ICELAND 61 



ruled him with a rod of iron when he was at home. 

 He was, as they say in Scotland, " a man sair 

 hudden doon." 



Long hours spent in chasing refractory ponies, 

 and the conviction of the hollowness of all earthly 

 pleasures save " aqua vitae " (kummell) and tobacco, 

 had given to Jon a solemnity of expression, and 

 oblivious of the fact that suspenders were necessary 

 to keep trousers in their proper position, he was for 

 ever pervading the landscape in a certain wild and 

 buttonless freedom that was wholly repellent to 

 our sense of modesty, or holding these same gar- 

 ments in position with the only hand not tempor- 

 arily engaged a form of dressing that I need 

 hardly say was generally unsuccessful. 



It was late in the afternoon of the 24th before 

 we were ready to start on our long ride, but, time 

 being of no object in Iceland, we soon began to 

 adopt the manners of the country, and to move 

 whenever things were ready, and not when it was 

 time to start. We crossed the lovely fjord in a 

 boat, and Thorgrimmer drove the pack-ponies across 

 the mouth of the river, so we met on the hillside, 

 saddled up and made a start up the mountain. It 

 took some hours to ascend, and then we had a lovely 

 view of the Eyja Fjord and the surrounding hills. 

 Akureyri looked a tiny cluster of wooden huts, and 

 we said good-bye to this last trace of civilisation 

 as we went over the crest into a great barren world 

 of rocks and lava. We stopped once, about seven, 

 for rest and refreshment, and then pushed on to 

 Lyosvatn (the Lake of Light), where we intended 

 to camp. Near the lake was a good piece of turf, 

 so Geoff and I galloped on to choose a suitable spot 



