"Is that a joke?" Hjalti said.
"No," said the man. "The sun is actually worse for the grass. This is the best thing that can happen." Then he excused himself. He had to go to work.
Hjalti turned to the woman. "Who was that strange man?" he asked.
Icelanders have ample opportunity for bathing in the country's many geothermal springs, lagoons and swimming pools.
(Silvia Otte)
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"Oh, him," she said, "he's my husband."
We dressed and left Saudarkrokur, driving along the tip of the fjord and then into a valley. It was as if we'd entered another climate. The sun came out, and the snow had stopped falling. We headed up a gravel road to a small settlement called Holar, with a cathedral, chapel and bell tower. Holar was once an important religious and cultural center -- the bishop of Iceland used to live there until the end of the 18th century -- and it was the site of Iceland's first printing press. Now, it's home to about 60 people and a small agricultural school.
At Holar, we tried to swim at the sundlaug, but the school's headmaster, Skuli Skulisson, explained it was closed for repairs. He suggested that we drive a few miles farther into the valley and take a dip in a natural hot spring called Biskupalaug. "That is the ancient pool where the bishops used to bathe and meditate," he said.
Skuli told us to look for a spot called Reykir on the map -- which meant this would be the third place called Reykir that we would swim in. As we drove, I asked Hjalti why we'd encountered so many of the same place names. He explained that the word reyk simply means "smoke" -- which was how the early Viking settlers would have described the steam they saw rising up from the geothermal hot springs. "Reykjavìk, for instance, literally means 'smoky bay,' " he said.
As we approached Reykir, it was fortunate that we'd traded up for the SUV, because we had to ford a swift stream to get to the bishops' hot spring. Then we approached the edge of a sheep pasture, and Hjalti pointed. "There's steam," he said. We got out and scoured the pasture for Biskupalaug. It took us a few moments to find the hot spring -- it was over a dale and surrounded by laid stones. When we came up close, we were somewhat alarmed: The water had a thick scum of brown algae across the top.
"Remember the mission," Hjalti said, and so we skimmed the algae off the top with a plastic bag. I changed into my wet swimsuit in the 40-degree temperature, as the grazing sheep watched. When I jumped in, I could feel the moss on the rocks below my feet and the hot water bubbling up from between them.
As we soaked -- neither of us in any hurry for the cold, wet run back to the SUV -- I couldn't help but think about the ancient bishops. I imagined one who'd just arrived from Norway in the 12th century and found himself meditating out here in this desolate land. "This is the kind of place that might convince you to believe in God," I said.
Hjalti chuckled and said that Icelanders don't really go to church very much. But a few moments later, he recited some lines from the poet Philip Larkin:
If I were called in
To construct a religion
I should make use of water.
