The Inland West, Þingvellir, and Reykholt

Massive photo dump. The end result of the trip was a bit dull-A very finely made museum with nothing in it. But we were at Snorri Sturluson's own farm, by his own hotspring, standing outside the cellar where he was murdered. Something to be said for that. And a possible site of the law-rock. It is massive, because I only had the heart to delete so many pictures.

I realize after the fact that Erin, Sara, Bond, Haraldr, and James' behind sort of dominate the few pictures of people here. Apologies to them, if any of them happen to stumble on this-I'm not trying to stalk you any more than is natural. You're just the photogenic ones. There were more pictures of Paul, but I deleted them because he's ugly. The landscape speaks for itself-I would offer captions, but that would take a truly absurd amount of time. The land has the quality of Oregon mountains after clearcut, or any other landscape with all the life stripped from it. If Mars wasn't so red I imagine it would like a bit like the interior of Iceland. But it's lovely, all the same, and makes you feel for the people stuck here with little but their bleating, stinky sheep, their disgruntled Irish slaves with the murderous glint in their eyes, their buried silver and their rocky soil during the long, dark winters, with little to do but try to think up alliterative trios.