Ice and Fire

The poet W.H. Auden once wrote: 'To me Iceland is sacred soil. Its memory is a constant background to what I am doing. It is a permanent part of my existence. I could say that Iceland is the sun colouring the mountains without being anywhere in sight, even sunk be-yond the horizon ...'. The extraordinary and lasting effect that this small island of 270,000 inhabitants invariably has on its visitors is as enigmatic as the land itself. Those once intoxicated by it are likely to become addicts for life; those who recoil in horror at the bleak lava fields, which surround its airport, may never return.

Iceland is as distant in topographical character, modes of life and attitudes from its Nordic neighbours on the Scandinavian mainland as it is geographically. Isolated far north-west in the North Atlantic, its real neighbours are Greenland and the Arctic ice-cap. Far from the forested mountains of Norway or the flat lakes of Finland, its geologically young landscape is constantly being carved by the activity of ice and fire. Volcanoes, glaciers and 700 years of Danish colonial rule have impoverished the land, but enriched the human spirit.

In its cultural history, Iceland has enjoyed no heritage of court patronage, no interfertilisation with the European Renaissance, Baroque or Enlightenment. Yet, from the first murmurings' of national affirmation in the latter half of the nineteenth century to full independence in 1944, cultural activity has sprung up like the geysers which shoot high from the country's geothermal energy sources just under the earth's crust.

Reykjavik can now boast as many as 60 musical events per month; it has two lively theatres, an opera company and a flourishing and internationally respected film industry. Much Icelandic art articulates the sense of danger felt in living in a country with at least 30 live volcanoes: when one erupted under a glacier in the autumn of 1996, the subsequent flooding swept away roads and bridges to the tune of six million pounds. And, despite a sophisticated system of damage limitation, maverick avalanches can destroy entire settlements.

Stubbornness, a superiority complex which can, in moments of crisis or loss of confidence, quietly veer towards its opposite, and a laconically oblique view of life characterises the typical Icelander, if such a creature exists. A determination to protect and develop a language basically unchanged since the time of the Sagas has led Iceland to coin its own new words for telephone, television, radio and computer. When gas pipes are laid, the homes of elves and trolls are respectfully by-passed.

One such detour is there for those who have eyes to see on the main route from the airport to Reykjavik city centre. Nobody, though, should feel intimidated. Regular buses connect all towns and settlements around the country's main ring-road: the central wilderness, stunning in its landscape of black volcanic desert and brown glacial moraines, can be traversed only for a few weeks in the summer, when the snow has melted but floods have abated. Few rivers there have bridges.

Four-wheel-drive vehicles, careful research, a good radio, and a sense of humour are essential travelling companions - unless, like the first travellers to Iceland, including William Morris and W.H. Auden, a convoy of sturdy Icelandic horses is preferred. And, as the old saying goes: 'If you get lost in an Icelandic forest, just stand up.'