The Ring Road. It’s one of the most popular things for tourists to do in Iceland. Otherwise known as Route 1, The Ring Road is a 832 mile stretch of highway that – you guessed it – goes around Iceland in a circle. Many tourists have done it, with a car and barely any sleep, in seven days.
As a Iceland enthusiasts and adventurers, we had no choice but to attempt The Ring Road. Since we opted not to rent a car, partially because of cost, partially because of excitement, we had nothing to rely on but the kindness of strangers and the bus schedule. We were pretty pumped about that.
Nearly two weeks later, that blind optimism brought me to the side of a road in Egilsstaðir, Eastern Iceland. The biting Icelandic wind nibbled on my nose and ears. It blew through my thin leggings, the only clean pair of pants I had. I held up a sign that simply read, “Akureyri”.
Cars sped past. Some drivers appeared sympathetic, some ignored us completely. Some even seemed entertained, as if I was an adorable four year old with spaghetti sauce all over my face. Mike stood across the road, holding a sign that read “Hofn”, a town about an hour South of where we currently were.
I was cold, tired, and frustrated. We were willing to go anywhere, hence the two signs. For the second time during our three weeks in Iceland, I wanted to give up on the kindness of strangers. I wanted a warm bed, my best friend Elizabeth, and hell, maybe a beer. Little did I know, two out of three of those requests were about to be granted.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves….
– Two Weeks Prior –
Mike and I started the Ring Road adventure with the best intentions. We left from Reykavik, made our way up the east coast via bus to Stykkishólmur. Our trip to Stykkishólmur was initially to check out the Harbour Hostel, a brand new hostel recommended to me by my friend Steinar. It just so happened that it was also the location of a ferry that went to the Westfjords, the most Northern place in Iceland.
Stykkishólmur was a small, cozy town overlooking a vibrant harbor. The town was like a wonderfully warm and intimate secret. Too good to keep to yourself, but you’re tempted to. Of course, that risks the world finding out about this perfect place, and immediately flocking to it.
The streets don’t clatter or honk, only hum, with an occasional slow moving car or bike. The boats in the harbor slowly rock back and forth, like an old wooden rocking chair. Back and forth, gently.
It’s like time doesn’t exist. Troubles aren’t real. I saw myself, as a wrinkled old woman, sitting in one of the cozy homes, enjoying a cup of hot te’, pad and paper in hand, scribbling down thoughts and memories of her very fulfilling life.
We joked that it was going to be the location for the next Nicholas Sparks movie.
The Harbour Hostel was idyllic. Like most modern Icelandic hostels I’ve encountered, the minimalism is near perfection. White painted wooden panels. Light wood accents. Crisp, brilliantly white sheets and comforters.
It was reminiscent of a small inn in Southhampton, with one exception: it was better. Effortless. Classic.
We stayed in one of the dorms, which was really quiet and secluded. For far, we’ve had decent luck with finding quiet accommodations – I’ve heard that hostels can be hit or miss. This particular one was really clean, in a great location, and just opened in May, so everything is still pretty new.
We only had one night there, then it was off to the Westfjords. We departed on the ferry the next morning (within walking distance of the hostel). We traveled across the freezing cold Breidafjordur Bay to Brjanslaekur, where we hitchhiked to nearby Patreksfjörður.
Patreksfjörður, surprise surprise, was another idyllic seaside town. We crashed at a local guesthouse, Stekkaból (sounds like steak bowl), where Mike made friends with some friendly Italians. The same Italian couple gave us a ride the next morning to Látrabjarg, where we encountered some adorable puffins.
We hitchhiked again back to Patreksfjörður, where caught a bus to Ísafjörður (tired of fjörðurs yet?). We camped in Ísafjörður, got some work done, and then departed on another hitchhiking adventure. This time, we didn’t have much luck.
We waited for about two hours in the middle of nowhere before getting picked up. Some friendly Austrian students, who has driven past two hours prior, came back up the same road and felt bad for us. We piled into their trunk and headed to their destination, a small guesthouse in Borðeyri. The place looked right out of Hitchcock’s The Birds.
Exhausted, Mike and I got sleeping bag accommodations at the hostel and passed out. Although they offered, we declined the Austrians offer to ride with them to Akureyri. Instead, we hit the road again, intending to hitch again.
That was the first time I felt hitching was wearing on me. I stood besides Mike on a near abandoned, quiet stretch of highway, feeling as if I hadn’t slept in days. It was freezing, I was starving, and no one seemed willing to pick up a pair of tourists – as pathetic I’m sure, that we looked.
But even on the side of that road, I felt more in-tune with that life had intended for me than I ever have.