|Esja, the snow-capped mountain|
which looms over Reykjavík
(home to troll-lady Grýla and her delinquent sons)
I hate whales. As in, a knee-buckling at 'Free Willy' kind of hatred, a passing out during 'Finding Nemo', kind of fear. Yet after bobbing up and down in the Atlantic Ocean or wherever the hell I was today, I have somewhat rapidly discovered that sea sickness is far, FAR worse. To be honest, when your head is submerged somewhere between a paper bag and box of tissues, the last thing you care about is whales. In fact, I really couldn't have cared less if a whole herd of whales went tweeting by in top hats singing the national anthem, waving a giant banner declaring: 'HIII ANNA, WE ARE GIANT SCARY HUMPBACK WHALES'; I just wanted to get off that sodding boat. I mean, lordy me, there were icy-waves crashing over us and American tourists throwing up left, right and centre (first time in my life I'd ever seen them so quiet, in fact). Poor old Cecily had crumbled a long time ago, and was now reduced to sitting motionless in the corner, turning a rather startling shade of pale. We had agreed to go 'Whale Watching', for her birthday (which is today - Happy Birthday, Cec!) and plied ourselves with snúður með karamellu (an Icelandic cake, kind of like a caramel Chelsea bun only MORE HUMONGOUS) and were now regretting the decision considerably. I did feel a tad sorry for the wee scottish lad who admitted, 'oooch, I'm hanging! I've bin' on a four deey bender, I had beer for breeekfast and noow I'm hanging like a fish!' and proceeded to vom over the railings.
|Cecily enjoying her first taste ofsnúður með karamellu,|