Here’s one of the wee pieces I wrote for the Postcards from Iceland exhibition currently on at the Yellow Door in Dumfries:

Dreaming Iceland

For nearly 50 years, Iceland has been my secret travel obsession. I first saw it in 1968 from a very noisy Icelandair propeller plane (ear plugs kindly provided by the stewards as we boarded in Prestwick) as we prepared to land at Keflavik. Well, ‘saw’ is a stretch: there was a blizzard; it was nearly Christmas and I was flying back to the States for the holidays. We were escorted off the plane across a wind-blasted runway. I glanced up at the pilots, who were scraping the ice off the inside of their windscreen. After they had re-fuelled and thawed their fingers, we boarded again and set off for Boston. It felt exciting, heroic, out of this world, yet we could fly there.

 

Over the 60s and 70s, I made that stop-over a few more times but never got further than the concrete shed which served as the terminal then. I suspect I was a little afraid that my fantasy Iceland would outshine the reality.

 

But finally, two years ago, I stopped for 24 hours in Reykavik. The sun shone, the geysirs gushed and the Blue Lagoon bubbled languidly. That night I stood on a lava field somewhere with lots of others and their mobile phones, heads tilted awkwardly, blissing at the Aurora spectacle. It was a tourist’s dream come true.

 

And now I’m going back this autumn, this time for a longer stay, to stand still a little and let the place and the people become themselves to me. Can’t wait.