Monday afternoon, life in a northern village in the month of June. Seeing a white rental car stopping at our village information board. The co-driver gets out of the car, takes a look and a picture of the map, the driver stays inside the vehicle. They head towards the cemetery. Time to turn around, but the car keeps following the small path, a footpath by now, obvious to the eye. At some point, the car finally stops. The driver tries to turn the car around, but can’t manage to do so, close to the cliff. The car slowly moves backwards, meter after meter, the driver rearview mirror-minded (my guess). At the cemetery, the driver turns the white rental car around, follows the village road, uphill, and off they go. Monday afternoon-note on a piece of scribbling paper: Anything wrong with our information board?
Do you see the rectangle at the foot of the mountain, on the other side of our village? That’s the cemetery. The innocuous-looking footpath runs parallel to the shoreline. Around the corner, things get steep alongside the old path to Oyndarfjørður, the village behind the mountain.