Advice on Iceland

Everyone I know (slight exaggeration) seems to be heading for Iceland these days, so I thought I’d gather the advice in one place so I wouldn’t have to repeat it! My husband P.J. and I spent 6 days in Western Iceland at the end of August 2016, so this is based on our experiences there and as usual, YYMV.



Yes, it is amazing. If in doubt, see this video.

Yes, it is expensive. You can save some money by using AirBnB and going self-catering (self-catering is often the only option in rural areas anyway).

There’s very little public transport outside Reykjavik, so it’s worth hiring your own car. We hired an ancient Toyota Yaris from SAD Cars. It got us where we needed, except it needed a lot of encouragement to get up hills and a lot of control getting down them!

Some good advice on driving in Iceland in this video.

If you don’t fancy driving, a number of tour buses go from Reykjavik to most of the main attractions.

Credit cards are accepted pretty much everywhere, but they usually require chip-and-pin.

Icelanders are generally friendly and open-minded, but there are a few tourist faux pas you should avoid.

Weather in summer is not dissimilar to Ireland, except a bit colder and drier. We were lucky enough to avoid rain and it was mostly clear and sunny; the temperature reached 18C one day, but was mostly around 12C. Wear layers.

The tap water is perfectly safe to drink.

The hot water will sometimes smell of sulfur, but that’s just because it’s geothermally heated so it’s quite safe (and environmentally friendly).

Golden Circle


Includes Thingvellir (tectonic plate boundaries and ancient parliament), Geysir (the original), and Gullfoss (impressive waterfall). Very popular, but for good reason and definitely worth doing.



Good stop-off on the way to the Snaefellnes Peninsula.

We had a lovely lunch in Blómasetrið cafe and flower shop.

The Settlement Museum is interesting enough but predictably pricey and not as good as the Reykjavik one. If it’s a nice day you could skip it for a stroll along the shore.

Snæfellsnes Peninsula


Probably the highlight of the trip. Plenty of unworldly scenery and hikes through lava fields. It’s also a stopping point for many migrating birds, but we were at the wrong time of year for that.

Like most of Iceland, Snæfellsnes is sparsely populated and there aren’t many services. It’s a good idea to fill up on petrol and stock up on food before you hit the peninsula.

I can highly recommend Gunnar’s farmhouse at Öxl for accomodation (self-catering).

The supermarket at Olafsvik closes at 6pm, although the nice cashier let me in a few minutes after that.

The information centre for the Snæfellsjökull National Park is very helpful. Maps for hiking trails are 600kr and worth getting. Also has probably the only public toilet in the park!



Nice place, but more like a provincial town than a capital city. Most Icelanders (228k out of 320k) live in or around Reykjavik, although these days you’re likely surrounded by tourists.

Must-sees are the Hallgrímskirkja Church and the Settlement Museum.

We skipped the Blue Lagoon and went to the local hot baths, which were a fraction of the price and probably just as nice.

The Call of the Running Tide

I wrote this short story some years ago, and it was originally published in Crannog Summer 2012. Five years later, I think it deserves another outing.

All photos are from Flickr and licensed under Creative Commons.

The first two keys don’t work, but the third turns in the lock with a clunk, and I lift up the lid of the chest. My breath catches at the sight of the pelt, and my quivering hand strokes the soft grey fur.

Downstairs, the front door opens. I hastily lock the chest and shove the keys into my jeans, brushing dust from my knees. John is already in the kitchen, checking the vegetables as they bubble in the pot.

“We’ve had an offer for the house,” he says.

My heart sinks. I open the window to hear a wash of wave and wind rush up towards me, and to taste the brine on my tongue.

“I don’t want to move,” I say.

“We’ve talked about this already.”

“And you never listen. I’ve told you I can’t live inland.” With one deep breath, a waft of salty air enters my nostrils.

“Can’t we just eat our dinner?” he snaps.

He sits down and I take the sea trout from beneath the grill, setting it out on two plates. His grey-blue eyes glare, those eyes that I used to think were the colour of the sea. Now they seem more like the colour of the shore, of foam on shale. I close the window and slip into the chair opposite him.

“Is this trout fresh?” John takes a bite.

“I bought it yesterday from the fishmonger by the pier.” It would taste good, but for the bitterness in my mouth.

“You went out to sea, didn’t you?” It is an accusation.


Yesterday, as usual, I went to the pier. The breeze lifted the hairs on my arm and the smell of the sea made my blood rush. The bay was sheltered and the wind low; the waves were child-sized, breaking with a fizzle of foam that spread like fingers and sunk slowly into the sand. Spring had not yet given way to summer, so there were few tourists around. A young boy clambered down the rocks, his trousers rolled to his knees, carrying a bucket to collect shells. The Bed-and-Breakfast signs advertised vacancies, and Fergus advertised his wildlife trips: STELLA MARIS BOAT TOURS. BIRDS AND OTHER ASSORTED SEALIFE.

Fergus winked at me. A few white hairs escaped from his peaked cap; his cheeks were threaded with red lines and slapped with sea spray. The Stella Maris bobbed in the water, orange fenders bumping the harbour wall.

“You’ve passed here many times, young lady, and I know you want to come out on the boat.”

“I’ve no money.”

“Ach, there’s always room for one extra.”

I followed his nod across the plank to the boat, where a group of noisy Italian teenagers had boarded and an American couple consulted their guidebook. Fergus’s son pulled in the fenders and the engine started to churn up the water. Seagulls shimmied their wings and squawked as they flew off.

As the Stella Maris sailed out from harbour, she fell into a smoother rhythm: throbbing forward, rebounding up, and bouncing down again. The sun was bright, but any heat was blown off by the wind. A teenage girl held on to the edge, her boyfriend with his arm around her waist as he whispered something Italian in her ear, his face lost in her windblown hair.

We passed Heart Rock, where the cormorants nested and the seals stretched out, sun sparkling on their damp coats – mostly grey, some with brown dappling. One female shook her back flippers and pushed herself, pregnant belly and all, towards the water. One male, with a russet tinge to his coat, lifted his head and let out a bark as his black eyes caught mine. As the boat moved away from the seal colony, I leaned against the rail and stifled a low moan.


We go to the pub after dinner, as we often do on a Friday. Sullivan’s is busy, although not as full as it will be later in the summer. The smokers gather around the patio heaters outside, and inside the American couple from the boat are still tracing lines in their guidebook.

By the mock fireplace, under the framed swordfish, a man with russet hair plays a guitar. I sit next to him when John goes to the bar. The strumming hands are dappled with soft freckles, and the chords resonate under my skin.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

He stops playing, but the music is still inside me.

“You should come home,” he says.

“I can’t.” My throat hurts.

“He won’t let you?”

My nod is so tiny, I don’t know if he sees.

John places the drinks in front of us and sits close. One hand goes around my waist, and the other is stretched towards the guitar player, so I am pinned as the two men shake hands.

“Are you two friends?” John asks.

The guitar player says nothing, but resumes playing. From over his pint John glowers at him, and then at me, and I wonder what happened to the man I once loved.

How many years since I first met John? It was the same season as now: late April or early May. I saw him from the beach before he saw me, and on his second glance he nearly doubled back in shock.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I guess he wasn’t expecting to meet a naked woman, gleaming in the moonlight; round of breast, belly and hips.

“I’m from the sea,” I told him.

He laughed. “The sea brings in some fine treasures.”

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, fastening two buttons in front of my chest. We both sat on the rocks, and I tucked the ends of his jacket around my knees, the arms hanging down like flippers.

He stroked my hair. How gentle he was! For the first time, I longed for someone of the land.

“You went for a swim this early in the year?” he said.

“I don’t mind the cold. I had this to keep warm.” I patted the seal pelt that lay on the rock beside me.

He laughed again. “What are you? A mermaid? A sea nymph? A selkie?”

He leaned forward and his lips met mine, his hands caressing my neck. How strange it felt, bare skin against bare skin.

“I’ve heard about selkies.” His hands reached beneath his jacket and around my waist. “Half-human, half-seal. Is it true that if you take their sealskins, they’ll be yours forever?”

How warm his lips were! My blood rushed so fast that my heartbeat drummed any sense from my head.

“It’s true. But I’m yours now because I choose to be.”

He unbuttoned the jacket and I peeled off his clothes. He laid me down on the sand and after our coupling we were washed clean by a wave. Then we curled up together like two pups, but the moonlight cooled our bodies and I shivered.

“Where did you leave your clothes?” he asked.

His arm was on my shoulder as we walked over towards the rock. I reached for the sealskin.

“No, I meant your real clothes,” he said. “You can stop playing now.”


He frowned, the colour draining from his cheeks.

“Oh, come on! You’re going to tell me now that you’re a real selkie?”

I lifted one eyebrow and smiled.

“Are you going to swim away and leave me?” he asked.

There was a sparkle in his eye that made me want to stay a little longer. I took my sealskin and draped it over his arms, where it dangled awkwardly.

“I don’t have to leave yet. But when it’s time, you have to let me go.”

“I will,” he said.

I believe he meant it, then.


A full moon lights our way home from Sullivan’s, but the wind smells of approaching rain. John stomps ahead, and when I dawdle he grabs my arm. His fingers dig into my flesh, and the more I resist the more he jerks me forward.

“John, stop it!”

“Who was that man?”

“Someone from long ago. Why don’t you trust me, John?”

“How can I trust you, when you’re always planning to leave?”

He really is hurting me now. I stifle a whimper and push back against his chest.

“You told me you’d return my skin when I asked! How many times have I asked, and how many times have you refused? You can’t keep me with you forever!”

What happened to the man who gave me his coat and stroked my hair so gently? Is there still kindness walled behind that hard face?

“I can keep you with me as long as I want,” he says.

A seagull squawks overhead, and the sea grows louder in my ears.


For if you take the skin of a selkie, they cannot return to the sea.

I found the chest on one of my explorations when John was out of the house. It was an old-fashioned thing, faded red and gold. I tried various keys, pins and hairclips, but only managed to dislodge a few rust chips from the lock. Until today, when the flowerpot fell over and the keychain tipped out with the soil. The third key unlocked the chest and I found my old skin at last.


When we arrive home, I switch on the lights in the kitchen to see the unwashed dishes on the table, still stuck with fish bones and potato peel.

“Come to bed,” John pulls at my wrist, but he’s had a few drinks so he loses his grip.

“Not now.”

I kiss him once, behind his ear, and his hair smells warm. If he gave me the choice, would I still want to leave? He climbs the stairs and enters the bedroom, but I stay down here and open the window to breathe the night air. The keychain is hard in my pocket, but I wait. I am good at waiting. When I’m sure he is asleep, I climb the stairs to the attic and reopen the chest to lift out the pelt. A tear falls as I stroke the grey fur, but I wipe it away.

On the road to the beach, I pass the young Italian couple, huddled together against what must be, for them, intolerable cold. Yet I feel warmer than I have for a long time.

Down on the beach there is no-one else around, no-one to see me slip out of my clothes. How strange this human skin feels, how bare, the toes feeling every grain of sand, the breeze lifting goose pimples on my belly. How right the soft, streamlined fur feels as I fit it over my body. My feet slip in first, and soon they are flippers. My head is furry; my whiskers twitch with new smells. I shuffle myself forward awkwardly on the sand, but then a wave hits and pulls me into the sea. Oh yes, the sea, my salt-tear home, running over me.

My seal-eyes look back once, at the lights of Sullivan’s and the Bed-and-Breakfasts. The Stella Maris tinkles as it bobs; I will see it again, I’m sure. But now there is a russet seal out there waiting for me. I dive under and leave the shore behind.

2016: My year in books


2016 was a bad year for celebrity deaths (I’m still getting over Prince and Carrie Fisher) and for politics (the less said, the better). But it was another great year for books, one in which I enjoyed some old reliable writers (Kent Haruf, Jim Butcher, Marissa Meyer) and discovered some new ones (Holly Seddon, Erik Larson, Libbie Hawker). I travelled to Africa and Outer Space, took a camel across an ancient Syrian desert, sailed with some Vikings, and discovered the secret sorrow of the Queen of Hearts. The usual sort of adventures.

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Christmas Shopping


It’s that time of year again, when visions of sugar plums and Willy Wonka dance in the heads of young and old. In the spirit of the season, I decided to share some of the places where I’ve bought the best gifts. I’m getting no advertising revenue from these guys; I’m just a happy customer.


My home town has a great variety of shops to choose from.

Charlie Byrne’s Bookshop. Their staff is amazingly knowledgeable and helpful; all you have to do is mention “I have to buy for a seven-year-old who loves pokemon and princesses”, and they’ll find the perfect book for you. Warning for book lovers: you could spend all day browsing here.

Wooden Heart toys. Everything from rocking horses to jigsaws to tea sets to bedroom lamps.

Mishnóc. Beautifully-made leather bags that will last forever.

My Shop Granny Likes It. Quirky place for unique gifts. At the moment, for example, you can get a “Gobshite mug” or “The Ultimate Colouring in Map of Europe”.

Radisson Galway Spa. Vouchers for the perfect relaxation experience.


Lego store. Everything is awesome.

Love it Love it Love it. High-quality, brightly-coloured children’s clothing. I especially love the Lipfish label.

Nosey Rosie crafts. Handmade reversible dresses. A selection is also available in My Shop Granny Likes It (see above).





2015: My year in books

2015 was the year that Marty McFly went back to the future. It was also the year when I travelled back in time as far as the Bronze Age (The Gift of Stones by Jim Crace), forward as far as 7000 AD (Seveneves by Neal Stephenson), and to locations as diverse as France, China, and Outer Space. Yes, it’s time for my annual review of my year in books.

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Eight deadly words

 I don’t care what happens to these people.

The “eight deadly words” were probably not first uttered by writer Dorothy J. Heydt on Usenet in 1991, but she was the first to name them as such. They are the words that no writer or producer or actor wants to hear about their work. They are the words that readers utter when they put down a book, or viewers proclaim when they switch off a film or stop watching a television series.

Deadly like a toadstool

Deadly like a toadstool

Those words are “I don’t care what happens to these people”. If you don’t care, why should you read (or watch) on?

Now, “caring” about the characters is not necessarily the same as liking them. Humbert Humbert from Lolita is a vile excuse for a human being. If you find yourself liking him, please get help now. Eva Khatchadourian (We Need to talk About Kevin), J.R. Ewing (Dallas), Joffrey Baratheon (Game of Thrones): these are not nice people. However, you care about what happens to them. You might hope that really bad things happen to them, but you want to know what those bad things are.

“These people” might not even be people. In Watership Down, you come to care about rabbits; in Wall-E, you are emotionally invested in the fate of a robot.

Think of the fiction that has remained with you. The characters are real, and you want to know what happens to them. That’s the reason why readers clamored for more stories about Sherlock Holmes and Anne Shirley; that’s why viewers keep coming back for Tyrion Lannister and Walter White.

I get frustrated by clunky writing or unrealistic plotting or stunted dialogue. But the one thing that will make me stick with a story is that I want to find out what happens. The one thing that will make me put it away is when I just don’t care.