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Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Summer in Flatey

Flatey, the magic island of Breiðarfjörður, where I spent most of my summers, with my friend Lísa.

I lived for most of the time in the cow house, eating grass, and sleeping with the cows, pure magic. I was not a human, but a cow, at least in my dreams. Unfortunately there are no cows anymore.

This time I went on a sea trip in the rain, the first sea trip I remember, at least on a small rubber boat. Looking for treasures close to the rocks, half way into the Atlantic ocean, the cold ocean. We almost went under in the haunt for beautiful stones and Ígulker. I got a couple for my relic collection against evil spirits.
The pleasure is impossible to describe, with the wind beating you in the face, forcefully and the cold water dribbling down. I was not in this world once we reached land, still rocking, incapable to speak, with electric waves through my body. Wet all the way through, the fresh air, with an unbelievable amount of oxygen. Oh Oh Oh it felt good.

On the last day I went to feed the bastard sheeps, the poor sheeps left behind by their mother, they grabbed the bottle and sucked, like hell. It was fun, it filled me, reminded me of old times, like when I went three years, old escaping my mother in the middle of the night, with only boots and a coat over my pyjamas, in order to be with the cows. They found me thanks to the small foot print in the snow on the other side of the island.
I have decided on the lamb I want for Christmas.

Kríur, the aggressive bird that hoards over the island. There are two psychotic ones, and one attacked me, it hurt. A lot. Blood dribbling down my face. I have hardly experienced an aggression before. Until I suddenly remembered. The trauma. What caused the trauma was probably when I stole the eggs, as a three year old, in order to eat them, fearless, at the time, but it paralysed the adults. Later a few years later, I went to bring back the cows. The cows came back, but not me, shaking under an elve stone, hiding from the birds. Unable to move. This time I brought with me a stick, it helped, but it did not bring out my fear.

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

Molt maca la illa de Flatey. La ovella, també. Tinc un reocrd d'Islàndia molt paradisïac: parlo de 1977.

12:30 PM  
Blogger Yrsa Roca Fannberg said...

Islandia ha cambiat bastant, bastant. En l´illa ja no hi vaces.
Mi animal preferit.

6:11 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

que dius ara????
engar beljur???


10:13 PM  

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