DAY 1 to 3: ATLANTIC OCEAN - No volts, plenty of diesel

So here we are, peacefully floating over the Atlantic Ocean. Me, my old BMW GSA and 1500 or so passengers and crew all packed on the good ship Norröna, casually drifting towards Iceland. The coffee's terrible but no icebergs in sight so far.

The trip did almost hit the proverbial iceberg though, right at the kickoff, two days ago. When it was time to get on the road, the bike just wouldn't start. It turned out a faulty connection had drained the battery. The connection was fixed easily, but the battery wouldn't charge, or so it seemed. After four hours of fiddling with a rickety adaptor, we finally did charge to victory, with the minutest of watts and volts. I cheered when the bike finally shook to life, and my family with me.

Driven more by adrenalin than sanity, I made a dash for the Danish border, hoping to reach it before nightfall. I couldn't be bothered too much by the ridiculously low speed limits on the Dutch highways. But the German border police were at the ready to catch any transgressing motorists with their shiny turbo Mercedes SLE's - they're on edge since Germany hosted the European football championship. And indeed, they did pull up next to me to check me out, but after a friendly exchange of glances they waived me on. Doing 140 kph isn't going to offend anybody on the autobahn.

I didn't make it to Denmark before nightfall, but I did manage to get as far as Kiel. My place to stay for the night turned out to be a very pleasant little hotel at Laboe, right next to the seashore. Nothing much happening there, except for the wayward motobiker coming in a little late. I rode right up to the beach, sat down in the sand and watched the red sun go down silently over the light-blue and purple waves of the Baltic Sea. The quiet of the north.

Next day I woke up to the drumming of rain on the tin hotel roof. I had another 500 km's to go to Hirtshals, at the northernmost tip of Denmark. Rain showers were lining up all the way. I had to run the gauntlet.

And indeed, the whole morning I was pounded by one rainstorm after another, the only solace provided by a few dry minutes under a bridge. Only to be pounded again by an even more colossal rainstorm, like a mushroom cloud in reverse. At the next tankstop I found a bunch of bikers huddled together close to an electric heater graciously provided by an emphatic Circle K lady. They were all desperately munching on their currywurst rolls, trying to bring up the courage to face another foray into the Niagara falls. I warily joined them.

Finally, after 400+ km's of this, the rain cleared and I was able to enjoy a few hours of relatively calm weather. I used them to reconnaissance Hirtshals, where the ship to Iceland would leave next morning. Again a quiet little seashore town with a nice enough beach. But the day had worn me out, and after a simple evening meal, I found me a couch somewhere and soon fell asleep. I dreamt of Niagara falls.

Early next morning I lined up for the queue of bikes and 4WD's hoping to board the Norröna. Smyril Line is the only operator to provide transportation of vehicles from the continent to Iceland and the Faeröer isles. There was hardly anyone under 30 waiting in line, presumably because the trip to Iceland is prohibitively expensive. It got pretty rawdy there nevertheless, everybody getting ready for their slice of subarctic adventure. It took 4 hours to board, but that slided by easily enough with all the tales of broken engines and exploding tires.

Yes, we are a happy bunch out here on the Atlantic. The ocean's friendly, the drinks not too expensive, and the midnight sun rests lazily on the horizon. She definitely is a good ship, the Norröna. She smells of grease and diesel oil though. I think it's in the coffee as well.

I sleep a short sleep, and dream of weather-beaten wastelands. Ah well. Surely Iceland can't be that bad. Right?

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We're still on the boat and I'm getting somewhat impatient. Sure, the Norröna has all the conveniences one could wish for (and some one would hope to avoid, such as the all-out bingo night). But I'm a rider, not Captain Birdseye.

A relief of sorts is offered by our midway stop at the Færøer islands. The islands have some interesting routes to follow and places to visit - nowadays they're connected by undersea tunnels. Unfortunately we only stopped by for half an hour. I've been offered the possibility to stay over but decided against it, because Iceland's my priority.

After our short stop, we take time to sail through the main channels between the islands. The Færøer islands are basically mountains in the ocean. Their presence is truly majestic, as they rise out of the water like ancient pyramids and sfinxes, quadruple the size. And a thousand times the age. They were sculpted long before a human hand could lay claim to them.

We continue on our way to Iceland through the vast stillness of the northern Atlantic. The low midnight sun shines over the slow waves, turning their greyness into mother of pearl. Not having much need for sleep, I watch the half-light on the horizon come and go, sitting on the upper deck. No ships, no stars, no land, no nothing, just the sound of the waves.

Then, on the horizon, a black, jagged line. Which, during the early hours of morning, turns into snowcapped mountains and deep fjords. When we finally reach the edge of the nearest fjord, the ship springs to live. Now the pace changes quickly. The ship's speakers order everybody to take their luggage to the cargo decks in 5 minutes. Hardly time for coffee. The cargo deck doors are opened and the motorcycle crew quickly disbands and hurries to start up their bikes. We rush out of the ship and into town, leaving the Icelandic customs officers somewhat bedazzled in our wake.

The town in question is Seyðisfjörður (go try and say that over your morning coffee), and is famous for its rainbow street (yes, colours), its art scene and, well, its ferry connection to Europe, But I don't care. I want to make miles. So I run the bike straight out of town and up into the mountains, ahead of the crowd. Sure enough I get to the top in 10 minutes, however the temperature's dropped 20 degrees and there's snow everywhere. Iceland indeed! The road over the pass proves to be quite rough, as is the wind. I'm beginning to regret not finishing my cup of coffee.

Luckily the road goes down as fast as it went up, and I ride somewhat despondedly into the town of Egilsstaðir. It's the sort of town that I particularly like, not much in the way of scenery but very practical and full of cafe's. I duly rush into one to get my black morning oil, and some grease to go with it (in the form of danish pastry). Then the crowd arrives. Well, this seat's taken.

Over my coffee I wonder which road to take next. Will I go and follow the lake shore, which hosts the only significant forest of Iceland? Nah. The mighty Ring Road then? No, too obvious. I finally decide on the F901 instead. The north east of the country, which I'm now in, mostly consists of wilderness. I want to see the interior, the raw volcanic landscapes that are so unique to Iceland. F901 will surely give me a taste of that.

Within an hour or so I'm getting what I asked for, in every sense. As I head out the weather changes. Even before I leave the Ring Road, the high winds start knocking me about and the dust blows in from the south. I have to keep my visor closed, because the dust burns my eyes. The landscape is getting increasingly desolate. And where have all the bikes and cars gone off to?

When I ride up the F901, the road turns to a coarse gravel. Ash mixes in and makes it slippery. I have to fully focus on keeping the bike going in the right direction. The wind keeps pounding me from the left, pushing me off my line but I keep a steady pace to guarantee that there are no mistakes. Dust devils are crossing my path, visibility is limited. When I do get a chance to look around me, it turns out I'm in the middle of a desert. Of ash. The road runs up a hill. The dust burns in my throat. Then the road opens up to an stunning view. Ash mountains everywhere. Broken up lava fields from old eruptions spreading out over the valley. The black is interlaced with red and yellow. And on the horizon the Herðubreið volcano. The 'Queen of Mountains', said to have once exploded under the 4 km thick ice cap of the Holocene and sending ash and fire all the way to India. I've arrived in the Möðrudalur expanse.

I continu on my way, while the wind keeps pounding me, trying to push me off-track. No way brother, I keep on keeping on. After 40 km's or so I spot something green on the horizon. Grassland! And a smattering of ten buildings or so. This must be the Möðrudalur ranch.

Generations of stubborn Icelandic farmers have managed to build up and maintain a sheep ranch amid the ashen wastelands. Nowadays it acts as a gateway to the mountains and deserts to the south, and the compound does not only contain the ranch itself, but also a restaurant, several sorts of accomodation, a petrol station and a church. The church was build in 1949 by the most wellknown of the Möðrudalur farmers, Jon Adalsteinn Stefansson. He was a renaissance man of sorts, which is not uncommon among Icelandic farmers, who have a long tradition of also being artists, writers and whatyounot. He decorated the church with paintings, sang old Icelandic poems and played Bach backwards on the piano. And I've been told he also sneezed a lot, believing it would ensure his good health.

I've decided to stick around for a night or so. How could I not?

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Modrudalur farm hosts all kind of visitors, going both in and out of the highlands. It's a constant coming and going of superjeeps and ADV bikes. The farm cafe fills up with tired and hungry travellers, looking for a short reprieve from the dust and the ash. As I hang out there and watch all the humans being very busy, I spot a family of arctic foxes, the pups peeking out curiously from under the floorboards of the cafe.

The Modrudalur guesthouse is a decent enough affair, but the German family I share it with prove to be quite noisy and not much interested in a good night's sleep. I manage to get in a few hours of rest, but that's all I am going to get. Some black coffee in the morning sorts out the worst of it, but I'm still somewhat groggy. When I walk up to the bike, there's a big fluffy bunny sitting next to it. Or is there? Can't be sure.

Anyhow, I say my goodbyes to Modrudalur farm (maybe I'll return here on my way back) and push off to the north. After a short stop at the tank shack (yes, the farm has it all), I find my way out of the desert and into the Jökulsárgljúfur national park. It consist of a long canyon carved out by the Jökulsá á Fjöllum river, that stretches out over 100 km to the Arctic Sea. The canyon is full of wonders, the main one being the Dettifoss waterfall. It's the biggest in Europe (in water volume) and its thunderous might can hardly be overstated. If the sun comes out, you can see a rainbow forming in the cloud of spray that comes off the Dettifoss. It's a magical event in such a dry moonlike landscape.

The ride through the canyon continues slowly, with every few km's a new sight to be admired. Weird geological formations, caves, alien landscapes. After a few hours I'm pretty tired, so I stop over at a small restaurant in the middle of nowhere. The restaurant is run by a Danish man in his late 50's and his Inuit wife, who must be at least 25 years younger than her husband. He looks rather stoic, she looks somewhat frustrated. Thank you very much, I say as she puts a cup of coffee in front of me. She looks at me mockingly, turns around and walks away laughing. I don't know why, but I laugh as well.

Then it's on to Asbyrgi, where the canyon ends in a big horseshoe shape. There's to be an 'enchanted' forest there, I was told. It turns out to be a low birch woodland, surrounded by canyon walls that protect it from the high winds coming in from the south. It looks pretty enough, but something about it makes me feel uneasy. Maybe it's the high dark walls, maybe it's the strange silence (no birds at all), maybe it's the lack of wind. I leave it behind me swiftly with no regret. It's weird, I haven't felt like that during this trip before or since.

I finally reach the Arctic Sea and follow the coastline further up north. The sea is a magnificent white-blue. I stop by a black beach and let the sand slip through my fingers. White driftwood lies scattered in the surf. Snowcapped mountains linger off in the distance. It's a magnificent vista and I feel I have now fully arrived in Iceland.

After a good 50 km's more I reach my destination for the day, the small harbour town of Kopasker. I will be staying at a guesthouse near the sea. It's a grand house in pre-war Scandinavian style, done up in grey plaster and lovingly refubished to suit 21st century perceptions of 'getting away from it all'. Rather succesfully so, as the enthusiastic entries in the guest book suggest. The landlady lives alone in the house next door, a small white bungalow which seems to have a renovation ongoing for some years now. She kindly hands me the key and informs me that I might be the only resident at the grand house tonight. Which proves to be the case. I cook myself a meal and spend the evening, lounging on the couch, enjoying the view out over the sea and the mountains on the other side of the bay.

Suitably refreshed, I leave the next morning to explore the peninsula of Melrakkaslétta. This empty quarter is the most northern part of the mainland, just 3 km's shy of the Arctic Circle. To commemorate this, they have put up the so-called Arctic Henge, a collection of standing stones. It sits on a flowery hill and is still under construction, but it makes for a welcome distraction from the rather desolate landscape. I take the main gravel road to get there. It turns out to be a rough ride, because the gravel has been recentely renewed. The bike swivels though the ruts made by earlier traffic, but it keeps the line. Phew.

I round off my gravel ride at the town of Raufarhöfn which, in spite of its arctic location, has a bit of a wild west vibe. There's only one saloon in town and I park my iron horse in front of it. I ask the owner for a good meal and he throws something undefinable on a plate, drapes some thick sauce over it and puts some mucky bread on the side. Yeah, I'll eat that, why not. Some locals are glancing at me from a table at the back, while I eat in silence. One comes over and asks where I'm from. From the Netherlands, I reply. What are you doing here, he asks. I'm eating, I reply. That seems good enough for him, and he returns to his table. After I finish the meal, I leave and greet the owner on the way out. He looks at me but doesn't reply. I get on my iron horse and roar my way out of dodge. This town ain't big enough for the both of us.

As I ride through the Melrakkaslétta hills, the road turns and twists all the way back to the south. I follow the route all along the öxarfjörður bay and over the Tjörnes peninsula, going to west now. I'm having a whale of a time. Which is perfect, as I'm heading towards Húsavík, the whale capital of Iceland.

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