supplies, and had realised that the singing was going to get no better, it was midnight. We set out for the hut. Ragnhildur had somehow picked up a can of beer, which the five of us shared as we stumbled back through the gloaming. Gudrun continued to laugh inexplicably at my accent.

 ***

At 10am, a combined group of four, drawn from the Fimmvörðuháls party and the Laugavergurinn group with whom we had shared the hut, set off to climb Rettarfell with Leifur. I was the only one of the Fimmvörðuháls party that actually made it up in time: even the usually sparky Phoenix and Johanna chose to pass.

We set off through the little forest behind the camp and up through the trees. This section was straightforward, just a sequence of earth steps bounded at their lip by birch logs. It was sufficient to raise the heart rate, but no more. It was decidedly domestic.

Then we were on the fell, at a junction of paths above the ‘tree line’. The Rettarfell path led to the right and was swiftly, narrowly, steeply off up the flank of the lower hill, heading to the coll. The path itself was made largely of loose soil and sand, and quite quickly there were signs of earth slips across it. When we came upon a significant one, it was no surprise.

This was a problem – much of the path had fallen away for a few metres. Leifur had assured the others (I hadn’t been consulted) that there were to be no vertiginous sections to the route. Everyone got across fine, but for one of the British women both her nerve and her trust in Leifur were gone. She was now decidedly uneasy about what was to come and about what we were to re-encounter on our descent.

When we reached the coll and looked up to the next and final climb to the summit, there was a bit of discussion about whether she should continue upwards or should wait on the sure, level ground. She gave it a go, but decided better of it about a third of the way up. Her friend accompanied her back down to the coll. And then there were three of us.

The route became more treacherous (or I had become twitchier). The ground was again loose gravel and sand, heavily eroded, and the path zigzagged steeply upwards. The anxiety was contagious and I was getting increasingly nervous about the descent. My head was full of thoughts of Yew Barrow, a small mountain in the Lake District of about the same height, incline and crumbliness: it is the only place I have ever completely frozen on a hill, gripping the grass in white-knuckled terror until the vertigo subsided and I rediscovered the courage to continue the descent on my backside. I was with friends then; this time I was with a stranger and an old-hand mountain guide whose respect I suddenly craved. It was not a time to be quivering and sliding on your arse. I decided it was time to deal with the ghosts of Yew Barrow.

So, to the top. A grassy, rocky, mossy plateau, giving views to the sea (visible even under the hanging cloud – yesterday’s blue skies had deserted us). Between there and Rettarfell was the vast flood plain and broad grey riverbed of the mighty Markarfljot , formed no doubt by some cataclysmic flood, the result of an enormous eruption beneath some ancient glacier. To the north, the last stages of the Laugavegurinn; to the south, yesterday’s route, from the just visible craters, down onto Morinsheidi and along the Kattarhryggur. It unified both walks in a very pleasing way, much as the familiarity of Basar had done.

Eyjafjallajökull hung above us, in that way that glaciers do, and even at a kilometre’s distance it was haunting. I have an awe-struck love for their broken blueness, cracked and dirty, as they emerge over cliff edges. They are beautiful but laced with latent threat, angry and raw.

The trot down was less nervy than expected, just a cautious twenty metres below the top. I zigzagged down the mossy lower slope at something approaching a jog. Even the landslip was unintimidating at the second asking. The rain came, inevitably, and I trotted back to the camp to finish packing and to reflect on another whimsical, wistful end to time spent in south Iceland, trudging through black sand with strangers.

A more complete set of photos is here

Beer World (part five)

When I planned this year’s trip to Iceland, I did not anticipate that it would produce a Beer World post: my previous visits have not been marked by great experiences on that front. In fact, as a vegetarian who likes good beer and wine, Iceland’s charms have always been non-alimentary. The landscape is sublime, the people compelling, but I eat a lot of pizza and drink tinny lager like the inevitable Egils Gull.

A post-walk pint of Egil’s Gull

This particular short pint was sunk on my return to the city after a couple of days walking over the Fimmvorduhals pass (short journal entry to follow). Still with back pack, boots and three day old clothes, I slouched into the very cool and lovely Bankastraeti 5 bar (mercifully, it was too early for the beautiful people of Reykjavik…) and ordered ‘a beer’, in that careless tourist way. Now, I’ve drunk Gull many times, and it’s not getting any better: it is essentially Coors or Labatts. A non-descript, empty-tasting, tinny beer that works – if at all – only when they are very cold and the weather is very hot. Very hot, which let’s face it is inappropriate for Iceland.

The brewer, Egill Skallagrimsson (remember that name, you’ll be seeing it later) produce many Icelandic brews, including Egil’s Polar Beer, which surpasses Gull, but only because it has a wittier name – the contents of the can are equally unsatisfying. The other major brewer, at least in terms of prevalence is Viking, whose basic product – while still unexciting – is at least in the realms of Stella, rather than Coors.

So the first week of the trip was uninspiring, beer-wise. But then, in the Isafjordur in the West Fjords, I was introduced to Viking Classic.

Malty Viking Classic resting in the coolest bar in Isafjordur, West Fjords

It’s not my usual style of choice – all rich, malty notes – but tasty enough. By now, I’d discovered a seam of interesting Icelandic beer. Nothing astounding, but certainly worth drinking, and all mainstream, readily available brews. You just had to ask for something specific, recognising that just about everyone working in a bar in Iceland speaks English remarkably well: you don’t have to simply say slowly, ‘A beer, please’, holding up a finger to indicate quantity.

Alfresco drinking in Stykkisholmur

It was another Viking tipple that had first alerted me to the possibilities. Their Gylltur, malty and fresh, was something of a revelation. The online reviews are snippy, describing it as ‘thin’ and ‘metallic’ – I can only assume that those reviewers had not been on a week-long diet of Gull and Tuborg.

A frankly unsatisfactory way to end a long day

Ah, Tuborg. That reminds me: the other thing to note about Icelandic beer drinking is the repressive rules on alcohol. The price doesn’t bother me so much anymore: a pint is usually about £5 in a bar or restaurant, which is only absurd if you don’t live in London where you could drink more expensive beer every night if you chose to. No, the real bind in Iceland is access. Sure, beer is readily available in bars and the like, but to buy full strength beer to take home (or on a picnic or whatnot) you need to go to the local state-run off-licence, called the Vinbudin. Fine. Except their opening hours are very restricted and very arbitrary – in Holmavik on the Strandir coast, the Vinbudin was open for one hour a day. And it wasn’t always the same hour.

I never actually managed to find a Vinbudin open (and believe me I tried) so was on one occasion reduced to Tuborg Green Light Beer, the only thing available in the Samkaup supermarket in Isafjordur. It wasn’t so bad (at around 2%, it still tasted like beer, a little) but to get drunk you’d have to drink more of them than the human stomach could possibly stand.

Thule beer, with more body than most.

Fortunately, in bars and restaurants, it was becoming clear that there were plenty of options. Another Viking brand, Thule, was pleasantly malty and hoppy, although still little more than a reasonable lager.

Drinking Kaldi lager in the lovely Faktorshus in Isafjordur

Fortunately, from here on, it got good. Very good. First up on my list of really tasty Icelandic beers is Kaldi lager: light, hoppy, and bitter. It’s something of a local favourite (it was highly recommended to me by more than one person) and I’m sure that whenever I ordered it, the barkeeper or waiter smiled a knowing smile and nodded approvingly.

Next… following at Faktorshus with a bottle of chocolately Kaldi dark

At the Faktorshus, a lovely little restaurant in Isafjordur, I followed the lager with a bottle of the Kaldi dark, a rich, chocolately beer, with just enough maltiness. I couldn’t drink many of them (I’m a blond beer sort of man) but I know plenty of people for whom this would be a treat. Along with the food (some of the nicest I’ve had in Iceland) the drinking was going so well that I thought I would take another roll of the dice and try to local moss schnapps (probably the only picture of something other than beer you’ll ever see on a Beer World post). Odd.

Moss infused schnapps – they’re keen on this sort of thing in the West Fjords…

The trip was nearing its end – we had one last destination before returning to Reykjavik and the indulgence of the Blue Lagoon. A long drive over winding, precipitous gravel roads took us to Djupavik, high on the Strandir coast. A former herring station, the settlement is now largely abandonned. But there is a hotel, with ten spartan rooms, and a bar. It stocked Gull and Gylltur and Thule, but two new options were also on offer.

Bjartur Nr. 4 feeling moody in remote Djupavik

The first was Borg Brewery’s Bjartur Nr. 4 and it became almost instantaneously my favourite Icelandic beer (in spite of the reservations of the bartender). Essentially a ‘baby’ Belgian, it evokes Duvel, in an understated way, with an alcohol content that is easy going; floral and citrusy, a hint of hay, but not fruity and without that soapy taste that some citric beers fail to avoid. Fullsome and light in equal measure, and certainly worth hunting out.

A bottle of Boli basking in the sunshine at Borgarnes

The second surprise, here pictured in the sunshine at Borgarnes, was Boli; a little like a heavier, maltier Kronenbourg 1664, but in a good way. The surprise was that it belongs to the Egill Skallagrimsson stable, the home of the ubiquitous Gull. That they are capable of producing something as satisfying as this, but choose not to so often (it is only a little stronger than Gull) defies comprehension. Apparently it’s a new line and one can only hope that it out does its older siblings.

An Iclandic IPA relaxing at the Blue Lagoon

And then the last, discovered in the unlikely environment of the canteen at the Blue Lagoon. Ulfur Nr. 3 is an IPA in the modern style, all citrus zing and airy hoppiness. It would fare well against the slew of contemporary London microbrewery IPAs, but would be simply one of the crowd there. Up to the mark, but not streets ahead. In the Jolly Butchers on Stoke Newington Church Street, it would be perfectly acceptable; among the damp tourists awaiting their coaches to Keflavik, it was outstanding.

Photos from the Fimmvorduhals walk are available here.