We woke up and took a taxi to Öskjuhlíð with a driver named Viktor. We walked the waters edge, stepped on a sandy beach, climbed rocks to photograph Campions. We explored the edge of a runway, catching sight of a Whimbrel and Meadow Pipits. We turned around, tracing our steps along with shore and walking beyond them, finding Redpolls singing in the shrubs, inhaling the scent of wild thyme, watching the busy white-butted Forest Bumble Bees, legs loaded with pollen in massive round green heads of Angelica archangelica. We listened to the whistling wings of snipes that flew high all around us. We walked into a foreign forest full of Sitka Spruce and European Mountain Ash. We emerged at the cemetery, a peaceful place with gentle and kind energy: gravestones etched with traditional names — first name, dads first name’s dottir. We walked up the hill and called a taxi, and encountered again, our driver named Viktor.
Sense of Place 