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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I've decided to hang around in Húsavík for a while. It's a nice little town and I do need a bit of a rest. It also gives me the opportunity to go whale watching. Húsavík is the whaling capital of Iceland, not so much for whale hunting nowadays (though it' still going on), but for boating trips to visit the whales at their feedings grounds in Skjálfandi bay.

I first take a look at the Húsavík Whale Museum, which is a modest affair but informative all the same. Who knew that whales are so-called 'conscious breathers', who have to plan every breath they take, as opposed to us, who do it as unconsciously as we possibly can. And who knew that whale hunting in Iceland nowadays happens for the sole purpose of offering tourists a whale steak at fancy restaurants in Reykjavik? Because Icelanders never really had whale on their menu...

I prefer my whales alive and kicking, so I board the old fishing sloop 'Garðar' and sail out to the other side of the bay. The sun's shining prodigiously, which is lucky, because it brings the bigger whales up to the surface. We spot several white-beaked dolphins and then no less than six humpback whales. They do their routine of coming up for air, hanging around with their backs in the sun and then waiving us goodby with their huge tailfins. We sail around like mad to try and keep up with them, which I'm sure the whales are very much aware of. Just keep 'm busy going in circles, you can hear them think.

After 3 hours on the humpback merry go-round, we return to shore. I ride off with a big smile on my face. It's late already but the sun shows no sign of dimming, so I take my time to get to my next destination. The land is getting greener now, with flowing hills and creeks. Hardly any trees still, though. As I progress further south, I pass several big rivers. The bridges are always quite small and a bit rickety sometimes. Somebody told me that the Icelanders build their bridges in the simplest way possible, so they are quick and cheap to replace. Probably the smartest way to anticipate nature's whims in a land that has so many of them.

I have some difficulty finding my guesthouse for the night, south of Akureyri. But when I do get there, there's a warm welcome. The Euro 24 football final has just started and is showing on a big screen in the living room. I'm cordially invited to sit and watch with the owner and the other guests. Which I do, while still beating the dust of my boots. Soon enough we're all cheering the winning team, though none of us can possibly be described as remotely Spanish. Olé Olé, who cares when there's .

The cheerful mood continues next morning, when everybody is exchanging stories at breakfast. I get into a conversation with two Polish sisters. They live in different countries (both outside Poland) but have met up in Reykjavik to explore Iceland by 4-wheel drive. They've been through the desert and visited the Askja volcano, which is still on my list. They had actually spotted the same artic foxes at Möðrudalur as I had. The tall sister does the talking, the other one concurs, usually. They express some concern about my travelling alone. Thank you for your consideration, ladies.

After a final photo op with some very kind Icelandic motorists, I ride off for a new day of touring around the northern peninsulae. This time it's Tröllaskagi, which has an alpine feel to it. The road follows the arctic coast along the snowcapped mountains. I ride it all the way up to Siglufjörður, where I have a quick lunch at the Torgið bistro. It's a very nice day and I decide to take it easy. I continue my way along the coast and after a while I see a new bay appearing, with a few islands and a small town up ahead. It's Hofsós, which hosts a pretty little church with a blue roof, a small cafe and ... a swimming pool with a view over the bay. I can't resist, jump off the motorcycle and straight into the pool (well, after some obligatory deshabillee). Great stuff and a perfect antidote to all the dusty roads I just had crossed.

Suitably refreshed I finish the day at the village of Holar. Nowadays it's a quiet hamlet with a nice white church and a agricultural school. But it used to be one of the two founding bishoprics (yes, that's an actual word) in Iceland. Established around 1100, it became one of the leading centres of learning and played a vital role in preserving the famed Viking saga's and Norse mythology, like the Edda. Without Holar, the north of Europe would have a much dimmer awareness of its original Germanic culture. The bishopric was destroyed during the Reformation, but a lot of the manuscripts were saved and brought to the mainland. The Icelanders are very much aware of Holar's significance, but it has not stopped its gradual decline into what is now basically a little parish with a horse farm.

I'm sitting outside the village cafe with a nice , brewed by one of the professors at the agricultural school. Looking out over the wide green valley, I wonder how many travellers throughout the ages have enjoyed the same view.

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I spend my whole morning writing and forget to do breakfast. When I finish, I'm feeling a bit queasy. So I head off to the town of Sauðárkrókur, to the local Bakari. Bakeries are truly the traveller's solace in Iceland.They're affordable, they have a very decent selection of bread and pastry and usually they have a bistro or cafe to quietly enjoy some coffee as well. The one in Sauðárkrókur fits the bill. I'm clearly one of the few foreign visitors though, half the village is hanging around my bike.

After that, I follow road nr. 744 through the mountains. The weather's turning and I get my first rain and cold. The going is slow and there's not much to be seen. So I'm happy to reach the town of Blönduós, where I stock up at the local supermarket. Just when I want to ride off again, I spot a small restaurant with an unusual sign in the window. It's the Ethiopian flag. Curious, I go inside and find that it's indeed an Ethiopian restaurant. It has to be the most northern one of its kind. Never one to reject a nice warm meal, I ask for a Diri Wot and get served what must be the best Ethiopian dish I've ever had (and I've had quite a few). Out on the other side of the street, Icelandic kids are happily playing in the outside pool, while it's 8 degrees Celsius and raining.

After I give the restaurant owner a well-earned compliment and tip, I ride off to Þingeyrar, or better Þingeyrakirkja. This tiny village at the end of a dirt road to Húnafjörður bay has interested me, because it's the place where the Christian missionaries first landed in the north of Iceland, around 1100. This is significant because they were intent on ending the last vestige of the old Nordic religion (Thor, Odin etcetera). They founded the monastery in Holar just for this purpose. They weren't particularly succesful though, more about that later.

After a bumpy ride I end up at the church they built after their first landing. Or its third succsessor, to be precise. The first one came to ruin, the next one was burnt down during the reformation. The third one survived because of the effort of a 18th century Danish lawyer, who settled in the area and grew to like it. He furnished the church with a Danish font and a Dutch chancel, to complement the medieval English alabaster altar piece. It made the church very pretty and complete, though there were hardly any church-goers.
I learn all this, because the church guardian tells me. He's a kind young man, can't be more than 17 years old. The church doesn't get many visitors.

Instead, the tourists all go to a strangely shaped rock near the coast called Hvítserkur. It lies at the end of a slippery dirt road, but that doesn't deter the tourist busses coming in. When I visit, it's quite busy with Chinese and Americans. I don't particularly care for the rock. It's not that special and it's not really natural as well, it seems. It should have slid into the sea long ago due to erosion. But a local businessman poured concrete around the base to make sure the tourists would keep coming. Well, they did.

I finish the day at Hotel Gauksmyri. It's part of a farm and they have a sheep dog, which immediately runs up to me. I decide to take him for a walk and end up spending the whole evening out on the hill. When I finally go up to my room, the dog keeps barking, so I promise to come back sometime.

The next day I'm off early to make the most of the coastal ride to Hólmavík. I run into a thick fog almost straightaway though, which stays with me for the next 2 hours. No beautiful vistas this morning. When the mist finally clears, the road turns to gravel, which at first proves to be reasonably easygoing, but then goes uphill in a steep grade. It turns from gravel to mud, and now it gets hairy, because I need grip to make it up the hill. By sticking to the side of the road, where there is still some old gravel left, I make it safely to the top. Downhill turns out to be much more difficult, I'm sliding through the ruts made by earlier traffic. The road has turned into a coarse track of red muck and brown sludge, and on the steep gradient I can hardly control the bike anymore. I'm basically speeding down the mountainside on a 250 kg mud skid with one slider. In the mist...

But miraculously the bike stays up and we slide into the valley without a hitch. When the road normalises again, I reward myself with a small lunch on the beach. I've now entered the Westfjords region, which is even more empty than the eastern deserts. The beach is completely deserted, except for a few black guillemots, birds that are particular to the arctic region. The sea has a beautiful green-blueish sheen and purple shells line the turf. It almost seems like paradise. However, it's cold as hell, the sea weed on the beach gives off a nasty smell, and further down the bay floats a dead seal. Not paradise, but raw nature.

After a few hours I arrive at Hólmavík and sit down at the Riis Cafe. They do a decent pizza here, with salted sheeps cheese, which tastes better than it sounds. I have a few hours to kill before my gueshouse opens its doors, so I visit the Sorcery Museum. As I've said earlier, the north proved hard to christianize and the old Norse religion, with its spells and runes, endured for more than 700 years. During the Reformation, when the Icelandic church turned Lutheran, the new clergy decided that this 'witchcraft' would have to be dealt with harshly. So they burned dozens of 'sorcerers' at the stakes, particularly in the Westfjords. The victims were mainly men who had some kind of (financial) dispute with the clergymen or their families. The Danish government finally put an end to the practice around 1800, mainly because it saw the clergy as competition for local power.

The Sorcery Museum does a good job at explaining all this, but it also makes clear that the old 'sorcery' traditions have persisted, and that spells are still being cast here. Luckily I now know what rune to use to ensure safe travelling and good health.

My guesthouse turns out to be a bit of a disappointment. It's old, run-down and it smells of mould. It's located right next to the fish factory, which doesn't smell but makes a whole lot of noise. The other guests clearly aren't happy as well. I'm spend my evening in my small room, writing away. Outside it has started raining. Don't know any runes for that.

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When I wake up in my wooden box of a room in the guesthouse at Hólmavík, I hear the raindrops falling on the tin roof. It's pouring, so it's best to wait until the rain clears. Which should be around noon, so the Icelandic weather service tells me.

I take my breakfast in the living room downstairs. In Icelandic guesthouses, which constitute the mainstay of my trip because they're still somewhat affordable, the kitchen and living room are shared between the guests (and sometimes the host as well). I have a little talk with the other guests about the weather and places to visit. Everybody agrees the Westfjords are - well, a bit empty. Still, I'm pointed towards Ísafjörður as a nice destination. So I decide to head that way.

The rain doesn't clear at noon, so I ride off with my rain gear on. That proves to be a good call, because it keeps raining for another 150 km's. I ride up into the mountains and the temperature drops to 5 degrees. As I reach the mountain pass, visibility is zero. They say the view is great on sunny days. Then again, they also say that sunny days are quite rare up here...

The weather improves after an hour but only slightly, as I move into the Reykjanes area. Seven fjords line up for me to pass, and it takes me 3 hours to cross them. It's fine by me, because by now the views are definitely great. Looking out over the bay towards the Drangajökull glacier and its tributaries, the snowcapped mountains and blue-misted fjords are a magnificent sight. Losts of wildlife too; I spot several seals and small whales, quite a few eagles and a lot of arctic terns.

The coast is littered with bleached tree trunks, mostly from birch trees. These have drifted in all the way from Siberia, on the arctic sea currents. There used to be so much driftwood that the Viking settlers relied on it to build their ships and houses. Iceland hardly supports any trees itself. Nowadays the inflow of driftwood is much reduced, because the arctic currents are changing as a result of global warming.

Just before Ísafjörður I run into the Arctic Fox Centre, which hosts both a shelter for orphaned foxes and a small museum. The arctic fox is doing reasonably well in the Westfjords, especially in the protected area of Hornstrandir. It was almost hunted to exctinction a century ago, because of the fur-trade. After the 1920's women's fashion changed and hanging a dead fox around your neck was not de rigueur anymore, so the foxes of Iceland survived, if only barely. The Arctic Fox Centre currently holds two orphaned fox pups. They are very sweet, and very keen for attention.

I reach the town of Ísafjörður pretty much drenched after another rain shower. It turns out to a decent stop-over. Ísafjörður has a pretty town center, made up mostly of colorful houses from about a century ago. They're made of corrugated sheet metal, as most Icelandic homes from this time period are. Houses in Iceland used to be mainly built from wood, but this was banned in town centers from 1915 onwards, following great fires in Reykjavik and Akureyri. Corrugated iron proved to be the main alternative, as concrete was still quite expensive then. They definitely made the most of it. I've never seen corrugated sheet houses so well crafted and painted. It almost resembles wood, and rust is uncommon.

I make my way to a local diner. It looks straight out of a Edward Hopper painting or a Tarantino movie. But the menu is distinctly local, being fish in all its conceivable variations. Fish balls, fish mash, fish pies and of course fish burgers. And let's not forget the plokkfisk.

The diner's full of local teenagers, who all eye me with great curiosity and a hint of suspicion from behind their fish delicacies. No, I won't jump on the table and start demanding all their hard-earned krona's at gunpoint. Not this time anyway. I'll just be eating my chicken burger. Which, in this town of fishermen, is a crime by itself, I suppose...

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