Whilst living in a small fishing village in far North Iceland, I met a woman – a writer – who declared Reykjavik was getting far too crowed. So she up sticks and moved here six months ago for peace.
A boy on his tea break from laying concrete paving [compulsory maintenance work for the village during the schools holidays], sat on the door step of a cafe. He told me he receives a small wage for his labour. We didn’t talk about the balaclava.
The mist at the floor of the volcano circled my ankles as I stepped through. A flock of sheep coming out of the fog in front of me, they’re trodden path being my guide.
And the pier seemingly coming into being after the fog cleared at 2am.
I can testify this place is as still as that.