ICELAND 68 



Godafoss we passed over undulating moorlands, 

 where were many Golden Plover and Whimbrel, 

 and now and again we heard the calls of the cock 

 Ptarmigan " jarring " to his mate. 



The Whimbrel should be the Icelandic national 

 crest. In the northern wilds he is absolutely 

 ubiquitous, and he never allows one to forget that 

 he is there. Neither by day nor night do his calls 

 cease. Each pair takes upon itself the duty of 

 escorting the traveller from his beat on to the next. 

 So one is being continuously handed on for days 

 together, and listening to their monotonous and yet 

 not unmusical cry. It was like Mark Twain's 

 jodelling peasant — the first time you heard the 

 call you felt inclined to offer the bird a kroner to 

 do it again, and the next one you still loved 

 to the extent of half a kroner; but after listening 

 for a week to nothing but continuous Whimbrel 

 jodelling you had some difficulty in suppressing 

 your murderous tendencies. Thorgrimmer had 

 once before escorted a traveller to the Skalfandi 

 Laxa and Myvatn, and whilst saying that he was 

 no fisherman, yet he had caught several trout in 

 the river, and all about five pounds. This was a 

 big weight for trout to average, and notwithstanding 

 the fact that our guide was a thoroughly reliable 

 man, I was still inclined to be a bit sceptical about 

 these fish. As soon as we sighted the river I made 

 all haste to put up my trout rod and get something 

 for supper, whilst the others erected the tents and 

 made ready. 



Arrived at the stream, which was a glacier one, 

 the colour of pea-soup, I thought it looked most 

 unpromising. There was, too, a great rush of water, 



