The Flippening: The City and the Bush

The northern expanse of Sydney is noted for its steep, hilly terrain, and extensive wilderness. As on the Central Coast and indeed the Illawarra to the south, the rugged topography impeded the region's development, but thankfully preserved its natural environment. Consequently, protected, interlocking conservation zones abound, among them the Ku-ring-gai Chase, Berowra Valley, Garigal and Marramurra National Parks as well as Muogamarra Nature Reserve. They are sliced by freshwater streams, and studded with Aboriginal carvings (if you know where to find them). Black cockatoos screech across the canyons with their mournful, wailing cries, while bush turkeys scratch around the undergrowth. In winter, fog crawls out of deep gullies and cloaks the genteel settlements on the ranges.

Occupying much of that is known as the upper North Shore, the Hornsby Plateau is part of a larger geographical feature, the Sydney Basin, and it includes any number of gorges (for example, the nearby Galston Gorge). The deeply incised landscape creates microclimates, with exposed ridges being more subject to extremes than the sheltered valley sides.

Berowra Creek, on a hot summer day (Australia, 2025)

In pre-colonial times, Berowra Creek is believed to have marked the boundary between the Dharuk and Kuring-gai tribes, and, as such, the surrounding Berowra Valley probably played an important role in ceremonies in which both groups participated. In fact, as the Guide to Elouera Bushland Natural Park reported: "‘Berowra’ is a word in the Dharuk Aboriginal language meaning ‘windy place’, ‘south-west wind’, and ‘place of many winds’. There is speculation as to what the word ‘Berowra’ really meant. Aboriginal languages did not have the sound ‘ow’ as pronounced today..."

With its leafy streets and manicured lawns, Berowra (33 ° 37' S 151 ° 09' E) today has an "old money" feel. You could imagine that many of the kids around here attend private schools, such as Riverview or Pymble Ladies' College, or Asquith Boys High. When they finish high school, they enroll at Macquarie University.

It's obvious that this district is more affluent than the adjoining Central Coast by the price of specials at the local RSL. They actually do offer a "tradies' special" here, but it costs AUS$18, and the patrons who eat it are often not real tradies. They are generally well-spoken, educated and chat about middle-class issues (certainly not the appeal of Pauline Hanson!)

Jet lining up to land at Mascot, as seen outside Club Berowra (Australia, 2025)

Berowra Waters Road leads from the Old Pacific Highway to the creek, which is even more prestigious. Degustation menus are frequently served down there, some of them prepared by Michelin-starred chefs. On the way, you transit through Berowra Heights with a shopping center, pizzeria, and a tavern. Jack Smith established a boatshed at Berowra Waters in 1898. The road was completed in 1900 and extended to Arcadia in 1902.

BEROWRA ATTRACTIONS
Berowra Waters Holidays: Various Locations. Phone: (0405) 565 256. Website: website here.

A suite of exclusive accommodation options is available along Berowra Creek, including studios, cottages, houses and apartments. Many of them have a motorized tinny, kayaks or fishing rods included in the price. You probably need a boat to get around some of these remote stretches of the river. A seaplane might come in handy too!

Club Berowra: 997 Pacific Hwy, Berowra. Phone: (02) 9456 1844. Website: website here.

I was hoping that my Mounties Group card from Wyong RSL might allow me entrance to this venue, opposite the railway station, but unfortunately it wasn't accepted at the door. I had to do a manual sign-in instead, before eventually becoming an official member later in the week. Inside the club is not at all flashy, ambient lighting is dim, and the appointments dated. One evening when I was there, the VB tank went dry, so I had to switch to their house beer. That said, the staff are friendly if a little slow. 

Entering the greater Sydney sprawl, in Nanna's Tesla (Australia, 2024)

Berowra acts as the terminus of the North Shore line, which runs via Hornsby and Chatswood to Central Station. The freeway (M1), meanwhile, blasts through dynamited Hawkesbury sandstone past Mount Colah and Asquith to a fork at Wahroonga. From there, the Pacific Highway proceeds to Sydney via Pymble and Artarmon and the airport. If you keep on the road, which now takes the name of the Cumberland Highway (A28) you will soon reach Normanhurst, 22km northwest of the central business district.

Approaching the Pacific Highway turnoff, on the M1 (Australia, 2024)

Entering Mount Colah, we are now part of the greater suburban Sydney sprawl. Blocks of flats become more frequent, obviously not as gargantuan as those in the outskirts of Tokyo or Beijing, but you can tell the population density is increasing. Living in apartments is not a typical trait of Australian culture, although it might appeal to Koreans or Chinese.

Mount Ku-ring-gai Track, marching to Berowra (Australia, 2026)

If you prefer more indigenous, oldschool forms of transportation, the Great North Road is your highway. Constructed by convicts between 1825 and 1836, it traverses over 260 kilometers on an absurdly roundabout route through thick bushland from Sydney to Newcastle. Mount Ku-ring-gai (sic) Track is but one tiny fragment of this epic route, linking Mount Kuring-gai Station (note the small difference in spelling) with Apple Tree Creek, and then Waratah Bay. The journey to Berowra Station takes 4 hours, passing by Cowan Station.

On the edge of the national park, at Mount Kuring-gai Station (Australia, 2026)

Leaving Mount Kuring-gai Station from the western exit, meanwhile, a hotspot for Aboriginal art is said to be in very close vicinity, although I didn't manage to reach it myself. Despite being just a few hundred meters north of the station, the trip seemingly entails walking treacherously along the highway into the face of oncoming traffic, and I chickened out after the first bend. Hiking the World, however, made it to this site and this is what he recorded:

"We clambered up onto the rocks and saw a mundoe – which is a spirit footprint. Then we saw a male and female figure with a boomerang. I think this represents Baiame and his wife. We explored the area trying not to step on anything and found lots of mundoes. In a drawing in Nathan Tilbury’s book 'Man made the city but god made the bush' I saw there was another wife on the other side of Baiame but was almost impossible to see in the light that I had. The mundoes seemed to lead to Baiame so they were likely his prints as the book suggested."

STAYING IN MOUNT KURING-GAI

Mount Kuring-gai Motel: 705 Pacific Highway, Mount Kuring-gai. Phone: (02) 9457 9393. Booking: book here.

The cactus logo at the entrance suggests that this facility was once a Mexican-themed roadhouse motel which is now turning Oriental. This suspicion is intensified by the Asian stone lanterns placed next to random cacti in the garden. Indeed, the owners appear to be Chinese and although they speak with Australian accents, they proudly display Chinese watercolors and pottery in the foyer.

Like Brookyln Motel where I sojourned last year, the decor in the rooms is on the dark side (possibly it is an 1980s touch, as Jimmy Ray proposed when he viewed their website). Ruby-red and dark timber, that seems to be the vibe. Unlike Brooklyn Motel, some of the paint on the walls is peeling. The view from my door of a transmission tower was hardly inspiring, too.

Hardly a stellar view, but it is what it is (Australia, 2026)

On the plus (light) side, there is a work desk right next to the window which I initially found quite convenient, before realizing that it exposed me to cars with bright beams pulling up outside in the middle of the night. That was too much intimacy, too fast. It was raining on the first evening of my planned two-week outstay and the air-con felt warm and cozy. Paradoxically, the dark and earthy tones created a warm and cozy atmosphere. On subsequent, non-rainy nights, the din from the highway overpowered the white noise of the air-con, and triggered my anxiety. In fact, there was a lot of noise, not just from the highway (B83), but the freeway (M1) too, as well as the railway tracks.

Dark and earthy tones, inside the Mount Kuring-gai Motel (Australia, 2026)

As always, it takes time to adapt to a new home away from home, and I did adapt to the decor, somewhat. Unfortunately, the chronic, incessant traffic noise defeated me. I could deal with it in the daylight hours, but not at midnight, when I was trying to sleep... and those Flare ear plugs only filter out so much. It is also possible that the dark walls were making the room feel more claustrophobic. I never considered claustrophobia as a potential panic trigger before, but there you go. The walls were closing on me. And so it was, with great reluctance, that five days before I was due to check out, I pulled the plug.

Feeling a bit haggard and ragged, on my final night at Mount Kuring-gai Motel (Australia, 2026)

For those undeterred by my obviously "anxious" review and are willing to give the motel a shot, the owners operate a garden restaurant kitchen cooking generic but supposedly excellent Chinese meals, to be delivered to rooms (between 6pm and 7.30pm). Apart from this kitchen, there are evidently no other dining options in the entire suburb. Mount Colah down the highway at least has a McDonald's and a Liquorland barn, and there is another Liquorland and KFC further on, in Asquith. Asquith is home to my psychiatrist Suresh Goripati, and also a prestigious golf course, on Lord Street.

ASQUITH ATTRACTIONS

Asquith Golf Course: 2-46 Lord Street, Mount Colah. Phone: (02) 9477 1266. Website: website here.

One of the best-known golf courses on the North Shore, with a buffet bistro and live bands. Belmont Parade swings by close to the fairways on its way to Bobbin Head, passing the Kalkari Discovery Centre with its kangaroos and wildlife. Bobbin Head also boasts a marina and picnic ground.

South of Asquith Station, there is no doubt that we are in a major city. Almost every piece of land is developed or being developed, and there is no shortage of cafes or somewhere to eat. Peats Ferry Road branches off to the west while the highway continues straight. If you stick to the Pacific Highway (now called Jersey Street North), you will quickly come upon the Hornsby Maintenance Area, a huge railyard housing numerous Sydney trains under repair.

A development with a troubled history: Asquith Rise, near Asquith Station (Australia, 2026)

One train stop south of Asquith is Hornsby Station, accommodating 20,000 passengers per day. Disembarking from the Peats Ferry Road exit, it appears that every second shop or restaurant is Chinese. Meanwhile, every third business is Korean or Vietnamese. There are also a few Nepali restaurants on this road, and an erotic massage parlor or two. Supermarkets sell exotic products like prunella vulgaris and star anise.

Tonyon Chinese supermarket, on Peats Ferry Road, in Hornsby (Australia, 2026)

HORNSBY RESTAURANTS

Cafe Talk: 282 Peats Ferry Road, Hornsby. Phone: (02) 8924 1545. Website: website here.

This is just one of several Nepali restaurants in Hornsby, and can be found on Peats Ferry Road near the station. During my stay at the aforementioned Mount Kuring-gai Motel, I planned to try their Buff Momo, delectable Tibetan style dumplings stuffed with buffalo meat, but unfortunately the venue was closed when I arrived there. I should have checked their website to learn that it opens daily at noon. Nonetheless, next time I am in town I will definitely dine here and along with the dumplings I might explore their other delights, such as a goat kebab style dish known as sekuwa, deep-fried potatoes, thukpa (noodle soup), keema noodles, savory lentil fritters, and even exotic looking beaten rice and tripe meals from Bhutan.

Oh My Pho!: 183 Peats Ferry Road, Hornsby. Phone: (02) 8407 9260. Home Deliveries: deliveries here.

As I was too early for Cafe Talk during my previous visit, I opted to lunch at this large, classic Vietnamese joint on the opposite side of the road. The menu on the table was book-length, which is often a bad sign when it comes to food quality, but my bowl of udon noodles with pork and blood sausage was banging enough, if just a little bland. I was so thrilled to be eating authentic Asian food again, in an authentic Asian environment. Who knows, I might make this place my regular haunt in the future!

Back in Asia, at Oh My Pho! in Hornsby (Australia, 2026)

It is remarkable how in just 11 kilometers, from Berowra to Hornsby, you progress from primeval wilderness to buzzing urbanity. There is involved in this process a dramatic "flippening" of the classic Australian polarity of "the city and the bush". As Hiking the World claimed earlier in this piece, man built the city while nature designed the bush, and for the past 14 years I have been confined to the peripheral backwaters of society, longing for some diversity. It took 14 years, but now I have finally escaped the Central Coast, and Sydney is within reach... in fact it is already conquered!

The real flippening, to be sure, is not the geographical passage from the bush to the city, but rather the cultural transition from scarcity to abundance, the provincial to the metropolitan, the monoculture to multiculturalism. The colonial to the post-colonial: meat pies to phở, McDonald's to O'Bombay. The quarter-acre block to luxury units in the sky. I can spend an afternoon in Bangkok at Doodee King near the Buddhist water pendulum clock in the mall, or follow a virtual Silk Road of cold and spicy noodles at Xi Bay. I could explore the world in miniature, an even more complete miniature world than that encapsulated by Singapore. After the sun goes down, I can resume my Asian dating odyssey at the likes of Hornsby 142. 

It's been altogether too long!

Skogar Treks (Iceland)

The village of Skógar might comprise just a few farms and a museum and some Tolkiensian Hobbit holes poking through the grass, but it has also become a gateway to one of Europe's last great wilderness areas, the huge, threatening Eyjafjallajökull ice cap in south Iceland, as well as the terminus of one of the world's top 10 treks. Not that I have ever trekked it... not yet, anyway. Later this year I will go to Iceland and if I have money and the time, I will definitely go to Skógar. From what I have read online, the name of the village means "forest", so it is probably the former site of a forest, although there don't seem to be many trees there now, they were chopped down centuries ago. I've heard the village is also close to the beautiful waterfall Skógafoss, which presumably means "forest waterfall", and is a major tourist attraction. There is another waterfall close to the ring road called Seljalandsfoss, which I would like to partake as well if I can make it. In the village itself, one can find a museum displaying the evolution of Icelandic houses and technical devices such as old aircraft and cars. The founder of the museum, Þórður Tómasson, is said to like showing guests around and has interesting stories to tell.

Seljalandsfoss, just off the ring road near Skogar in south Iceland.

Since I haven't been to Skógar yet, I have to delve into the blogosphere, to see what the fuss is about. The thing about the Internet, it is almost like travelling, as well as going back in time (if you look at the older sites.) Some of the bloggers you read come across as travellers you might share a room with, and they all are interesting characters. Take the Australian blogger Danny Yee, for example. Danny is just one of the many hikers and trekkers who have arrived in Skógar to take on the cunning walk. He trekked up to Þórsmörk ("Thor's Field"), a waystation on the trip to Landmannalaugar near the Hekla volcano.

Danny wrote of his trekking experience:

The morning was bright and clear. "Fossbuin" was closed, so we could neither shower nor pay for the campsite. We packed everything ready for our hike, but then went to check out the Skógar Folk Museum. This consists of a number of buildings: old farmhouses, many of them with turf walls, a reconstructed church and schoolhouse, a large modern building housing the folk exhibits, and a brand new Technology and Transport Museum. Þordur Tomasson, the curator who inspired the museum, is still going strong, and he performed for us on one of the little organs, singing along, and on a dulcimer.

After checking out the museum and the amazing houses with grass growing on their roofs (just like the Hobbit Holes in The Shire!), Danny and his team trekked on to Þórsmörk. This is actually a short trek by Skógar standards -- the standard walk is a whopping 70+km long, up to Landmanalaugar (although people usually follow the route in reverse, from Landmanalaugar down to Skógar, possibly because it is easier as it is mostly downhill.) If you are interested in reading the accounts of some trekkers who have taken on this trek and won, visit these following sites (eds. note: these are so old they are in the archives now!):

Nir Halman's Landmanalaugar to Skógar Trek
A good web-blog from the days when web-blogs didn't even exist. This site will give you a good introduction to travel in Iceland, especially if you of the pennypinching disposition. But first, allow me to get an anti-Semitic rant off my chest: If you have ever been to Thailand or India you will have probably come across Israeli backpackers and been shocked by their aggressive bargaining tactics. It seems that Israelis have an almost allergic reaction to spending money while they are on holiday, and they will do anything -- anything -- to avoid coughing up the cash. I have even seen them bargaining in fixed price places like Kodak film development clinics (Bangkok), provoking the wrath of both fellow customers and staff. Some restaurants and hotels in Thailand and the subcontinent now refuse to admit Israeli customers for this reason -- to spare themselves the grief of a 3-hour argument about the bill. I haven't seen any "No Israelis Allowed" signs in Iceland yet, but they could start appearing, if the frigid island attracts more visitors of the ilk of Nir Halman.

If you ever wondered what goes on in the mind of an Israeli backpacker, check out Nir's site. This is one of the older Iceland adventure blogs on the Net -- it dates from 2001, and describes a visit Nir and his girlfriend made to Iceland in 1999. I enjoyed reading about how they try to save money by eating in supermarkets or BBQing their meals outside -- I should add that there is a bit of Nir in me, the last time I went to Iceland I was so short of money I was forced to sleep at the airport and hitch a ride to Blue Lagoon. One of the cool things Nir and his girl manage to do while in Iceland, is make the Landmannalaugar to Skógar trek. As Nir writes:

This trek is considered the best (but also the most difficult) in Iceland. It starts in Landmannalaugar, the site of a rather big hot water spring at an altitude of 600m. It is a remote and exposed place in the highlands bordering a big lava field from which Hekla volcano can be seen. This place is obviously popular with the tourists who visit it during the summer time. In the winter time, when a thick layer of snow covers the surroundings, it is left alone for the locals, who come to bath naked in the hot springs. The trek to Skogar is 70km long, and usually takes a week to walk. It is considered unique in the world as it passes through lava fields, volcanoes, hot springs, geysers as well as genuine alpine scenery of eternal glaciers, a high snow-covered mountain-pass and numerous snow fields.

The other great thing about this trek is that the route is lined with well maintained and cozy huts where hikers can stay the night. Payment for accommodation at these huts is, well, optional. And you can assume that your typical Israeli, passing through this beautiful part of the world, will option out of paying if payment is only optional. The loyalty system doesn't work for every nationality, I am afraid. Nir's website is proof of that. One of the classic parts of Nir's adventure happens when they come across a group of Icelandic folks having a BBQ at a popular mushroom picking place en route:

They are eating huge amounts of BBQ meat and freshly grilled potatoes while we eat pasta and mashed potatoes made out of dried potatoes powder. We look at them with eager eyes and then with surprise when we see the amount of leftovers they throw in the garbage cans. We don't understand why they ignore us. They are so many and we are only 4 "poor" tourists. They could have offered us some of their food... Only when they see our mashed potatoes powder they start to talk with us, and offer to us the remaining 3 pieces of the cake that they have eaten. What a pity they didn't talk with us before and offered to us the meat...

I too know what it is like to be a poor tourist in Iceland, forced to subsist on packets of dry noodles from Japan and cans of Asahi Blue, and tins of sardines and old bread. Next time I go to Iceland (June this year) things will be different -- I am going to live like a King. Lamb and roast pork and hotdogs for me every day -- I can hardly wait. Bring on the adventure!

Rowan Castle's Landmanalaugar to Skogar Trek

Rowan Castle visited Iceland in 2002 because he needed to get away from work and reckoned that the Landmanalaugar to Skógar trek would be the perfect place to unburden the stresses of modern life. In the process, he traded the burdens of workaday living for the burden of a 56-pound backpack! On his website Castle wrote:

This route is rated as Iceland's premier walk, and some guidebooks even claim that it is one of the best treks in the World! It starts in the South Central Highlands, amongst the colourful rhyolitic mountains and geothermal vents of Landmanalaugar. These mountains were laid down by volcanic action, and then dramatically eroded to create undulating hills of multi-coloured mineral deposits. As the path loses altitude, it descends out of these hills and crosses a bleak lava desert of black ash, punctuated by pyramidal mountains and raging glacial rivers. At the other side is the wide valley of Thorsmork (Woods of Thor), which has stunning views of two of Icelands huge ice caps - Eyafjallajokul and Myrdalsjokul. The route then climbs out of the valley, along a sharp ridge and crosses the Fimmvorthuhals Pass between the two ice caps. From there, it descends sharply to the North Atlantic coast, finishing at the sixty metre high Skogafoss waterfall at the small settlement of Skogar.

Castle describes the long trek from Landmanalaugar to Skógar in gruelling prose, with blocks of text interspersed by links to his photo gallery. I liked some of the little incidental touches, like the discovery of some little Arctic flowers in a crevice somewhere, their fragile beauty contrasted against the massive glacier stretching for miles and miles into the distance -- the microcosm within the macrocosm. Castle described some mud he had found on his trek thus: "a stream at the bottom (of the ravine) emerged from a perfectly formed tunnel under the ice, but the stream had deposited strange bright orange mineral deposits onto the black ash. The contrasting colours of orange, white and black looked like they belonged to an alien landscape."

That's why I love Iceland -- I just can't get enough of those alien landscapes! And if you want to plunge yourself into one alien landscape after another, go read Rowan Castle's site. Even if it doesn't formally exist any longer!

Straddling Two Worlds

Well, after years of fantasizing about Iceland, I finally found myself there last month, for the first of hopefully many trips. The only trouble was, on the way to Iceland I had stopped off for a few days in Copenhagen in Denmark, and spent almost all of my money in that eccentric, libertarian city. I didn't even have enough money for food, and travelling around Iceland was out of the question. Actually, apart from ripoff youth hostel room (2000 kr. or something like that), I had only the money for the most basic of purchases: a couple of loaves of bread and pieces of cheese for example, a few cans of light Viking beer from the supermarket, some slices of meat. Luckily I had prepared for this scenario by bringing a host of cheap, mostly tasteless items from Japan -- cups of instant noodles for breakfast, a box of green tea sachets which became the gourmet highlight of my holiday. I swear it was the vitamin C from the green tea which kept me going as I gradually starved myself in Iceland, losing a lot of unwelcome weight in my meantime! And as we all should know by now, green tea gets you high!

I was so broke I couldn't even afford to go anywhere once I arrived in Reykjavík, and had to travel everywhere on foot. This was not quite the tragedy that you might imagine because I was so happy to be in Iceland, even striding around Reykjavík was an unearthly experience. Of course I looked at the distant mountains and yearned to be able to reach them, but there were plenty of things to see in walking distance of the youth hostel. Gold boats down at the harbor, funky Nordic houses with primary colored corrugated iron walls and triangular roofs. The strangest sky I have seen in my life, which words can't describe. I was enchanted! Yes, the weather was often terrible. Usually I don't like the wind when it is blowing strong, but in Iceland I could forgive it. The same goes for heavy metal music, which seems to be popular in this North Atlantic nation. In other countries I can't stand it, but in Iceland it seems appropriate. It's the perfect soundtrack for a Viking wasteland.

I am proud to say that I never felt bored during my whole 8-day stay in Iceland, not even when I had to spend all night sleeping out at the airport because I didn't have the money for the youth hostel that night. The only problem is, I walked so much my feet soon developed enormous blisters, which plunged me into agony whenever I took my shoes off. But what was I going to do, hang around the youth hostel all day and recuperate? There was no chance to rest -- I had to push on, walking on the sides of my feet (which is a hard way to get around, especially somewhere like Reykjavík, where everything is so spaced out!) Anyway, I managed to scrape enough money one day for the bus ticket to Þingvellir, the ancient parliament which straddles the European and American continental plates, west of the capital. It felt great to finally get out of the city and see some of the scenery. At Þingvellir it was cold and windy (what else is new? this is Iceland!) I ambled around the big canyon there, formed from the aforementioned American and European plates sliding away from each other, as fast as a fingernail grows -- a gorge of jumbled stones and moss, quite possibly home to fairies (or so the Icelanders would believe). I've never seen so much moss -- it was the kind of moss wonderland I expected to find in Iceland. In some of the more secluded corners that the wind couldn't reach, when the sun peaked out from the clouds, I wished I could lie down upon these moss beds and have a nap.

I was crabwalking my way through one of these meandering gorges, somewhere near the waterfall, and keeping a mental track of the time so I wouldn't miss the bus, when I bumped into a friendly Italian man with graying beard and an impish bent. He was dancing from stone to stone, awed by the surroundings. "This is so wonderful!" he said. "Look at those beautiful rocks over there! Magnificent!"

I should have assumed then and there, by the way that he was prancing from rock to rock, that something was amiss here, and that I was falling in with a fairy. A moss fairy, no less. I should have heard the warning bells. Poor gullible, trust-everybody-me. Little by little, I fell into the trap.

Let me put it this way: I can see now why they always say don't take rides with strangers! The Italian guy (I can't remember his name -- maybe something like Rodolphe) promptly announced, as the wind swept his hair: "Let's go to the spa -- to the Blue Lagoon! There's nothing better than ending your day in the hot waters of the Blue Lagoon. It is the best thing in Iceland. Come on, let's go."

"But I have a ticket for the bus," I said, "and it goes back to Reykjavík soon."

"Forget about the bus," he said. "I have a hire car. I can drive you back to Reykjavík tonight. And besides, I can show you round this corner of Iceland -- it's more than you can see in the bus."

He had a point there, and despite the obvious risks of "riding with strangers", I decided not to be a pussy. From my point of view, it was an offer too good to refuse. I had been forced to challenge Iceland by foot ever since I arrived, and here was this guy offering to drive me around, in his hire car. Besides, I could never have afforded the bus ticket to the Blue Lagoon, which I was interested in seeing. He seemed like a nice guy. Actually Germanic in race, lived near the Austrian border in northern Italy. Ran a record shop, liked Icelandic bands such as Sigur Rós (nice one). Went to Iceland every summer, for the past three years at least. (I can imagine doing the same thing, but next time I want to go there in winter. Just to see the real polar night!) So, I agreed to ride with him. We passed the bus on our way out -- suckers! I thought, looking at the passengers cooped up inside. I had moved a step beyond them -- I was now seeing Iceland by car!

And what a rush it was sitting in the passenger seat with Rodolphe as we sped down the narrow roads being buffeted by winds, with the hills green and strange all around us. This was the Iceland I had been dying to see! As we headed south to the Blue Lagoon, I looked at his hand and wondered: where's the wedding ring? I remembered concluding that he had to be gay. In my naive way, I didn't think that would be a problem. (Not that I have a problem with gay men, mind you -- they just always seem to want to hit on to me! They get the wrong idea about me, when I am just trying to be friendly!)

The terrain immediately surrounding the Blue Lagoon is one of the most forbidding moonscapes I have ever inspected. It is the closest thing I have to an alien world I've encountered, and everything is exotic -- ground, sky, you name it. Out of the fields of lava suddenly pools of bright blue water appear -- the world-famous Blue Lagoon! According to explore-reykjavik.com, the Blue Lagoon is "located in the lunar-like landscape of a lava field... accidentally created by the run-off water from the Svartsengi power station. The reputed health benefits (particularly for skin ailments) of its mineral-rich, geothermal seawater have made it one of the most visited locations in Iceland. The Blue Lagoon (tel: 420 8800; fax: 420 8801; e-mail: lagoon@bluelagoon.is; website: www.bluelagoon.is) is situated on the Reykjanes peninsula, about 50km (30 miles) southwest of the city. Bus 5 leaves Reykjavik's central bus station three times a day, and the journey takes about 40 minutes)."

It was blowing a gale and absolutely freezing when we arrived in the barren, almost godforsaken car park adjoining the lagoon, in Rodolphe's little vehicle. I was out of cash, but thankfully Rodolphe (sugar-daddy style) offered to donate some gold Icelandic coins to help cover the rather lofty entrance fee (1200 kr.). Into the showers where we stripped naked and soaped up before putting on a pair of swimming trunks, and hitting the spa. It was a wonderful and surreal experience, especially after it started hailing, and my head was softly massaged by falling chunks of Arctic ice, while my trunk was churned by the warm current underneath! Fire and ice -- that's the Icelandic polarity.

Rodolphe suggested a spell in the sauna, which I didn't really like, and which should have provided me further confirmation of his sexuality (pardon the stereotypes here). However, he hadn't made a move on me even when we were naked together in the showers, so I figured even if he was gay he a cool gay (rather than the in-your-face aggressive variety I sometimes encountered in Australia.) After a spell in the spa, sweating out toxins, we returned to the lagoon, floating under the stream drifts which were blown this way and that by the relentless wind. We smeared white mud on our faces. I noticed my blistered feet began feeling better -- within the next day or two they were almost completely healed. Remarkable! We stayed right up until closing time at 9pm, as the world turned dreary and cold all around us. I love Icelandic weather which is one reason I want to come back in the winter, and see real desolation! Rodolphe and I drove back to my youth hostel in Reykjavík. It had been a great day, and I wondered how I could match it tomorrow (although the morrow did indeed prove just as memorable, as I met a future lover. But that is another story.)

Oh, I was forgetting -- there was meant to be a punchline here, or least some kind of climax! Well, the punchline is this: Rodolphe was in fact gay! And as we hit the Reykjavík city limits he made his move, and tried to grab my hand. It was touch and go there for a while, but I managed to get out of it with my dignity attached. Not as if I could bail our of the car while we drove through the lava plains, and it would have been lame just to tell him that I wasn't gay. I just handled the situation Japanese style, by not reacting at all. Hoping Rodolphe might pick up the hint. Some of the guys at the youth hostel were horrified when I told them the story later on, once I had escaped his grasp. Shortly before he dropped me off, Rodolphe informed me that he didn't have anywhere to stay for the night, and that he wanted to book something at the hostel. Thankfully the hostel was full (I dodged a bullet there!) Rodolphe said goodbye to me rather crestfallen, got into his car, and drove off looking for another inn. I never saw him again. My skin and hair smelling of sulphur, I went to bed somewhat pleased with how the day had gone... the way I figured it, it was worth taking the risk of riding with Rodolphe to see a part of Iceland I would never have been able to see. Sometimes you have to take a chance -- that's the Vagabondic way! To be honest, despite the experience in the car, I still think Rodolphe is a nice guy. Maybe I will bump into him again on future trips to Iceland -- perhaps in the sauna at the Blue Lagoon!

Regarding to Gay Iceland, I have heard it said: "Although a gay scene does exist in Reykjavík, it is very small. One good place to meet gay men is the sauna at the Vesturbæjarlaug-Vesturbaejar Swimming Pool (Hofsvallagata, IS-101 Reykjavík, phone: 354 551 5004)." If you are that way inclined, you might as well check it out. I don't go for saunas myself, but many guys swear by them...