I sit here five years after the events of this story, revisiting them in their full form for the first time. This is not a year I ever enjoyed looking back on once I had survived it. Yet not every moment was terrible. There were small flashes of joy scattered between the difficult stretches. There was also a lot of music that I discovered during long winter walks, late nights, and periods where distraction became a form of survival. Music was always a reliable crutch.
Now, as I write this while listening to many of those same tracks, nostalgia quietly creeps in. Part of me almost misses those moments. At the same time, the rational side of my mind feels stunned by the audacity of wanting to relive a year that pushed me so close to the edge. Because 2021 was not simply difficult. It was the year that tested my resolve more than any other before or since.
Frozen Routine
The year began quietly. We were still trapped inside another strict lockdown rolling over from 2020. Apart from supermarkets and the restrictive university campus, nearly everything remained closed. Days moved slowly, stretched thin between routine and uncertainty.
A small space, a warm bed, and a quiet corner where old habits found their way back through a new musical instrument
At the time, I was still waiting on the final laboratory results for several rock samples. Something that should have taken weeks had already dragged on for nearly two months. Delays had become normal by then. Restricted work schedules and reduced access slowed nearly everything down. Once the results finally arrived, the next phase of my project began: data analysis. Hours disappeared into plotting graphs, comparing trends, searching for patterns and anomalies hidden inside datasets that I would later try to interpret.
Winter had settled fully over Saguenay by then. It had been there since November, and by my second year living in the region I understood that this was simply the rhythm of life in northern Quebec. Nearly half the year existed beneath a blanket of white, interrupted only by varying degrees of cold. Heavy storms would occasionally sweep through, dragging temperatures down toward -40°C, sometimes even lower when wind chill was particularly nasty. Most days, however, floated somewhere between -10 and -30.
A few months earlier, I had moved into a neighbouring apartment within the same house. Slightly smaller, but with a balcony and a direct view over the Saguenay. A small spatial trade-off for a permanent face-to-face with the fjord itself
By that point, Alexandre and I had adapted enough that -10 already felt like springtime. Anything warmer bordered on beach weather. We had integrated into the Canadian climate more than either of us probably expected.
Learning to Live With Winter
The most frustrating part of winter was not even the cold itself. It was the roads.
Chicoutimi sits within an ancient geological rift valley known as the Saguenay Graben. There is nearly a hundred-meter elevation difference between the lower ground near the Saguenay River where my apartment was located, and the upper plateau where the university, shops, and commercial areas sat.
When the roads froze solid beneath a glaze of ice, the steep streets became dangerous. Without fresh snow to provide grip, the pavement transformed into a slippery downhill slide. More than once, I chose to avoid the roads entirely. Instead, I would cut through deep snowbanks or take a longer path through Parc du Moulin. The route added time, but it also offered something the town itself often lacked during winter: silence.
Routine walks through the park sometimes meant forging my own path through untouched snow
Walking through the park meant escaping the repetitive landscape of parking lots, oversized roads, and rows of near-identical houses. It was quieter there, more natural, and easier to forget how repetitive lockdown life had become.
When Alexandre and I went shopping after work, we usually took the bus home. Nightfall came so early during winter that by the time errands were finished, darkness had already swallowed the streets. One particular evening remains especially memorable.
The Walmart Orogeny
A winter storm pushed through town that evening. Fine snow drifted across the asphalt in thin winding patterns, forming snaking shapes that looked almost like miniature sand dunes moving across the ground.
We had just finished a late-afternoon shopping trip at Walmart. Darkness had already settled outside. By that point in winter, snowbanks had grown enormous. While most of the surrounding landscape sat buried beneath at least half a meter of snow, the Walmart parking lot looked different.
Snowplows had spent months pushing snow into one corner of the lot, gradually building what resembled an artificial mountain range. The compressed snow hardened into towering icy ridges — five to ten meters high in places. Alexandre and I named it the Walmart Orogeny.
Where are we going, boys?
After leaving the store, we made our way toward the nearby bus stop, trying to shield ourselves from the freezing wind. The storm had emptied the streets. We seemed to be the only people outside. We waited there shivering while the bus ran late. Eventually, headlights emerged through the blowing snow.
An empty bus pulled up quickly, displaying the correct route number. The doors opened, and a young black guy with dreadlocks leaned toward us from the drivers seat with an unexpectedly cheerful grin. “So, where are we going, boys?” he asked in English, which itself was already shocking considering the limtied use of English in this part of the world. For a second I just stared at him, half laughing. “You tell us,” I replied. “You’re the bus driver.”
After some confused laughter and a bit of head scratching, he managed to get himself lost in some back streets due to various road closures. He was probably new on the job. It turned into one of the strangest bus rides I had experienced. Equal parts awkward, funny, and oddly memorable.
The Shattering
Winter carried on like that for weeks. Days blended together into a routine of snow, university work, grocery trips, and long stretches of quiet repetition. Then sometime near the end of January, Lucie called a meeting with the entire research group. Remote, of course. Face-to-face meetings between multiple people still felt discouraged, if not outright frowned upon.
Since the previous fall, a new student had joined our group. Taylor, from Edmonton, had come to complete her Master’s at UQAC despite speaking almost no French. We hadn’t even gotten the chance to meet her yet with all the restrictions and busy schedules. She was about to receive an intense introduction to Quebec academic life.
A clear winter day in the park, where snow and light softened the landscape into something quietly beautiful. A contrast to how the same season often felt from within
Lucie appeared on screen smiling as always. She had an energetic warmth that rarely seemed to disappear. Unfortunately, her smile did not always signal good news. This was one of those moments.
She wanted to tell us personally before the information spread further. A major financial crisis had surfaced at Laurentian University, triggering a large-scale investigation. The consequences extended far beyond one institution. Research budgets stalled and funding channels froze. Including those of our sponsors, Metal Earth…
In simple terms, our primary research funds had just been paralyzed. And just like that, the atmosphere changed. What had previously felt like a slow, frustrating winter suddenly became something heavier. The uncertainty was no longer abstract. The stability of the project itself no longer felt guaranteed.
Funding Frozen Indefinitely
We were all stunned.
Lucie tried to reassure us in whatever way she could. At least for now, our contracts were secure until May. PhD funding worked on a yearly basis, even though the projects themselves were designed to last four years. On paper, nothing had changed yet. But the truth was that she knew as little as we did.
Nobody could tell us how long the situation would last, whether funding would return, or if the projects would survive in their original form at all. So for the moment, we carried on as if nothing had happened. Not an easy thing to do when financial uncertainty hangs over your head like a storm cloud.
At the height of winter, the Saguenay lay still. Sealed beneath ice and silence
Without additional funding, further laboratory work and fieldwork were effectively off the table. If we wanted to continue, we would need to reshape our projects around what already existed using previous results, existing samples, and literature reviews to construct something workable from increasingly limited resources.
The Truth Behind Truth
It’s difficult to describe what a complete clusterfuck this situation had become.
Both Alexandre and I had entered fully funded four-year PhD projects with clearly defined goals, timelines, and expectations. Then the pandemic arrived a year earlier, throwing everything into disarray. Lockdowns slowed research, delayed lab access, complicated logistics, and gradually wore away at morale.
Despite all of that, we had managed to recover. By the end of 2020, we were finally back on track. Through stubbornness, efficiency, and a willingness to work relentlessly whenever opportunities appeared, we had clawed our way back into progress.
Lucie also played a major role, often shielding us from the more rigid and overly cautious layers of academic bureaucracy whenever our enthusiasm pushed beyond acceptable protocol. But now this. Something completely outside our control.
Nothing like this had happened before at a Canadian university, and somehow we had become tangled in the fallout through the financial lifeline supporting our projects.
An Odd Balancing of Scales
But as the universe taketh, so too it occasionally giveth.
Some posts ago, I mentioned how I had slowly become interested in cryptocurrency investing before leaving Denmark. What started around 2018 as casual curiosity had gradually evolved into a side hobby.
Over the years, I learned to tolerate the volatility. I followed traders on TradingView, watched technical analysts on YouTube, and slowly developed an understanding of how cyclical markets behaved. Crypto, despite its chaos, seemed to follow recognizable emotional rhythms — waves of optimism, collapse, accumulation, and eventual resurgence.
As temperatures eased, the first movement returned only where the current was strongest. The rest of the river still held in winter’s grip
For years, people talked about the elusive bull market phase of the four-year cycle. And by early 2021, it appeared to have arrived. The pandemic crash of 2020 had briefly crushed everything. Markets collapsed alongside global panic. But central banks responded by flooding economies with liquidity, printing money at historic levels to stabilize financial systems.
Everything rebounded. And risk assets, especially cryptocurrencies, surged. I had invested quite a lot by the end of 2020. Good timing, whether through foresight or luck. Suddenly, what had been a hobby was transforming into something far more serious.
Despite making several objectively terrible trades during early 2021, my portfolio grew rapidly. My crypto holdings began outpacing my actual academic income. For the first time, I wasn’t just saving money for a rainy day. I was making eyewatering profits. It felt unreal.
While uncertainty grew in university life, another parallel reality was unfolding quietly on my screen — one filled with charts, profits, optimism, and the dangerous illusion that perhaps financial freedom was not as far away as it once seemed.
Unravelling
While crypto helped keep my morale afloat, Alexandre was not doing well.
The lockdowns had hit him especially hard. Over time, his frustration with Chicoutimi, Quebec, and Canada itself became increasingly difficult to hide. The isolation weighed heavily on him. Now, with funding uncertainty threatening both his income and future, the pressure intensified. But academic stress was only part of the story.
Every step forward carried the risk of slipping further down… sometimes more literally than expected
He also had to live beside a deeply unstable neighbour. The guy regularly took drugs and experienced frequent mental breakdowns. Alexandre often complained about screaming late into the night, objects smashing against walls, and violent outbursts that made sleep nearly impossible. The landlord could do little because tenant protection laws complicated intervention. Then things escalated further.
At one point, the neighbour rammed a metal pipe, or something similar, directly through Alexandre’s wall. Police were called. Nothing meaningful happened. And so Alexandre remained trapped beside someone increasingly unpredictable.
We discussed moving him elsewhere, but realistically that would have to wait until summer. By then, though, the damage was already being done. He was exhausted. Mentally fried. And slowly approaching his limit.
The Decision to Leave
As April approached — still winter in Saguenay, despite what the calendar claimed — Alexandre had reached a turning point. He told me he was done. Fed up with the uncertainty, the isolation, with the absurdity of the place and his situation. He wanted to quit and move back to France.
The final piece pushing him toward that decision was family. Through video calls, he watched his parents age from afar. What had once felt temporary began to feel irreversible. Time suddenly seemed more fragile than before. He realized he no longer wanted to spend years feeling miserable in another country while missing precious time with people he loved. And honestly? I could not argue against it anymore.
The Saguenay river followed its natural course eastward, toward the sea… and for some, toward home
I understood. By then, I had also lived abroad for nearly seven years and had watched distance slowly reshape relationships with home and family. But I had committed to a different path. I had accepted long ago that I would keep moving until I found somewhere stable… somewhere that finally felt like home.
Alexandre already had that. He loved France and missed it more every day. He had something waiting for him. I didn’t.
Eventually, he told Lucie he wanted to downgrade his PhD into an MSc and finish within the year. His real goal, one he mostly kept between the two of us, was simple. He wanted to go home.
A Hollow Escape to Tadoussac
Sometime during what should have been spring, Alexandre, Pedro, and I decided to escape Chicoutimi for a day. We needed air. A change of scenery. Anything.
I can’t remember who suggested it first, but we drove east toward Tadoussac. Located where the Saguenay River meets the much larger St. Lawrence, Tadoussac is normally known for whale watching and summer tourism.
At times, tidal forces briefly reverse the Saguenay’s flow westward, against its natural course… against the sense of return
At that moment, we needed no excuse to go. We were simply happy to leave Chicoutimi behind for a few hours. That town had begun to feel heavy. Like a lead cloud permanently hanging overhead.
Driving through Saguenay Fjord National Park, I found myself unexpectedly struck by the scenery. The road wound between steep rocky cliffs and narrow valleys carved by ancient geological forces. For the first time, I fully appreciated the beauty of the landscape. And it frustrated me. Because my experience there had been so dominated by struggle that I had grown resentful toward the place itself. Yet the land remained beautiful regardless.
Tadoussac, however, felt lifeless. Late winter had stripped it of charm. The village sat somewhere between seasons. Neither winter nor spring. Dirty snow lingered in patches while mud surfaced through thawing ground. Everything seemed grey.
A lifeless Tadoussac. A few worn out colors contrasting the bleak late winter
The sky remained mostly overcast, allowing only faint pale sunlight to break through. Cold wind moved through empty streets. The occasional masked pedestrian only reinforced the atmosphere. A reminder, as if any of us needed one, of how everything had changed since the pandemic began. The place felt abandoned. And somehow perfectly aligned with the emotional tone of that year.
The Ice Begins to Melt
On the return trip, we crossed the Saguenay by ferry and stopped near La Baie. There, we walked onto the final remnants of ice still covering the river.
During peak winter, the Saguenay froze into a thick surface strong enough to support ice fishing camps and even vehicles. Locals built temporary communities directly on the frozen water. This was the first time we had seen it ourselves. I had been there for over a year, yet somehow remained a stranger to the place. I lived within the landscape, but never quite within the life of it.
The last remnants of ice fishing tents and equipment being packed up
This late in the season the ice was already deteriorating. People packed up tents and equipment as slush formed across the surface. It was surreal watching full-sized pickup trucks still driving over what looked increasingly unstable. In the pale yellow light of a sunset I watched winter losing its grip on the river. Reflecting on how I… would soon lose my only close friend there.
The thought of continuing alone, in a place that still felt alien due to the language barrier, especially under uncertain funding and growing instability, was not comforting. Things were changing. And I would have to change with them.
The Path Forward
Not long after Alexandre officially decided to leave the PhD program, I began seriously considering the same path. Not because I wanted to leave Canada or return to Europe, but because I wanted out of the academic system, and out of the depressive spiral that Chicoutimi had slowly become.
My goal had never truly been academia itself. From the moment I chose Canada over opportunities elsewhere, the objective had always been to build a future there. I needed a Canadian degree to qualify for a post-graduation work permit, but it did not need to be a PhD. What I really wanted was stability — a path into the mining industry, a career, and eventually a place that felt permanent. Alexandre was trying to return home. I was still searching for mine.
The sun sets over the slushy, unstable ground above the Saguenay
I sat down with Lucie for an honest conversation. She encouraged me not to rush my decision, but she also said something important. As valuable as research was, mental health mattered more.
I have to give her enormous credit here. Many supervisors might have pushed harder to keep students tied to projects out of pride, reputation, or convenience. She did the opposite. Lucie understood what the previous year had done to us. She had seen how hard we worked whenever opportunities existed. She had also lived through the same endless restrictions, bureaucracy, and funding collapse herself. Most of it was beyond her control.
Ferries sailing past each other across the Saguenay near Tadoussac
A few days later, I made my decision. I wanted out of the PhD program as well.
I would downgrade my study program, finish sooner, and leave the academic life with a second Masters degree rather than risk losing everything.
Approval came quickly. No resistance from supervisors. No objections from Metal Earth.
And so, two foreign PhD students prepared to do something that had apparently never happened before at that university. We asked to have our status changed from PhD students to Master’s students.
Picking up right where we left off, I had just wrapped up my stay in Patras. The long-awaited day had finally arrived. My ferry was scheduled for 1 PM, so I had time for a slow breakfast before heading down to the port. Boarding the ship to Ithaca, I soon found myself sailing the final leg of my Greek Odyssey.
From Patras to the Ionian
We left Patras behind. The journey was to take around four hours. Whenever I could — and for most of the crossing — I stayed out on the open deck to catch every sight as the sea journey unfolded.
By this point, I was pretty much listening to Symphony X’s “The Odyssey” on loop — my personal anthem for this trip. The cool wind whipped across the deck as the boat sliced through the Ionian Sea. Every time I spotted land on the horizon, I tried to guess which island it belonged to — more often than not, it was Kefalonia.
At one point, as I stood near the railing with my camera in hand, a sudden strong gust tore the lens cap right from my fingers. It vanished instantly — either flung straight into the sea or thrown far back across the ship where I couldn’t go. Damn it, Poseidon, I clenched my fist in abject annoyance. But if this was the price I had to pay to finally go home, then so be it.
Leaving mainland Greece behind
A few hours into the trip, the silhouette of a second, smaller island began to take shape on the horizon. Was it truly? Could it be? Ithaca, at last. In my mind, I imagined the kind of thrill one must feel after years — no, decades — adrift and far from home, finally glimpsing familiar shores again.
First, however, the ferry made its routine stop at the port of Sami on Kefalonia — a small tease before the epic conclusion.
Landfall on Ithaca — First Glimpse of Home
Not long after departing Sami, it was finally time to raise the proverbial sails and charge toward Ithaca. The crossing was straight as an arrow, the ferry ripping across the water with the wind howling in my ears. This was the final crescendo before landfall on the long-imagined homeland.
The final stretch of my journey to Ithaca
And then, just like that, the “song” began to settle as we arrived at Ithaki — Pisaetos. A small, unassuming ferry terminal greeted us: a few low buildings, a modest parking area, quiet and understated. It didn’t matter in the slightest. After the emotional build-up I had carried all this way, I could have landed anywhere and still felt exhilarated.
Arriving at Pisaetos ferry terminal in Ithaca
My hotel in Vathy offered car pickup from Pisaetos, so all I had to do was message them and wait. Within minutes, my driver arrived — a super chill, middle-aged Greek guy with long wavy hair and aviator sunglasses just like mine. If it weren’t for his impressive Super Mario mustache, I might have thought I was looking into a mirror.
We chatted easily about life in Ithaca as he drove us up the rugged southern cliffs. Then, at the very top, came one final bend in the road — and suddenly the island revealed itself in full. A breathtaking paradise: lush valleys unfolding in a sweeping semi-circle down gentle mountain slopes toward the shimmering bay of Vathy. That moment nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Arriving in Vathy
I arrived in Vathy, the main port-town of Ithaca, and from the moment I stepped into its calm harbor light, I felt the weight of homecoming. Vathy is a compact, picturesque town — whitewashed houses with colorful shutters, narrow alleys sloping down to the water, small fishing boats bobbing gently in turquoise coves, and lush hills circling the bay.
My first glimpse of Vathy, Ithaca
I was staying at the cozy Mentor Hotel, right in the town center. My room came with a small balcony that overlooked the bay — an ideal perch to watch the soft changes of light on water, and to breathe in that salty Ionian air as I settled into this new little slice of paradise.
Once I’d dropped my bag and taken a long glance out over the water, I couldn’t wait to stretch my legs and feel the island underfoot.
Sea, Sand & Solitude — Late-Afternoon at Loutsa
After a quick refresh, I set off for Loutsa Beach, about thirty minutes’ walk from my hotel. The path wound out of Vathy, climbing gently through forested coastal hills and offering shimmering glimpses of the Ionian Sea beyond. Near the top, I found an old Venetian cannon, still perched toward the bay — a silent sentry once guarding the narrow strait that leads into Vathy’s harbor, now watching over carefree hikers and daydreamers instead of warships.
Venetian canon — forever defending the entrance to Vathy
Reaching the beach felt like arriving at another world: fine, pale sand, sun umbrellas shading small clusters of sun-seekers, and eucalyptus trees swaying gently in the breeze. The water was warm and welcoming. For the first time in weeks, I had no immediate plans. No rucksack, no ruins, no hurry. I just relaxed and enjoyed the tranquil beach.
The tranquil beach and gentle sea at Loutsa Beach
The golden-light late afternoon, the gentle sea, the slow rhythm of waves… I don’t know if it was my overloaded imagination after all the myth and history, but I truly felt like I belonged. No objectives, no ticking off historic sites — just being. For some reason, it seemed like Ithaca was meant for such moments.
Sunset Stroll & Island Memories
Later, as the sun leaned toward the horizon, I wandered back into town along the bay of Vathy. I read somewhere that the Ionian Islands — including Ithaca — were among the few parts of Greece that never fell under full Ottoman control, instead spending centuries under Venetian or British influence. Perhaps because of that, the old ways, the local customs, and a certain quiet charm feel more preserved here than in many more touristic corners of Greece.
Strolling back to Vathy through the forest path
I found myself thinking back to the conversation with my driver earlier that day. I’d been bubbling with questions about Ithaca and what it must feel like to live on a legendary island like this. He spoke of the quiet, familial rhythm of life here — how locals and visitors alike drift to the same bars at the same hours, seeing the same faces night after night. Conversations start easily, not as strangers, but almost as neighbors.
I dreamt that the next time I returned to Ithaca, it would be by boat
Even for outsiders. Ithaca has a way of folding you into its slow, familiar heartbeat, and I was already feeling it — not even a day in.
The ancient King of Ithaca
As I continued walking, I had one final mission in mind: to find the statue of the legendary hero himself. And soon enough, there it was—the statue of Odysseus, King of Ithaca. Modest in size, yet to me still larger than life.
Nearby, a small group of English-speaking tourists were loudly confessing their ignorance about who the figure was meant to represent. I couldn’t resist politely intervening, offering them a quick rundown of Odysseus—king, wanderer, cunning hero—and a few words on why this little island matters so much. It felt good. It felt right.
Odyssian and Odysseus — Two travelers, one island
As my first day on Ithaca wound down, I felt like I was floating — carried by the sea breeze, the soft unhurried rhythm of the island, and a quiet sense that, for once, I had truly arrived.
Choosing a Direction on a Small, Wild Island
Come morning, map in hand, I realized something important about Ithaca: it may look small on a screen, but it does not unfold small under your feet. The island’s strange, broken shape hides steep hills, long distances, and very little in the way of convenient public transport. The western side, pinched off by a narrow strip of land, rises sharply into rugged, serious terrain—beautiful, but no casual stroll. A full crossing there and back would have been ambitious even for me.
The winding paths up the hills of Ithaca
So I chose to stay on my side of the island—the east—and roam southward at my own pace, letting the day decide the details. Somewhere along that stretch waited one of Ithaca’s eastern beaches. Whether it was Talaros, or Kaminia beach, I’m not entirely sure anymore.
Above Vathy, Between Sky and Stone
Climbing the hills behind Vathy was quite rewarding. From above, the town hugged the curve of the small gulf, spreading only sparsely inland, cradled by tall, rolling, lush hills. The calm sea stretched outward in layered blues, and in the hazy distance, Ithaca was framed by faint islands resting on the horizon. One of those “stop walking, just stand there” views.
Panoramic view of Vathy and the bay from the top of the hill
Nearly every path climbs, dips, and climbs again. Somewhere along the way—either going up through Perachori or passing back through it later—I wandered through its steep streets: quiet, sun-washed, almost suspended in time. A few locals zipped past on scooters, which felt not just practical, but essential in a place shaped like this. Another sleepy village, another reminder that life here moves without spectacle.
Some of the scattered ruins I came across
Scattered along the route were traces of older lives: fragments of stone walls in the brush, half-swallowed by earth and shrubs. One cluster was clearly the remains of a small church. No signs, no plaques, no tidy explanations. Just stone, silence, and imagination filling in the centuries. Alongside them stood several newer chapels—whitewashed, modest, still breathing with quiet purpose. Old faith and living faith sharing the same paths.
Rock, Shade, and Turquoise Silence
By noon or early afternoon, I finally reached the beach. No sand this time—just pale rocks and worn stone sloping into impossibly clear turquoise water. By the time I arrived, the sun had slipped behind the tall cliffs at my back, leaving the entire cove in cool shade. The water still glowed.
Arriving at either Talaros, or Kaminia beach—I can’t recall which one this was
I didn’t swim. It felt too rugged, too sharp for that. Instead, I stayed with the theme that Ithaca had gently imposed on me: no objectives, no milestones—just sitting, looking, breathing. Letting the scenery do the work. It was enough.
The typical rocky beaches of Greece
Later in the afternoon, I turned back toward Vathy, retracing the hills for another hour or two—time loosens its grip out there. By evening, I was back where I had started, carrying that pleasant, full-body tiredness that only long walks earn you.
My final dinner on Ithaca deserved its own quiet ceremony: swordfish, perfectly cooked, a glass of crisp white wine, and the slow burn of sunset spilling across the bay. The water caught fire in golds and soft reds, boats drifting like commas in a sentence that didn’t want to end.
Final sunset dinner in Ithaca—waiting for the swordfish to jump into my plate
I already knew—I felt it in the way I lingered over every bite—that this was goodbye. My last night on the island. And even now, writing this, I feel that same gentle ache in my chest. Not sadness exactly. More like gratitude stretched just far enough to hurt.
From Ithaca to Kefalonia
Before leaving Ithaca, I treated myself to one final stroll around Vathy. The ferry to Kefalonia wasn’t until around noon, and the hotel driver would take me to the port, so there was no rush.
I wandered through the narrow streets, pausing at small shops and cafes, imagining what it might be like to retire here one day — to simply live in rhythm with the gentle pace of the island, with the bay and hills outside your window every morning. A new dream added to the file.
A miniature trireme riding painted waves on solid ground – some boats prefer pavement to the Ionian Sea
By noon, I boarded the ferry bound for Kefalonia, likely docking at Sami. From there, I caught a KTEL bus to Spartia — a journey of over four hours, giving me plenty of time to reflect on the fragmented patchwork of memories and photos that make up this trip. Arriving late afternoon, golden hour was already painting the village in soft warm light.
Arriving in the small village of Spartia in Kefalonia
In Spartia, I checked into an Airbnb apartment, my fourth style of accommodation in Greece — after hostels, camping, and hotels, now a small, cozy flat. I half-joked to myself that I was living like a professional travel reviewer: rating, reviewing, and documenting everything with meticulous care each night.
Dinner at Cavo Liakas
That evening, I found the village’s lone open restaurant, Cavo Liakas — a small, family-run patio place. The food here was a revelation. Generous portions, expertly prepared, affordable, and utterly delicious.
I discovered two new favorite dishes: feta me meli, a phyllo-wrapped baked feta with honey, and lamb kleftiko, slow-roasted lamb with vegetables, cooked in parchment paper. These meals legitimately made me pause, fork in hand, and sigh in sheer appreciation.
A Godly meal at Cavo Liakas: feta me meli and lamb kleftico
Greece continued to surprise me, even after Ithaca.
Spartia Beach
The following morning I picked out the nearest beach with a high rating on google and went for it. Thus far, I had visited a couple of beaches here and there, like the two on Ithaca and the one in Kira, but most of these were small, rocky, and I was just passing by. This time, I decided to dedicate a full day to a proper sandy beach.
Spartia Beach — the best sandy-beach I’ve seen in Greece
Spartia Beach didn’t disappoint: fine sand stretching out for hundreds of meters below the eroding cliffs, a real contrast to the rocky stretches I had endured before. Everywhere I looked, seashells were embedded in the limestone cliffs, a tangible reminder that this entire land had once rested beneath the sea before tectonic uplift transformed it into the islands I now explored.
Shells of all shapes and sizes in the eroding rocks of the old sea bed
Even with a few families and small groups dotting the sand, Spartia Beach never felt crowded. The people there moved with the same unhurried rhythm as the island itself: some reading under umbrellas, a few wading in the shallow turquoise water, others collecting shells along the shoreline.
A Day of Sea and Sun
I found a quiet spot and settled in, letting the warm sun and gentle sound of the waves sink in. Between the limestone cliffs, the glint of seashells, and the calm Ionian waters, the beach became a perfect blend of nature, history, and human rhythm — the ideal setting to just be, to do nothing but soak in the day.
Spartia beach from on top of the cliffs
The water itself was pure delight: warm, clean, and only occasionally tangled with a stray bit of algae. I alternated between long dips in the turquoise Ionian Sea and lying on the soft sand, slowly evening out the tan lines from days of hiking under the Greek sun. In the hotter hours, I’d retreat to the shade of the cliffs, only to return to the water as soon as the sun eased. For a few hours, I felt like a child again, fully immersed in the simple joys of sun, sea, and sand.
The Greek Orthodox Church in Spartia
Late afternoon, as the sun softened over the village, I returned for another memorable dinner at Cavo Liakas. The smiling host highlighted the day’s fresh catch — today it was bass — and I indulged, accompanied by crisp roasted zucchini as an appetizer. Simple, fresh, and gloriously Mediterranean, it was the perfect ending to a day devoted entirely to enjoyment and rest.
The Castle of Kefalonia
For my final in Spartia, I decided it was time for one last proper trek. My goal was the Castle of Agios Georgios, standing roughly an hour and a half away on foot.
The route led me along quiet countryside roads, the kind traced only by the occasional car and the slow passage of locals going about their day. For a long while, the scenery unfolded as wide open farmland with distant mountains sitting low on the horizon. Pleasant, but subdued. It wasn’t until I neared the village of Peratata that the views truly began to open up.
Castle of Agios Georgios view from the village of Peratata
Perched high above the lush Livathos valley, the Castle of St. George crowns a 320-meter hill in southern Kefalonia. From below it already looked imposing, but once inside the walls, the scale of the place really set in.
This was no lonely watchtower — it had once been a full-fledged fortified town. From the ramparts, the view stretched in every direction: over rolling olive groves, toward the endless blue of the Ionian Sea, and across to the distant bays of Lourdas and Trapezaki. A clean, sweeping 360° panorama that made the climb instantly worthwhile.
Old Stones and Epic Views
The heart of the fortress still bears the elegant stamp of its Venetian rulers. Above the main entrance, the ornate Venetian pediment remains proudly intact, even if the heavy wooden doors beneath it are now held together with modern supports.
The grand (and slightly patched-up) Venetian gateway into Kefalonia’s medieval past
The site itself traces back to the 12th century under the Byzantines, but it was the Venetians who transformed it after 1500 into the island’s capital — a self-contained city with mansions, cisterns, prisons, and even legend of a secret tunnel leading down to the sea. At its height, some 15,000 people once lived within these walls.
Looking out over the castle’s weathered walls: a sea of green rolling hills and the distant peaks of Kefalonia under an endless blue sky
The castle remained the island’s administrative and political center until 1757, when the Venetians relocated the capital to Argostoli to boost trade, leading to its gradual abandonment. Wandering along the uneven cobblestone paths between crumbling bastions, I once again found those familiar silhouettes of Venetian cannons — rusted, silent, but still defiantly aimed over the valley as if guarding a long-forgotten frontier.
A lone Venetian cannon still guarding the endless Ionian views
The site suffered further damage from wars, occupations (including French), and the devastating 1953 earthquake, which destroyed much of the island.
Quiet, Untouristy, Perfect
High on the fortress walls, a tattered Greek flag snapped in the wind against the rugged outline of Mount Ainos, Kefalonia’s highest peak. Below it, the simple stone façade of the old Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos stood in quiet contrast, its weathered sundial and arched doorway catching the light.
The weathered Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos inside the castle walls – sundial, stonework and all
What struck me most, though, was how wonderfully untouristy the place felt. The entrance fee was modest — under five euros if memory serves — and for views like these, it felt almost symbolic.
A truly unforgettable journey was coming to a close
Leaning over the fortress walls, the warm wind rising from the valley below, I couldn’t help but think how fitting this moment was. Standing atop ancient stone, overlooking sea and mountains alike, it felt like a proper, epic punctuation mark at the end of a journey rooted in legends.
Echoes of the Bronze Age
As I left the castle behind, I took a small detour on my way back to Spartia to visit another historical landmark I had spotted on Google Maps: the Mycenaean Necropolis of Mazarakata, the largest and most important Mycenaean cemetery in the Ionian Islands.
Stepping back 3,400 years through the doorways of Mycenaean chamber tombs at Mazarakata
Dating to the Late Bronze Age, roughly 1400–1100 BC, this site belongs to the same dramatic era as the palaces of Mycenae and even the legendary Trojan War. This was the time of the Odyssey — my ancient times. The site was free to enter and wrapped in a deep, unbroken calm. If the castle had been untouristy, this place felt almost completely off the radar, which only made it more special.
An entire Mycenaean city of the dead
The necropolis consists of seventeen rock-cut chamber tombs carved into a gentle hillside and arranged in three separate clusters. These were family vaults, used over generations, with some tombs containing up to thirty burials. Standing there among those silent stone chambers was yet another reminder of just how densely layered Greece truly is. Even in what feels like a quiet, rural corner of Kefalonia, you can still stumble upon traces of lives lived over three thousand years ago.
The ancient dromos (passageway) into a silent Mycenaean family vault
As a small side note, my review of this site ended up becoming my most viewed one on Google — probably helped by the low number of reviews at the time, which pushed mine right to the top. Every now and then I still get an email saying how many people saw it, and it always makes me smile, knowing that this tiny, peaceful place continues to ripple quietly through other travelers’ journeys.
Argostoli — Wandering Between Departures
On my day of departure, I had a late-night flight from Kefalonia to Athens, followed by an early-morning connection out. There was no rush to the airport just yet, so I took a morning bus from Spartia to Argostoli to spend my final hours roaming the island’s capital one last time.
Walking along the promenade in Argostoli
Even though Argostoli is the beating heart of Kefalonia, it never felt overwhelming. Within minutes I had walked along the northern promenade by the shore, watching boats idle in the harbor and the town ease into its daily rhythm. As the day warmed up, I drifted toward the park and spent a few slow, quiet hours migrating from bench to bench, updating my mom on everything I had seen and felt over the past days. It was one of those soft pauses in travel where nothing spectacular happens. An epilogue to the story I guess.
Victorian-era bandstand in Napier Park, Argostoli
When hunger finally set in, I picked a small, family-run taverna near the port and ordered a spread that felt like a farewell feast to Greek home cooking. There was gemista — stuffed tomatoes heavy with rice, herbs, and a hint of sweetness — imam baildi with its glossy, olive-oil-soaked aubergines, and a generous plate of horta, simple wild greens dressed with lemon and olive oil. Nothing fancy. Just honest, comforting food. Exactly what I wanted on my last afternoon.
Walking the Long Goodbye
By mid-afternoon, I had completely run out of plans. Even though I had loved my days in Kefalonia, I’d already been saying my internal goodbyes to Greece ever since Ithaca. I still had hours to fill, but no more destinations to chase.
So I did what I had done best for two weeks straight — I walked. This time slowly. Toward the airport. Letting memory after memory drift by with every step: Athens, Delphi, Patras, Ithaca, Spartia. The excitement had softened into something heavier now — not sadness exactly, but that gentle ache that comes when an adventure is truly ending.
Makris Gialos Beach with daily flight’s overhead
At some point along the way, it hit me that if I still had time, I might as well spend it properly. The road toward the airport followed the southern coast of Kefalonia, and just like that, Makris Gialos Beach presented itself as my final refuge. Big rucksack and all, I settled into the sand and watched the waves roll in under the golden evening light, planes carving quiet arcs overhead as they came in to land. It felt like the island itself was escorting me to the end.
Full Circle
A few hours and one short flight later, I was back in Athens, spending the night once again on an airport floor — just as I had before this entire journey began. Only this time, the conditions were far kinder. Athens Airport, with its dark corners and surprising pockets of quiet, earned a quiet victory over Geneva in my internal ranking of places one can actually sleep.
A pleasant overnight snooze awaited in a dim-lit corner of the Museum Section in Athens Airport
And just like that, the circle closed.
Greece had delivered everything I had hoped for — and more. This truly was my personal Odyssey. One I know I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. Somewhere between myth and memory, sun and stone, sea and ruin, Greece had become more than a destination. It had become a distant, familiar home in my heart.
My Odyssey in the Mountains began after three full days in Athens, when my journey carried me northwest toward the ancient sanctuary of Delphi. For any traveler drawn to the spirit of classical Greece, Delphi is almost a pilgrimage. Delphi was once revered as the navel of the world, where seekers came to receive the oracle’s cryptic guidance before facing the unknown. Following the old paths through the rising slopes of Mount Parnassus and down toward the Gulf of Corinth, I set out to trace a small part of that ancient landscape myself.
The rugged mountains unfortunately did not offer any respite from the heat
It was an Odyssey in the Mountains shaped by history, mythology, and a fair bit of summer heat—an experience that unfolded slowly, step by step, as I left the city behind.
But first, I had to reach and board a bus in Athens…
From Athens to Delphi
The KTEL bus terminal was about an hour’s walk from my hostel, and with my departure set around noon, I had the entire morning to burn. So I did what I always do in these moments: I walked. No rush, no plan—just letting the city reveal itself one last time before I traded the concrete sprawl for mountains and myth. It felt good to wander through the lived-in streets of Athens once more, soaking up that final dose of frantic capital energy. Still, part of me was already leaning toward the other side of the journey, eager for the slower rhythm of the Greek countryside.
The cats are back!
At the terminal, finding the right bus turned out to be surprisingly easy thanks to the drivers—every single one of whom seemed to speak enough English to cut through any confusion. Within minutes, I’d settled into my seat, ready for the three-hour ride northwest.
The journey out of Athens slipped by with Greek-vibe music in my earphones, matching the unfolding landscape outside the window. Between glances at the passing hills, I went down a rabbit hole of ancient myths and stories on the internet—because what else does one do on the way to Delphi, the legendary source of prophecy?
Myth and Reality
Somewhere between Athens and the mountains, the sense of adventure really hit me. I started chasing increasingly bizarre theories online, trying to see what scholars, dreamers, and conspiracy-enthusiasts had cooked up about The Odyssey. And then I found it: a delightfully unhinged theory proposing that Odysseus didn’t merely wander the Mediterranean for twenty years, but had actually circled the entire world. The author had charts, maps, astronomical guesses, linguistic acrobatics—everything but a sworn affidavit from Homer himself.
Cruising through the gorgeous Greek countryside
Ridiculous? Absolutely. Entertaining? Extremely. And for anyone curious about the sort of thinking that fuels these ideas, it was likely a twist on Enrico Mattievich’s Journey to the Mythological Inferno (2010)—a book that attempts to reframe Greek myth through far-flung global explorations. Whether brilliant or bonkers depends on your tolerance for speculative archaeology.
For a good hour or two I let myself fall into the “what ifs,” imagining Odysseus navigating oceans far beyond the known world, his legend stretching continents.
My first glimpse of the Gulf of Corinth in the distance
And somewhere in that swirl of mountains, myths, music, and madness, I realized just how ready I was for Delphi.
Arriving in Delphi
The bus dropped me off in the modern town of Delphi in the afternoon, and from there I made my way toward the campground I’d booked—a bit of a walk outside of town. When I checked the map, I realized it was almost an hour on foot from the ancient ruins. Bah… who cares? Every day is leg day.
The Oracle of Delfi awaits
Apollon Camping turned out to be the perfect choice for me. It had everything a traveler could want: affordable accommodation ranging from simple cabins to shared tents, a small restaurant, showers, laundry facilities, and even a swimming pool. But what really made it special was the view. On one side, the landscape opened into an endless sea of olive orchards cascading down toward the Gulf of Corinth. On the other side, the rugged slopes of Mount Parnassus rose like a stone fortress.
A lovely little corner at Apollon Camping
I was also surprisingly lucky with my shared tent. It was technically meant for four people—two bunk beds squeezed into a canvas shelter—but I only remember having a roommate for a single night. The rest of the time, I had the entire tent to myself, which made it feel more like a private little hideaway than a shared backpacker setup.
And no place in Greece is complete without at least one cat
By the time I’d settled in, the day was slipping into evening. I didn’t have the time to explore much beyond the campsite, so I simply wandered the grounds, and soaked in my surroundings. As night fell, the stars sharpened above the valley, bright and countless, stretching across the sky like ancient lanterns guiding travelers on their Odyssey in the Mountains—mine included.
Morning in Delphi
The following morning, after a simple breakfast at the campsite, I set off toward the Delphi Archaeological Site—about an hour’s walk along the winding road. The air was still cool, and the town had not yet fully stirred awake. By the time I reached the entrance, the place was quiet; none of the big tour buses had arrived yet, giving the sanctuary that rare early-morning stillness that lets you imagine what Delphi might once have sounded like before crowds, cameras, and guidebooks.
Bronze votive animals, 8th–5th centuries BC on display at the Delphi Archeological Museum
I began at the Delphi Archaeological Museum, a compact but brilliant collection that frames the entire site with context. Inside, the first rooms were filled with delicate gold trinkets, bronze figurines, and small votive offerings—objects gifted to Apollo in hopes of favor, prophecy, or redemption. Many were shaped like animals, warriors, or abstract symbols of wealth and devotion.
Display of the surviving gold and ivory items from life-size chryselephantine statues dedicated at Delphi
There were also helmets offered by victorious generals, ornate tripods dedicated by cities, and fragments of statues whose presence must once have overwhelmed ancient visitors. It’s one thing to imagine people seeking the oracle; it’s another to stand inches from the physical gifts they left behind to secure the god’s ear.
Bronze infantry helmets dedicated as war booty or personal offerings
What struck me most was how these artifacts weren’t simply religious items—they were political messages. In antiquity, city-states sent offerings not only to honor Apollo but to signal alliances, advertise victories, and compete for prestige. Delphi wasn’t just a spiritual center; it was a Panhellenic stage where power was displayed in bronze and marble.
Into the Ancient Sanctuary
Leaving the museum, I followed the stone path upward into the archaeological site. Early on, I passed one of Delphi’s most remarkable surviving structures: the famous curved polygonal retaining wall supporting the eastern terrace of the Temple of Apollo.
Polygonal retaining wall of the Temple of Apollo terrace, Delphi
At first glance it looks almost decorative. Its stones cut into irregular multi-sided shapes, fitted together like an ancient geometric puzzle. But standing close, you realize how extraordinary the craftsmanship is. Each limestone block was carved with many precise angles and then fitted into its neighbors with no mortar at all. The joints are so tight that even after 2,500 years—and countless earthquakes—you still couldn’t slip a sheet of paper between most of them.
The Athenian Treasury that used to house dedications and votive offerings made by their city and citizens to the sanctuary of Apollo
Further up stood the remains of several Treasuries, small temple-like buildings constructed by Greek city-states to store their offerings to Apollo. The most famous among them—the Treasury of the Athenians—once held war spoils, gilded statues, and lavish gifts meant to showcase the city’s power. Many of the items in the museum’s collection were originally displayed in structures like this, framed by political rivalry as much as religious devotion.
The Temple of Apollo
Soon after, the path opened onto the grand centerpiece of the sanctuary: the Temple of Apollo. Though only foundations and a few towering columns remain, the scale of the temple is impressive. This was the heart of Delphi, where the Pythia—the oracle—delivered cryptic prophecies believed to come directly from the god. Delegations came from all corners of the Greek world to seek answers here, paying hefty fees, bringing extravagant gifts, and hoping Apollo would tip fate in their favor.
Sanctuary of Apollo with gorgeous scenic view in the background
Just beside the temple stood another remarkable survivor of the ancient sanctuary: the bronze Serpent Column, one of the most famous war memorials in Greek history. Dedicated in 479 BCE by the 31 Greek city-states who united to defeat the Persians at the Battle of Plataea, the column originally stood nearly eight meters tall. Three intertwined serpents spiraled upward, their heads supporting a golden tripod and cauldron—an offering to Apollo in gratitude for victory. Unfortunately, only the bronze spiral remains today, the golden parts and the serpent heads having been looted centuries ago.
The Serpent Column with the Temple of Apollo in the background
Near the temple, I noticed a stone covered in worn Greek inscriptions. After a bit of research, I learned it resembled the Lyttian Inscription, originally from the ancient city of Lyttos in Crete, dating to around 500–450 BCE. The idea that a Cretan inscription stood here might seem odd, but in reality it makes sense: Delphi was a diplomatic theater.
The Lyttian Inscription at Delphi, dating to around 500–450 BCE
City-states erected inscribed stones to commemorate alliances, grant asylum, or declare political stances. In the case of Lyttos, such a stele might have been placed at Delphi as a public diplomatic message, invoking Apollo’s authority and broadcasting their decisions to the wider Greek world. Delphi mediated disputes, legitimized treaties, and symbolically “blessed” political acts—far more than just a mystical shrine, it was the nervous system of ancient Greek interstate relations.
The Theatre and the Stadium
Continuing uphill, the path eventually brought me to the Ancient Theatre of Delphi, perched dramatically on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. From the upper tiers, the view was almost unreal—terraces of stone seating overlooking the valley of olive orchards and the shimmering Gulf of Corinth in the distance. Here, festivals, hymns, and performances honoring Apollo once echoed through the mountains. The theatre wasn’t entertainment in the modern sense. Instead it was part of the religious calendar, a way to celebrate the god through art.
Ancient Theatre of Delphi with increasingly epic landscape views
A little higher still, at the very top of the sanctuary, lay the Stadium of Delphi. This elongated arena hosted the athletic competitions of the Pythian Games—the second most important games in the ancient world after the Olympics. Footraces, music contests, and displays of strength and skill all unfolded here. Standing on its stone starting line, surrounded by pine trees and cliffs, one could imagine the cheers of thousands filling the space during festival years.
The Stadium of Delphi where athletic displays unfolded
Yet even after reaching the stadium—the topmost structure at the archaeological site—I knew something was missing. That iconic round building associated so strongly with Delphi, the one that appears in documentaries, photos, and every pop-culture reference to the oracle…
The Tholos of Athena Pronaia
The structure I was thinking about wasn’t actually inside the main sanctuary at all. It sat a short walk down the road, past the remains of the Ancient Gymnasium, in the sanctuary of Athena Pronaia—the “Athena Before the Temple,” meaning this was the precinct pilgrims first encountered before reaching Apollo’s oracle.
I had finally found the iconic Tholos of Athena Pronaia
And there it was: the Tholos of Athena Pronaia, a circular structure with elegant columns arranged in a perfect ring. Even in ruins, it radiates an unmistakable mystique. No one is entirely sure what ritual purpose the Tholos served—perhaps a hero shrine, perhaps a place of offerings, perhaps something more symbolic—but its presence is powerful. Standing before it, I finally felt that familiar image of Delphi snap into place.
Blessing received—my journey could continue
This was the kind of spot I imagined ancient heroes visiting before setting off on impossible quests—seeking the oracle’s blessing, hoping a single prophecy might tilt fate in their favor. And now here I was, halfway through my own Odyssey in the Mountains, smiling at the timeless architecture and imagining the oracle nodding her approval for the rest of my journey.
Heat, Hills, and a Quiet Afternoon
With my pilgrimage complete, the mid-day sun began to press down with its full force. Temperatures were now climbing past 35°C. After a brief wander through modern-day Delfi, I decided it was time to make my way back to the campsite.
It was nap time for the friendly felines
Unlike my packed, power-walk days in Athens, the Delphi leg of my journey felt more balanced—part exploration, part recovery. Something about the mountains, the quiet, the air thick with history and stories, made the days feel like a kind of mental reset. Maybe even a subtle, ancient spiritual cleansing.
Even the Greek-ets were resting in the afternoon
By the time I reached the campsite, the heat had become overwhelming, so I spent the rest of the afternoon in much calmer fashion: swimming, resting in the shade, and letting the weight of the morning settle in. Sometimes travel is about movement; Delphi reminded me that it can also be about stillness.
An Ancient Pilgrimage
My following day in Delphi was dedicated to walking a part of an ancient Greek pilgrimage road. Thousands of years ago, when people crossed the Greek world to consult the Oracle of Apollo, their journey didn’t end in Delphi itself. They would first arrive by ship at the coastal city of Kirrha, the ancient harbor of Delphi on the Gulf of Corinth. From there, the sacred path led through a vast, centuries-old olive grove and slowly climbed the slopes of Mount Parnassus until it finally reached the sanctuary.
The Gulf of Corinth seen from the road near Delphi
Most visitors stopped at Delphi — after all, they had reached the world’s spiritual center — but the pilgrimage road continued even higher into the mountains, winding through forests and ravines until it reached the Corycian Cave, a place with a long, mysterious history. In myth, it was sacred to the nymphs and to Pan; in the real world, it was deeply tied to Delphi’s ritual landscape. Pilgrims, priests, and initiates came here for ceremonies long predating the Temple of Apollo, and some ancient writers even hinted that ecstatic rites connected to the oracle took place within its depths.
On this second day, I planned to walk the road all the way down to the Gulf and back. Then, on my last full day, I hoped to follow the other half — the steep path up to the cave.
The Guardian Cerberus
My journey began with a zig-zagging road descending the mountainside. There was a small village to cross before reaching the rugged “ancient Greek wilderness.” But as I would soon discover, the path was guarded by Cerberus, the hound of Hades himself.
Church of Agios Georgios Chrisso (ancient Krissa), Phocis Region, Greece 19th–20th century
I was walking through this quiet village, music in my ears, when a dog erupted from a house whose gate stood wide open. And this was not the “tail-wagging hello stranger!” bark. No. This was the “YOU SHALL NOT PASS, O MORTAL INTRUDER” kind — full territorial mode.
I stopped. Hesitated. Whipped out my phone and checked Google Maps for an alternate route. There wasn’t one. Of course.
The beast stood its ground, delivering occasional growls to remind me that mortals have limits. There was no owner in sight; no obvious escape; no diplomatic channel. My frustration rose.
A Mortal’s Resolve Before the Gate of Hades
Finally, I told myself: No mutt is going to stop Odyssian from completing his legendary journey. So with one slow, steady breath, I walked forward — calm, confident, and acting as if the underworld’s guardian wasn’t right there barking his judgement upon me.
Cerberus did not appreciate my aura of divine-level indifference. His protests grew louder as I passed, refusing to acknowledge him. I kept my stride firm. Then, suddenly — WHUMP. The hound head-butted my butt.
Not a bite. Not even a nip. Just a firm, exasperated shove from the snout, the canine equivalent of: Yeah, that’s right, keep moving, monkey. This is MY realm. I burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, tense, and utterly mythological all at once.
Descending the ancient path after my close encounter with Cerberus
We had both achieved our victories: I left his sacred territory, and he successfully defended it. And with that peace treaty sealed, the ancient path toward Kirrha lay open.
The Modern Lifeline of the Pleistos Valley
A little further down the mountain, just as the last houses of the village faded behind me, the trail crossed a curious sight: a narrow concrete water channel cutting across the hillside. It felt oddly out of place in the dry, rugged terrain — a quiet reminder that even in landscapes steeped in ancient history, modern Greece still threads its necessities through the mountains.
Coming across the Mornos Aqueduct on my journey
This was an exposed section of the Mornos Aqueduct, part of the vast Evinos–Mornos system that carries drinking water all the way to Athens. Most of the aqueduct runs hidden through tunnels and underground conduits, but here in the upper valley it surfaces briefly before disappearing back into the slopes. The terrain around it was still harsh and sun-baked, all rock, scrub, and brittle grass — no shade, no olive trees yet, and the day was already beginning to heat up as noon approached.
Scuba diving trip all the way to Athens?
For a moment a moment I contemplated having a sip. It looked clean, cool, and almost inviting. But then I remembered the long lasting downstairs consequences of drinking tainted water once. I later learned, this channel carries treated drinking water bound for Athens, part of a tightly monitored system that supplies a huge portion of the capital. Locals sometimes splash their hands in it to cool off, but it’s not meant to drink from directly.
A Chapel in the Highlands
Leaving the aqueduct behind, I continued toward the edge of the highlands and soon came upon the small Byzantine church of Agios Georgios. A 10th–12th century chapel perched quietly on the slope, it watches over the pilgrims’ trail much like it has for a millennium. From here the view spilled wide into the Pleistos Valley and out toward the Corinthian Gulf — a perfect spot for a short break in the rare patch of shade.
The Byzantine church of Agios Georgios on the ancient path
About a kilometer downhill lay Chrisso, gateway to the vast Sacred Olive Grove of Krissa — also known as the Krisaean Plain or Amfissa Olive Grove. A UNESCO-protected landscape of 5,500 hectares and more than 1.2 million olive trees, it is the largest continuous olive grove in Greece. Some of its trees date back centuries, even a thousand years, and the grove itself has roots reaching over 3,000 years into the past. This is the “Sea of Olives” the ancient pilgrims crossed on their way from the coast at Kirra to the Oracle of Delphi.
The Sacred Olive Grove of Krissa stretching out in every direction
By this point, however, I had made a rookie mistake: I’d run out of water. I was still operating on “Transylvanian / Norwegian mountains” where clean springs and streams appear regularly. Greek wilderness, as I quickly learned, is not that. Arid, sunbaked, and largely waterless — the kind of terrain that reminds you, unmistakably, that hydration isn’t optional.
Crossing the Sea of Olives
Luckily, Kirra was not far. With the steep hills behind me and the terrain flattening out into the endless olive grove, I pushed onward. The trees offered bursts of shade here and there, enough to keep me going even as thirst clawed its way up my throat.
Walking — or would it be swimming? — in the Sea of olives
One quick stop at a small store later — blessed cold water! — I had officially reached Kirra, the ancient port of Delphi. After nearly a week in Greece, I finally touched the Mediterranean Sea. The water was astonishingly warm, and the whole town felt quiet and unhurried, maybe because it was midweek, or maybe because Kirra simply is that kind of sleepy coastal place.
The rocky beaches of Kirra
After a refreshing dip, I found a nearby restaurant for lunch. I ordered chicken, which was excellent… but I immediately regretted it when the local at the next table began bragging — between blissful mouthfuls of crab — that this was the best seafood restaurant in the region. My heart (and stomach) sank. Next time, I suppose!
The Sun Strikes Back
By now, daily temperatures were climbing toward their brutal peak. My plan had been to hike all the way back up to Delphi, completing the full pilgrimage loop… but reality was setting in fast. Water would be an issue again, shade would be almost nonexistent, and the afternoon heat felt like stepping into an oven.
The Harbour of Kirra where ancient pilgrims would start their 12-14 km Sacred Walk up to the Oracle of Delphi
Eventually, I decided it was wiser — and safer — to find the bus station and catch a ride back. This also gave me the chance to buy my onward ticket to Patras and see where the Delphi bus stop was located. A practical detour in my otherwise mythical journey.
The Kiss sculpture by Kostas Varotsos on the Kirra seaside promenade
As I waited, hiding in whatever sliver of shade I could find, I checked the forecast: extreme heat warning, likely close to 40°C. No water sources, no shelter, and a steep mountain hike? More and more it looked like my plan to hike up the mountains the next day was not a great idea. After my unexpected brush with Cerberus earlier that morning, I wasn’t exactly eager to challenge Hephaestus’ furnace as well.
Pool lounging time with some serious tan lines
Back at camp, I mulled it over, but the conclusion didn’t change. And indeed — the next day was ferocious. So instead of the planned hike to the Corycian Cave, I spent most of it by the pool, dipping in and out to survive the scorching air. A little disappointing, sure, but pushing into hazardous conditions for the sake of stubbornness would’ve been foolish.
The rising moon at dusk over the Pleistos Valley
With my last day in Delphi drawing to a close, the soundtrack of my journey began rising again — that familiar hum of anticipation — as I boarded the bus toward the port city of Patras. My Odyssey in the Mountains was officially behind me.
Across the Bridge to Patras
Following a two-hour bus ride along the coast, we eventually crossed the impressive Rio–Antirrio Bridge (Charilaos Trikoupis) — a modern engineering marvel stretching almost 3 km across the Gulf of Corinth. It links mainland Greece with the Peloponnese, not far from where the ancient lands of Achaea, Elis, and the wider sphere of classical Sparta once lay. The city of Patras, Greece’s third largest, came shortly after. Not a classic tourist hotspot, but that only made me more curious about what this coastal metropolis really had to offer.
Coming up on the Rio–Antirrio Bridge
I had booked a cheap two-star hotel somewhere in the center. Out of all my accommodations during the trip, this was the most run-down looking, for sure — cracked tiles, peeling paint, a fridge that hummed like an angry bee. But it served its purpose. And the city itself, from first glance, felt rougher around the edges: lived-in, gritty, but unmistakably authentic. A glimpse of everyday modern Greece rather than a curated postcard.
After settling in, I picked out the first major attraction highlighted on Google Maps — the Church of Saint Andrew — and headed straight there.
The Church of Saint Andrew
The Church of Saint Andrew of Patras is one of the largest churches in Greece and one of the most significant pilgrimage sites in the Orthodox world. The current basilica was completed in 1974, built to complement an older 19th-century church standing beside it. Its enormous central dome, crowned with a shimmering cross, is visible from a distance — a beacon rising over the western edge of the Peloponnese.
The Church of Saint Andrew of Patras
Saint Andrew himself holds a special place in both Christian tradition and local Patras identity. According to early accounts, Andrew was the first of the Apostles called by Christ, earning him the title “Protoklētos” — the First-Called. His missionary journeys eventually led him to Greece, where he preached across the Peloponnese. It was in Patras, tradition says, that he met his martyrdom: crucified on an X-shaped cross at the order of the Roman proconsul Aegeates. This distinctive form — now known globally as “St. Andrew’s Cross” — became one of the Apostle’s enduring symbols.
Preserved fragments of Saint Andrew’s cross
Because Patras is believed to be the site of Andrew’s final days, the church holds several relics directly connected to him. Inside the basilica — richly decorated with icons, mosaics, chandeliers, and sweeping arches — you’ll find some of its most treasured objects: portions of the Apostle’s skull, returned to Patras from the Vatican in 1964 in a historic gesture of goodwill; fragments of the cross on which he was martyred, preserved in ornate reliquaries; and even a section of the rope believed to have bound him during the crucifixion.
The main reliquary of Saint Andrew’s head
These relics draw thousands of pilgrims each year, especially on November 30, the Feast of Saint Andrew. Even for someone simply passing through the city, the atmosphere inside feels heavy with history — layered centuries of faith, devotion, and legend.
Among Ruins and Relics at Sunset
After leaving the grand basilica behind, I wandered through the surrounding streets as the evening light turned warm and golden. The area around Saint Andrew’s Church is dotted with layers of history, and as I meandered downhill I kept stumbling across ruins almost casually embedded in the modern city — a random Roman-era retaining wall here, the excavated foundations of an early Christian basilica there.
Roman-era retaining wall near the Cathedral in Patras
These remains belong to the ancient martyrium complex built directly over the spot where Saint Andrew is believed to have been crucified around 60 AD. Just beside the archaeological site stands the Old Church of Saint Andrew, a much smaller 19th-century structure that predates the modern basilica. Once it housed relics of the Apostle himself, but since the consecration of the new cathedral in 1974, those relics have been relocated to a special shrine in the larger church.
Excavated remains of the ancient basilica and martyrium
Patras basically built its entire religious identity around this exact patch of ground where the apostle was killed. Pretty powerful place to stumble across while just wandering the city!
With the sun now sinking behind the Gulf of Patras and the light softening into twilight, I finally turned back toward my hotel, ready to continue exploring the city with fresh energy the next day.
Walking Through the Roman Heart of Achaea
My day in Patras started with a long city walk up toward one of its most distinctive landmarks: the Roman Odeon. Patras may not have the same immediate name recognition as Athens or Corinth, but what it does have is a remarkably intact Roman layer — and the Odeon is the crown of that stratum.
The restored Roman Odeon of Patras
Dating from the 1st or early 2nd century A.D., the Odeon once served as a venue for musical events, small theatrical performances, and public ceremonies. Its size may feel modest compared to the great imperial theatres of the east, but that’s exactly what makes it so interesting: it’s a Roman building scaled to the needs of a thriving port city on the edge of Greece.
The stage building of the Roman Odeon
The Odeon was buried under earth for centuries and only rediscovered in 1889 when a landslide revealed part of the seating. Since then the structure has been impressively restored — the cavea, the stage buildings, and even the backstage complex have been reconstructed enough to give a genuine sense of how it functioned. Its red brickwork, marble seating edges, and compact proportions make it feel almost intimate.
View towards the ancient agora from near the Odeon
As far as I recall, entry here was free, and that aligns with older guides, though fees may change. Either way, it was a great first stop and set the tone for the rest of the day: Patras unfolds its history piece by piece, and most of it sits right out in the open.
The Castle of Patras
High above the modern city, on the pine-covered hill that once guarded the ancient acropolis of Patrai, stands the Castle of Patras (Kastro Patras). Built by the Byzantine emperor Justinian I in the 6th century AD on the ruins of a Roman-era temple of Artemis, it was later strengthened by Franks, Venetians, and Ottomans – every conqueror leaving their own layer of stone and story. The triangular inner keep, the deep moat (now a green garden), and the six bastions still feel like a living timeline.
The park-like alleyways within Patras Castle
The castle inner part provides pleasant walkways among its ruins with a the park-like feel to it. From the ramparts you get sweeping views of the old town and the Gulf of Patras. The mix of stonework styles makes it a good example of how cities like this evolved in cultural layers.
The sea through the castle gate
Walking around the battlements, though, was undeniably refreshing after the city streets. If Patras’ Roman side shows you its internal world, the castle gives you its vantage point. I also vaguely remember this site being free as well, but I might be mistaken.
The Archaeological Museum of Patras
After exploring the old town and castle heights, I walked about three kilometers across the city to the Archaeological Museum of Patras. Built relatively recently, with the modern building inaugurated in 2009, the museum showcases artifacts from the region spanning from the Neolithic era (4th millennium BC) up to late antiquity.
Mycenaean zoomorphic vessels (askoi), 12th century BCE. These duck-shaped ritual containers were likely used for oils or libations.
Inside, the permanent exhibition is organized into three major halls: Private Life, Public Life, and Cemeteries. The collection includes Mycenaean-era pottery, Roman-era mosaics from wealthy villas, daily-use tools, sculptures, tomb artifacts, and remnants from various aspects of private and public life. These items together offer a vivid glimpse into how people lived, worked, and celebrated life in Patras across millennia.
A young girl’s skull crowned with delicate terracotta blossoms, 300–200 BC
Among the museum’s most striking pieces were several Hellenistic-period skulls adorned with delicate terracotta or gilded myrtle wreaths, dating to roughly 300–275 BC. These decorated crania, originally part of funerary rituals, convey a deeply personal and almost haunting glimpse into ancient beliefs surrounding death and remembrance.
The Beauty of Patras mosaic (2nd century AD) — She’s still putting on her makeup.
In the Public Life and Private Life halls, mosaics from Roman-era villas depict scenes of daily activities, mythological motifs, and geometric patterns, while other objects — lamps, jewelry, household tools — make the past feel surprisingly immediate and tangible.
Mycenaean Octopus Bathtub (ca. 1300 BC) — I wouldn’t mind one of these
Compared with the National Archaeological Museum in Athens, which overwhelms with scale and monumental treasures, the Patras museum feels more personal and eclectic. Its mix of unusual and intimate pieces — from the skulls with wreaths to the Mycenaean octopus bathtub — offers a glimpse into everyday life and local practices that you won’t get in the capital. Visiting both museums gives a richer perspective on Greece’s layered history, making Patras well worth the stop.
Lunch, Late-Afternoon Wander
After the museum, I treated myself to a late lunch — paidakia (lamb chops), a hearty and well-earned meal after all the walking and sightseeing. The late afternoon sun was slowly leaning west, casting the city in warm, golden light.
Paidakia with garlic mashed potatoes
I continued my stroll through Patras through the scattered Roman ruins, including what remains of an ancient Roman stadium. The ruins lie amid the city’s winding streets; while they’re not as well preserved or grand as some major ancient stadia, they provide another layer of Roman presence beneath the modern city fabric.
The End of This Leg of My Journey
As I walked among the stones, mosaics, and fragmented walls, I felt the weight of a very different kind of history than the one I’d absorbed back in Athens. The capital overwhelms you with its grand Hellenic past — the kind of iconic, marble-crowned scenery that needs no introduction. Patras, by contrast, doesn’t deliver that same postcard-perfect Greek antiquity. Instead, it reveals its past in quieter, rougher layers: Roman arches half-swallowed by modern streets, broken mosaics exposed under patches of wild grass, and scattered ruins almost casually embedded in the city’s everyday life.
Remains of the Roman Stadium in Patras
Yet that contrast made it all the more compelling. Here, I wasn’t walking through curated monuments but through a city that had been built and rebuilt over centuries, each era leaving traces without fully erasing the last. Patras may not have Athens’ classical grandeur, but it offered a vivid sense of the Roman world lingering beneath the surface.
Patras and the Ionian Sea viewed from Patras Castle
Having now explored the legendary Athenian capital, traversed the foothills of Parnassus and the sacred olive groves, paid my tribute to the Oracle of Delphi, and delved into the rich Roman and Christian heritage of Patras, I felt the full weight and wonder of this leg of my Odyssey in the Mountains. With each step, I had moved through layers of history, myth, and modern life, and now I was ready to embark on the final stretch of my journey — a voyage across the sparkling waters of the Ionian Sea toward the storied isles of the west, to Ithaca, the homeland of Odysseus himself.
After experiencing the worlds biggest heavy metal festival in Wacken, Germany, I was on my way to EUGEN in Austria. this was going to be a personal return to EUGEN after years away. However, getting from a small obscure place in northwestern Germany to a small obscure place in south Austria proved to be challenging.
EUGEN Austria
Just to briefly recap, EUGEN is an annual European geoscience event held in different European countries each year. For the most part it’s a one week camping party with various activities and events attended by a bunch of geology students and enthusiasts from across the continent. You can read more about it on my previous post on EUGEN.
Somewhere in Carinthia on a 2018’s hot summer day
The last EUGEN I went to was back in 2009 in the Netherlands. A whole 9 years later, I was once more getting ready for the big geo-party of the summer; but this time, in Austria. The camp location was near Sittersdorf in Carinthia, not far from the Slovenian border.
Travel logistics
When I was planning my Wacken-EUGEN summer holiday, I quickly realized the logistic nightmare of getting from one place to another. The solution I found unfortunately involved cutting my last day at Wacken short. A low blow, considering that one of my all time favorite bands was playing that night. However, I had no choice if I wanted to make it to EUGEN in time.
Somewhere on my way to EUGEN Austria
With a sad sigh, I left Wacken on the last night of the festival, en route to Hamburg. From Hamburg I had a late night flight to Geneva, where I would have to spend the night. As a good frugal traveler, I chose to sleep in the airport.
From someone that has slept in various airports, I can tell you that Geneva airport is the worst one I had to spend a night in. Small, limited and very uncomfortable. I recall having to sleep on the hard floor because their benches were not at all suited for lying down.
Waiting in Sittersdorf train station
After a tortured night with limited poor quality sleep, I took my next flight to Austria. My memory’s pretty hazy about this part, probably due to sleep depravation at the time, but I think I had a direct flight from Geneva to Klagenfurt. There’s a slim chance I may have had to stop in Vienna too, but I’m not sure. Probably not, though. I do remember a train ride following my flight. Likely from Klagenfurt to Sittersdorf, where I got picked up from by the organizers.
Campsite
The campsite was a beautiful green field near Sonegger lake, surrounded by forests. There were only a handful of tents up by the time I arrived. I was there pretty early in the morning. I immediately set up my tent and crashed.
The green pastures around our campsite
Several hours of much needed sleep later, it was time to mingle. I joined the group of German-speakers by the main tent. They were all shocked when I told them I had been to EUGEN a decade ago. It was great to see a couple of familiar faces from Switzerland 2018. I recognized Jumbo, one of the original founders of EUGEN, and Gaudenz, one of the organizers of EUGEN Switzerland.
The annual pro Kubb-league with master thrower Gaudenz
Soon enough the drinks were flowing and I was making new friends. This is where I met Moritz. Well, one of the Moritzs. The crazy fun German one. An avid traveler and explore, like yours truly; and a good friend to date.
I also met fellow metalhead David from Spain, Sophie from Austria, Jolanta and Julius from Lithuania, Valentina, Jernej and Teja from Slovenia, and many others. As the day passed on, more people arrived. By nightfall the party was raging!
The tranquil Sonegger lake next to out campsite
The next morning I woke up surrounded by tents. I had been annexed by the Slovenians.
Limestone quarry
♫ On the first day of EUGEN my true love gave to me—a field trip to a limestone qua-rry! ♫
Sorry, I just had to get that out of my head. Indeed, a limestone quarry. I don’t remember where, or what, and I couldn’t find any archived information on it. But I have the photos to prove it! Maybe one of my EUGEN readers can point out the name and location in the comments.
Limestone with the remains of ancient little sea-critters
I recall attending a presentation in the morning where most of us were struggling to stay awake due to the long night of dancin’ and drinkin’. I also remember asking one of the gentleman there if they were hiring any geos. Me and my constant desperate search for work…
First time I saw one of these big monsters
Actually, now that I mention that, I do believe one of my main motives for attending EUGEN in 2018 was to expand my professional network in hopes that it would lead me to a job opportunity in the future. Absolutely fascinating to think back to this considering the way thing’s turned out. Keep this in mind for future reference!
The unknown quarry we visited on my first day
After some schmoozing and snacks, we got a tour of the quarry. From the heights of the “lookout tower” to the depths of the pit. Ok, we didn’t actually go deep into the pit, but we did go up the tower.
Lindwurmbrunnen in Neuer Platz, Klagenfurt
Later that day we stopped by Klagenfurt for some urban sightseeing.
Karavanke Geopark and The Dobratsch
On another day, we had a multi-stop field trip in the Karavanke UNESCO Global Geopark. From our first stop in Bad Eisenkappel, we headed to the Trögerner gorge and the forest reserve Potok. Following a shallow river up the gorge, inching closer to Slovenia, we reached a fault zone with red colored Slovenian rocks migrating down the river into Austria.
Hiking up the Trögerner gorge
The next stop was the 54 m high Wildenstein waterfall, one of the highest in Europe. Considering the heatwave we were experiencing some of our EUGENeers decided to take a cold shower under the waterfall.
Wildenstein waterfall in the Karavanke Geopark
Seems like the hot weather had followed me from Wacken and was there to stay. Even if I didn’t partake in the thermic shock of a waterfall shower, I looked forward to a nice plunge in the lake when back at camp.
Touring Jakomini Quarry
On the final fieldtrip day, we toured around the Dobratsch Nature Park, visiting the site of a large, historic rockslide. After another stop at Rosstratte Viewpoint to admire the scenery, we visited the active Jakomini Quarry, where we got a guided tour.
The Geolympics and nightly parties
As always, one of the days was dedicated to the Geolympics. A series of competitive, crazy, outdoor group activities. From drinking and athletic competitions, to finding cones in a lake, we spent the entire day sweating and laughing in the summer heat.
Uh-oh! Looks like I lost a competition. Perhaps it was a game of Kubb
After, and in between events, we would relax with a glass of beer or spritz, and play a game or ten of Kubb. Occasionally we would hitch a ride with the orga-team into town to grab a few supplies and snacks.
Everyone’s just chilling in camp
The evenings would always consist of raging parties late into the night. Considering that before EUGEN I had already spent a few days and nights at a huge festival, by my second day in camp, I was already exhausted. Perhaps combining two wild events with long nights of drinking and screaming wasn’t the smartest idea… It was great fun though! Well, at least until I got a sore throat that stuck with me until the end.
Just a normal night at EUGEN with Moritz
As was tradition, on the night of the group presentations, we got to vote for our favorites and find out who would organize next year’s EUGEN. With applause and cheers the Lithuanian group took up the responsibility.
Long nights of endless glasses of beer and spritz while blasting a loud obnoxious Lithuanian song on repeat
With a promise to see each other again in Lithuania the following year, my big summer 2018 adventure had come to a close. It was an amazing experience where I got to meet and befriend a tone of new people from across the continent. With a wicked smirk and a bag full of great memories, I flew back home to Denmark and some much needed rest.
On the morning following our road trip to Briksdalsbreen, we were back in Fjærland. The plan was to drive back to Trondheim that day. On our drive back we would end up paying an unexpected visit to a very familiar place from back when we traveled to Norway the first time.
I just love these grassy rooftop wooden cabins
Before heading out, however, we had to pay the glaciers another visit. This time around we settled for a closer option and walked to the base of Bøyabreen glacier.
At a short distance from the Norwegian Glacier Museum, Bøyabreen is an arm of the the larger Jostedalsbreen Glacier. From the rainy clouds above thick blue ice lurched down the steep mountains towards the glacial lake beneath. Several streams originating from the ice sheet above came down the rocky cliffs forming series of thin waterfalls all around.
Bøyabreen glacier, Fjærland
It was a splendid view. One that could only be honored with a photo reenactment of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam”.
Just as good if not better than the original
An unexpected visit to a familiar place
On our way back to Trondheim we stopped in a small town by the fjord to gas up the car. Since I wasn’t using my google maps back then as much as I do today, I had no idea where we were. Then Daniel pointed out that we were in fact back in Sogndalsfjøra.
With that realization came back the memories from our time there three years before. During our first adventure in Norway when we sought out fjords and mountains, Sogndalsfjøra was the furthest we got northwest. I brought up the idea of driving all the way back to Fagernes and our favorite campsite.
A stop down memory lane: Sogndalsfjøra, 2016
However, we still had a long drive to do back north to Trondheim. So we decided to skip on that idea. Still, it was great to see that little town filled with great memories.
Mountains and the church
On our way back north, we followed Lustrafjorden across the Jostedalsbreen National Park and passed into the Jotunheimen National Park. A stunning alpine wilderness renowned for its towering peaks, deep valleys, and pristine lakes, Jotunheimen is known as the “Home of the Giants”.
Driving through the Jotunheimen National Park
The rugged terrain of Jotunheimen is deeply rooted in Norse mythology as it was traditionally considered the realm of the Jötnar, the frost and rock giants. In Norse tales, the Jötnar were both adversaries and occasional allies of the gods. Thor, the god of thunder, frequently ventured into Jotunheim to battle these formidable beings, showcasing his strength and bravery. Meanwhile, Loki, himself of Jötunn descent, often served as a bridge between the two worlds, blending conflict with cunning alliances.
Glacier creeping across the Jotunheim mountains
The park is a paradise for hikers and climbers, featuring 29 of Norway’s highest mountains, including Galdhøpiggen, the tallest in Northern Europe.
Lom stave church
After crossing Jotunheimen we soon arrived in the village of Lom. There we made one final stop and visited Lom Stavkyrkje, one of the largest and best-preserved stave churches in Norway. Originally built in 12th century, its intricate carvings depict Christian symbols alongside Norse pagan motifs, reflecting the transitional period between paganism and Christianity in Norway.
Interior of the Lom stave church
Later modifications added medieval touches such as extended aisles and windows. The interior also reflects a more medieval and Renaissance style including painted decorations, artifacts and a preserved altarpiece.
Shopping across borders
The following day Daniel needed to do some bulk grocery shopping, so we hopped into the car and paid Sweden an unexpected visit… Yeah, so apparently it’s a fairly common thing for Norwegians living close to the border to cross over to Sweden to do their bulk shopping since it’s significantly cheaper. In fact, there are even dedicated shopping centers on the Swedish side built close to the border for this specific purpose. One of them was located in the small town of Storlien, about a one and a half hour drive from Trondheim.
On a shopping trip to Sweden
The weather was much better that day. Mostly sunny, with just a few scattered clouds. The landscape was quite impressive as well. Rounded, rocky mountains stuck out from the vibrant autumn colored vegetation and swampy terrain stretching in all directions.
Plenty of blueberries to snack on while hiking
At this point we had crossed over to Sweden and my adventure senses were tingling. I managed to talk Daniel into hiking one of the nearby nameless mountains. So we set off through the bushy and hilly terrain, munching on plenty of blueberries along the way.
Conquering the nameless Swedish mountains
As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but pristine wilderness. The walk reminded me of our Borgund mountain hike from three years before. Once more it felt like we were the only people around for hundreds of miles. Quiet, peaceful, tranquil. Well, as long as you ignored the main road we started walking from.
It’s not obvious from the photo, but my tongue was berry-blue
After reaching one of the cliffs and fulfilling our daily adventure-o-meter, we were ready to head back and finish our grocery shopping quest.
Our brief visit to Storlien, Sweden
Trondheim
I spend the rest of my remaining time in Norway in and around Trondheim. In the evening, Daniel took me to one of his favorite spots on the fjord to show off his highly improved fishing skills. By this point he was apparently becoming quite the fisherman, but alas, no fish were caught that night.
Should have just fished with the crane
On my last day we strolled around in Trondheim’s city center. One of the most iconic buildings was Nidaros Cathedral. An impressive Gothic/Romanesque cathedral, Nidaros has been a sacred site for pilgrims throughout the middle ages. The cathedral also stands as a symbol of Norwegian national identity and heritage where most of the country’s monarchs have been consecrated throughout its history.
The intricate façade of Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim
Apart from religious services and royal ceremonies, the cathedral also hosts numerous cultural events year round. These events range from concerts to art shows, with the most famous one being the annual St. Olav Festival, which includes medieval markets and special church services.
The Statue of Saint Olaf up on a high pedestal near Nidaros Cathedral
Another iconic part of Trondheim is the neighborhood of Bakklandet. Located on the east side of the Nidelva River, just across from the city center, the area features a set of 17th century colorful wooden houses with cultural significance. The vibrant color style reminded me of other famous Scandinavian neighborhoods, like Nyhavn in Copenhagen, Denmark.
Bakklandet neighborhood in Trondheim
After strolling around the city for half the day, it was once more time for me to depart Norway. I knew I was going to come back again, sooner or later. But for now, I had to return to my life in Denmark.
Following my two-weeks adventure in Iceland in August 2016, I returned to Denmark. However, it wasn’t for long as I was planning another little trip. This time non-work related. During the time I had moved and settled in Denmark, one of my best friends from back in Romania, Daniel, had decided to move to Norway. The promised land, the land of an unforgettable adventure that started it all for both of us. Now that I was financially stable and settled into my new life, it was time to return to the far north and reunite the brotherhood!
Thus just a few weeks after my return from Iceland, I took a flight from Copenhagen to Trondheim to visit my best buddy in Norway.
Once more above the clouds
Back in Norway
I got to Trondheim pretty late at night. By the time Daniel picked me up and we got back to his place his then girlfriend was sleeping. As was most of the neighborhood. I remember we sat out on the porch during the cool Norwegian night drinking and chatting away while trying to keep our voices down.
We had a lot to catch up on since both of our lives had radically changed since last we met. However, no matter how much had changed, how much we’d change, we would always seamlessly pick up right where we left off.
After one and a half year, the Brotherhood reunites!
The next day was a Friday and Daniel had planned a little road trip for us over the weekend. After a lazy morning, he had to run some errands in the city so I tagged along and got my first brief view of Trondheim.
Driving around Trondheim, Norway
Around noon we drove over to the one of the University of Trondheim locations to pick up his girlfriend. As I was waiting, I remember admiring this casually parked submarine in the harbor right next to the building.
This is not the yellow submarine
Soon enough, we were all packed up and ready to hit the road for the weekend.
Jostedalsbreen National Park
For the rest of the day and well into the night we drove to the Jostedalsbreen National Park, mainland Europe’s largest glacier. We couldn’t see much of anything during our night drive, but the next morning we were treated to quite a spectacular view.
A cool, misty morning in Jostedalsbreen National Park
We woke up in the heart of the national park, somewhere in, or near Fjærland. It was like poetic justice that we started off our trip in the place that we were eyeing three years before, from across the fjords and mountains in Søgndal. I have to admit though, for the better part of this trip, I had no idea where we were. I was just marveling at our surroundings and enjoying the adventure.
Norwegian Glacier Museum in Fjærland
Our first stop of the day was the Norwegian Glacier Museum in Fjærland. The museum showcases the science of glaciology, the history of glaciers in Norway, and their role in climate change. It featured interactive exhibits, models, and presentations on the topic.
Glacier model at the Norwegian Glacier Museum
The museum also highlights the cultural significance of glaciers in Norway’s history and provides insight into the challenges and importance of preserving these natural wonders. But best of all, the museum had a big polar bear in the lobby area that I could high five!
Heck yeah!
Melkevoll Bretun
Following a scenic drive around and under the mountains, we ended up on the northern side of the glacier, at Melkevoll Bretun. Located near the Briksdal Glacier (Briksdalsbreen) in Stryn, Melkevoll Bretun offers stunning views of dramatic glacial landscapes. It was time for a little hike.
The trail to Briksdalsbreen glacial lake
A 3 km trail from Briksdal Mountain Lodge led all the way up to the Briksdalsbreen glacial lake. The winding gravel trail took us up the mountain through lush valleys surrounded by towering peaks and cascading waterfalls. On our way up we passed Kleivafossen waterfall, one of the major highlights of the the hike.
Kleivafossen waterfall spraying everyone that passed it by
Following the waterfall we passed by some cool glacial features in the outcropping rocks. Jettegryter, or the giant potholes formed naturally during the last Ice Age, when glacial meltwater carried rocks and debris that swirled in strong currents, grinding into the bedrock.
The giant potholes (Jettegryter) on the Briksdalsbreen trail
The polished, smooth wall of the rocks also revealed other neat features in these rocks that would excite any geology enthusiast.
Structural features in the rock layers, including displacement and boudinage
Of course a Norwegian hike wouldn’t be complete without encountering a pack of goats. Most of them were minding their own business, grazing around. But then there was this one goat perched up on a rock that was just staring down at us lowly humans like the king that he was.
Close encounter with the Goat King
Briksdalsbreen
Shortly after our encounter with the Goat King, we reached Briksdalsbreen glacial lake. A serene lake with a gorgeous view, Briksdalsbreen glacial lake continues to grow larger as the glacier gradually retreats over the decades.
Briksdalsbreen, an arm of the larger Jostedalsbreen ice cap
This was one of the best places to test out my newly acquired PENTAX digital camera. It wasn’t as fancy as a Canon, or Nikon, but its fixed lens had quite an impressive zoom for the time. The only problem was keeping the camera steady. I never invested in a tripod, so I had to always find just the right surface around to get my zoomed in shots.
Briksdalsbreen zoomed in
I ended up getting some really neat zoomed in shots of the glacier. One of them even captured distinctive cracks/crevasses in the blue ice.
Even more zoomed in action revealing cracks in the ice
Of course I couldn’t just ignore the jagged mountain peaks surrounding us. After a quick camera repositioning, I got some moody shots of the landscape as well.
Ice patches tucked away between the surrounding mountain ridges
Finally, Daniel ended up just in the right spot for a spaghetti western style shot!
The man, the viking, the legend, Dovahkiin Daniel
An epic sunset
After we finished our nature photoshoot at Briksdalsbreen, we slowly headed back to the parking lot. As we drove back towards our lodging, the clouds led up just enough to offer some amazing sunset views that just kept on getting better and better.
Sunlight just barely grazing the peaks of the mountains
Even Daniel was constantly staring into his mirrors while driving while we were “oo-ing” and “aa-ing” at the scenery. We ended up pulling over numerous times to get the best shots.
Jostedalsbreen in the distance
But it wasn’t until the apex of the setting sun that we were truly treated to some spectacular sights.
An epic Norwegian sunset
Nothing like a lake view of the burning red sky as the sun goes down behind the mountains and fjords. A perfect way to end a great day on the road. However, our adventures in Norway were not over yet. The story will continue in “The return to Norway part 2”.
Having now journeyed across most of the country for the last 10 days, our adventure in Iceland was soon coming to an end. With but a few days left to travel across the south of the country, I thought that I had seen everything this volcanic island’s landscape had to offer. However, to my surprise, the south would provide a radically different environment then what I’d seen thus far. There, the unrelenting waves of the Atlantic constantly battered the shore, while moody, dark clouds kept the tall looming cliffs in a constant shade. In contrast to the desolate volcanic wastes of central Iceland, the south was a mystical place where valleys whisper and icebergs are born.
The gloomy, shadowy southern coast of Iceland
Southern Iceland
We drove from Laugarfell south to get back on the ring road. It was an overcast day. Quite typical of southern Iceland since the weather there is heavily influenced by the North Atlantic Ocean. The combination of the oceanic climate and proximity to the Arctic Circle means that weather can be highly unpredictable, with constant cloud cover, rain, and wind. Furthermore, the mountainous terrain exacerbates this, creating microclimates. It’s not a stretch to say it’s an entirely different land than the arid center, or the calmer north.
The clouds were there for good
After driving across green mountainous lands, in and out of tunnels, we arrived at the coast. The road followed the coastline and the visual was quite impressive. On the one side there was the vast North Atlantic Ocean, relentlessly battering the coastline. On the other side, towering cliffs loomed above us with their tops hidden by thick, low-hanging dark grey clouds.
A place I would have loved to explore more
As the road swerved around the base of the cliffs, I’d occasionally get a glimpse of thin waterfall, or a narrow valley hidden in the constant mist. On one occasion the fog lifted just enough to reveal an icy “limb” of the Vatnajökull glacier creeping down from one of those narrow valleys. The eerie sight reminded me of the “Paths of the Dead” valley from the Lord of the Rings.
Jökulsárlón
Every now and again there would be a small wooden house nestled in under the cliffs. I could just imagine the kind of tales and sagas one would be able to write while living in a fantastical environment such as this. It was around that time that I began considering potentially moving to Iceland for a time. perhaps as part of a PhD? I probably wouldn’t have wanted to live out my whole life there, but a solid few years could have been incredible.
Some of the more visible waterfalls along the way
Some time later, we arrived at Jökulsárlón glacier lagoon. A stunning glacial lagoon, Jökulsárlón is where large chunks of ice break off from the Vatnajökull glacier and float in serene waters before drifting out into the Atlantic Ocean. It is basically a place where icebergs are born.
Where icebergs are born and with them the worries of Atlantic seafarers
This tranquil, peaceful area is surrounded by dramatic landscapes like the nearby black sand beaches giving it an otherworldly feel. This unique landscape is of course a highly popular tourist attraction, where masses of people congregate for photos and boat tours offering a closer view of the ice formations.
Natural ice sculpture: The shark and the spear fisherman
Truly it was one the busiest places we’d experience in Iceland. Probably even busier than downtown Reykjavik.
Highway to Hella
After our brief stop at Jökulsárlón, we continued west towards Hella. Our destination for the day was Beindalsholt, a guesthouse located on a farm near the village of Hella. On the way we made another stop south of Öræfajökull to collect some tephra samples for another study Paul was involved with.
On the side of the road, two pieces of mangled steel that used to belong to the Skeiðarárbrú bridge. The bridge was severely damaged by flooding in 1996 after a volcanic eruption in Grímsvötn. The remains now served as a monument to the raw power of Iceland’s volcanic and glacial forces.
Skeiðarárbrú bridge monument
As we drove further away from Vatnajökull, the landscape opened up revealing more waterfalls, hills and distant mountains. On the way Paul pointed out one of Iceland’s largest lava flows as we passed it by, the Laki fissure eruption.
The lush landscape of southern Iceland
The Laki eruption began in 1783 and lasted for eight months. The eruption that created a volcanic fissure system stretching over 27 kilometers released large quantities of lava and toxic gases like sulfur dioxide causing an environmental catastrophe. Evidence suggesting that the quantity of ash and gasses released caused a cooling period in the northern hemisphere that contributed to the “Year Without a Summer” in 1816.
Hekla and the highlands
The next day was to be our last day in the field. We had two final targets to sample. Located further northeast, to reach them we drove back once more toward the all too familiar wastelands of central Iceland. On our way we passed by one of Iceland’s most famous active volcanos, Hekla.
Driving by Hekla on our way north
At 1491 m high, Hekla is part of a 40 km wide volcanic system linked to the underlying rift between the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. Notable for its frequent violent eruptions, Hekla is often referred to in Icelandic folklore as the Gateway to Hell.
One last trip into the Icelandic highlands
Contrary to Hekla, our target volcanoes, Saxi and Fontur were a lot less extravagant. In fact, they were relatively small phreatic craters composed of fine-grained unconsolidated crystal fragments. Once we reached Fontur, we realized we didn’t even need our geological hammers as we could simply scoop up a few fistfuls of loose crystals into our bags. Paul remarked that it was the most unorthodox sampling he had done so far.
Fresh olivine and plagioclase crystals, straight from Fontur
As we made our way back to the car, the weather turned bad. We took the opportunity to a have lunch and waited around in the car to see if we could ride out the rain. However it wasn’t going away and in the end we decided to pass on the hike to Saxi. After all, we had such a successful field campaign that we could afford missing out on one single sample.
The end to a great adventure
The day after, we drove back to Reykjavik. The sun came out to shine down on us one last time while on Icelandic soil. A few familiar sights greeted us on our way back. The moss-covered Laki lava fields followed us for the better part of the drive.
The friendly doggo at Beindalsholt greeting us in the morning
Later on, steam vents dotted the lush landscape as a constant reminder of the ongoing geothermal activity underneath. Finally the sights of increasing human activity dotted the rugged terrain as we approached the capital.
Moss covered lava flows from the Laki eruption
Once in Reykjavik the urban landscape took over completely. The rugged terrain replaced by wood, concrete and steel structures. Cars coming and going, and everyday people living their normal lives. A stark contrast to the harsh land they inhabit, as well as a testament to humanities nature to survive and thrive in the some of the most unforgivable places on Earth.
Walking around in Reykjavik
As my time in Iceland had come to a close, I walked the streets of Reykjavik one last time reflecting on the incredible sights I had seen. It had been a truly remarkable journey, filled with laughs, adventures and good times. It had also been an amazing mentor-student bonding experience between Paul and myself.
It’s been quite the ride, both living and retelling the journey
I believe that the details in which I could retell this story today, over 8 years later, are a tribute to the many fond memories gained during my trip there to Iceland. Hence, I will forever be thankful to Paul Martin for the opportunity to go to Iceland as part of my Masters thesis project.
As my geological trip across Iceland was progressing, I had run out of targets in north and central parts of the island. The next destinations were the east and south. Given the speedy sampling that we got done in the previous days, we were ahead of schedule. As a result I would soon embark on an impromptu journey across Iceland, from Snæfell in the east to Mývatn in the north.
Following our drive from Dreki, we spent the night at a guesthouse in a remote area in east Iceland. The owner was a big intimidating looking, bearded Icelandic gentleman. With a dog by his side and an axe in his hand, his visage combined with the isolated location gave us pause. Paul and I were wondering if we’d survive the night, or the man would chop us up into little bits. In the end our host turned out to be a warm and welcoming fellow. Genuinely curious about our work, he could not for the life of him wrap his head around what exactly was the purpose of my study.
Our AirBnB host’s doggie
The following morning we were supposed to get a replacement vehicle from the car rental company. We emptied the Landcruiser and waited for the rental agency representatives to come make the exchange.
Upon their arrival, they inspected the damaged car inside and out. I will never forget the hilarious moment one of them stuck their head inside the car and the foul smell created waves of wrinkles along his face. The odor of spilled food and beverages due to the absent suspensions made that car smell like a collage frat house. After the exchange we ended up with a smaller, more compact SUV in the form of a Dacia Duster.
Driving across the lush green landscape of eastern Iceland
How ironic that in Iceland of all places I’d end up behind the wheel of a Romanian car brand.
The snow-capped Mount Snæfell
Finally on the road again, we set off towards our new target area, Snæfell. An imposing snow-capped mountain, Snæfell is one of the tallest mountain peaks in eastern Iceland. When I gazed upon the mighty mountain, my hiking senses were tingling. However, our sampling points were not on Snæfell per se. Rather they were located on the various hills and in gullies surrounding the grand mountain.
The snow-capped Mount Snæfell rising above the horizon
This is where the novelty of Icelandic landform names had worn off for me. Ever since then, when other foreigners would come up to me and ask whether I could pronounce the name of the famous Eyjafjallajökull volcano, I would say “Please, that’s child’s play”. Then I would throw a few names from eastern Iceland at them like: Langihnjúkur, Nálhushnjúkar, or Vestri Sauðhnjúkar.
Some of the many “jukurs” and “jukars” we traversed and sampled
Indeed, there were many strange “jukurs” and “jukars” we trekked in our days around Snæfell. As we traveled further inland, with each new spot, we’d end up edging closer once more to the vast Vatnajökull ice field stretching across central Iceland. At around mid-day we took a lunch break atop one of our hills, marveling at the gorgeous view of Vatnajökull.
Nothing like having lunch with a panoramic view of Iceland’s largest ice cap
Another great day for sampling
Our first day in the east was quickly turning into another great success. With splendid weather and road conditions, we managed to sample over half of our targets around Snæfell. With but a few locations left, we decided to call it a day towards the late afternoon. That’s when I realized I didn’t have my borrowed geological hammer on me anymore.
The illusive hammer hiding in plain sight
Losing ones tools is such a typical rookie geologist mistake. Paul was eager to see how I’d deal with the problem. I was fairly certain I had forgotten it on our last outcrop. But the landscape was so uniform that it was hard to retrace our steps precisely. It didn’t take me long though to realize we had our GPS trackers on. So with some help from technology I quickly recovered the missing hammer. With a sly smirk on his face, Paul was visibly pleased with my quick thinking.
With a successful bounty in tow, we drove towards our new lodging, Laugarfell. A quaint mountain lodge fairly close to Snæfell, Laugarfell, with its two natural hot springs was quite a step up from the cramped and crowded huts we stayed at in central Iceland.
Natural hot spring at Laugarfell with Mount Snæfell in the background
The monolith
The second day the sky was overcast and there was a light drizzle in the air. We drove back towards Snæfell to continue our rock-hunt. During one of our stops we hiked along a mossy valley with lingering patches of snow and ice. The rocks and landscape clearly carved out by expanding ice sheets not long ago, geologically speaking.
I just loved the visual of the green-yellow vegetation seemingly seeping out from the dark rocky valleys and crevasses
All was going well as we circled the mystical Mount Snæfell, now covered in a thick layer of clouds. Our sampling for the entire region was nearly done. As we drove around, we spotted a large rock pillar sticking out of the side of a slope in the distance. We had time to spare so we decided to investigate.
Behold the Monolith, Sótaleiði
It was thus that we found Sótaleiði, or as I called it, the Monolith. This giant gravestone-shaped rock pillar composed of dark volcanic breccia was likely a large loose block remobilized by the receding ice sheet. A hiking trail panel nearby described the Monolith as Sótaleiði, a gravestone for the mythical giant Sóti.
Even though it wasn’t exactly the rock type we were looking for, we decided to take a sample for geochemical analysis, just out of curiosity.
Paying homage to the “gravestone”
Leaving the Monolith behind, we made one more quick stop on our way back to Laugarfell and grabbed the last of our target samples in eastern Iceland.
A journey across Iceland
Thanks to our good fortune and hard work, we were one day head of schedule. So I was hoping I could get Paul to go do some touristy sightseeing the following day. Specifically the Mývatn area which had caught my eye a few days before while we traveled around north Iceland. Unfortunately Paul had paper work he wished to catch up on, so he handed me the car keys and set me on my solo journey across Iceland.
The decision to let Paul solely drive throughout our trip came back to haunt me that day. I was quite reluctant about taking the wheel as it had been many years since I had driven and my past driving experience from Romania was minimal. Regardless, I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to go sightseeing in Iceland because of my driving fear and anxiety. So with shaky hands and heart in throat I set out towards Egilsstaðir and Mývatn.
The journey across Iceland, from Snæfell to Mývatn
The weather was not great that morning. Heavy rain and wind were constantly battering the car throughout my journey. In some parts of the drive the wind was so strong that it felt like it was trying to tip the car over. Regardless, I kept on going with my loud music blasting on. My main gripe at the time being how I couldn’t enjoy that wonderful moment of my life because of my high anxiety. I was freely driving alone in Iceland to my Norwegian black metal music. Something I couldn’t even have dreamt of years before and all I could think of was what could go wrong on the road.
Mývatn
As I got closer and closer to Mývatn, I was finally starting to relax. I had completed the 240 km drive (my longest continuous drive at that point) from Laugarfell to Mývatn. There was of course the little issue of driving back, but I wasn’t going to worry about that just yet. I was going to take my time and enjoy some sightseeing.
Oh my Dacia at the Dimmuborgir lava fields
Dark Fortresses
My first stop was the Dimmuborgir lava fields. To me this was a major attraction that I never thought I’d get to see, so I was super hyped. The main reason being that there is this Norwegian symphonic black metal band that I was a big fan of for years called Dimmu Borgir. Translated as “Dark Fortresses” their name was clearly inspired by the geologic feature in Iceland.
Orientation dial at the entrance to the lava fields
So what actually is the Dimmuborgir of Iceland you may ask. Simply put, it’s an expansive field of lava formations, including caves, pillars, and arches, which were created during a volcanic eruption approximately 2300 years ago.
Dimmuborgir lava fields, Iceland
This dramatic landscape formed when a large lava lake from the eruption began to cool and solidify on the surface while molten lava continued to flow beneath it. When the underlying lava drained away, the crust collapsed in some areas but left other sections standing, resulting in fascinating, unique, irregular features.
One of the many contorted lava features at Dimmuborgir
The name was given to reflecting the eerie, castle-like appearance of these lava structures. According to Icelandic folklore, the area is considered a mystical place, believed to be home to trolls and other supernatural beings. The site also ties into local legends about the Yule Lads, mischievous figures associated with Icelandic Christmas traditions.
I was in my element then like never before
The gloomy dark grey clouds above combine with the otherworldly landscape around me were fueling my vivid imagination. It was like an ancient dark fantasy conjured up by my young brooding mind had come to life. I deeply savored each moment of my time there.
The towering features resembling dark fortresses that earned the place its name
After a good couple of hours of walking around the lava fields I went back to the car and had some lunch. It was still fairly early in the afternoon so I decided to go check out one more attraction in the area.
“R” for Reverse
My point of interest was Hverfjall, a large volcanic crater nearby. There was just one little problem. I seemed to be having a tough time figuring out how to put the car in reverse so I could back out of the parking space. The “R” on the stick shift clearly showed left-down, but no matter how much I tried it wasn’t going in reverse. To make matters worse, the parking lot was on a cliff. So each time I’d tap the gas and it would go forward instead of backward, I’d be creeping closer and closer to the cliff’s edge.
One of my favorite photos from Mývatn capturing the widely diverse landscape of Iceland with craters, lava flows, steam vents all in one
I was so frustrated and embarrassed that I’d constantly look around to make sure nobody was paying attention to my laughably futile maneuvers. Clearly there had to be some trick to changing the gear. Upon a closer inspection I noticed the line leading to the “R” was discontinued. I thought that perhaps there was a button there, so I tried pushing the stick down. Another failed attempt. As the car got closer to the edge, I was running out of tries.
I stopped once more to think carefully. That’s when it hit me! This was a Dacia and I had driven Dacia cars before. The way you put a Dacia in reverse gear is a little weird. You have to grab the ring around the fabric of the stick shift and pull it up. Then you can push it left-down into the correct gear socket. Eureka! I could finally back out of my parking space!
Lake Mývatn, Iceland
A short drive later I arrived at Hverfjall.
Hverfjall
With my renewed confidence I parked the car like a boss, and headed up the trail to the crater. Hverfjall is a phreatomagmatic crater, formed by explosive interactions between magma and groundwater or surface water.
Hiking up Hverfjall
These interactions led to violent eruptions that fragmented the surrounding rock and created the large, circular crater with a nearly symmetrical shape. This type of eruption results in a tuff ring, which is evident in Hverfjall’s steep 420 m high walls. The eruption occurred approximately 2800 years ago, producing a crater that measures around 1 kilometer in diameter and 140 meters deep.
There’s an entire hiking trail around the rim of the crater. However, I’m not sure if it’s possible to go down into the crater itself. Sadly I didn’t have enough time to do the hike or explore too much. I only spent about half an hour taking in the sights before I hopped back into my newly mastered car to drive back to Laugarfell.
The phreatic crater, Hverfjall. At least as much as I could fit in a photo
I was less nervous about the drive then in the morning, but I felt quite tired for the first hour. At one moment I decided to pull over and go out for a few moments to allow the cold breeze to wake me up. I was also taking in the awesome sights of northern Iceland one last time. In spite of my driving related anxieties, this turned out to be one of my most memorable days in Iceland.
By the time I got back to eastern Iceland, the sun was out and shining. With a gorgeous sunset on the horizon I was finally enjoying every moment of the rest of my drive.
After our respite in northern Iceland, Paul Martin and I found ourselves driving towards the volcanic desert of central Iceland once more. Our rocky target of the day was the “Mother of all tuyas”, Herðubreið. Tuyas are flat-topped, steep-sided volcanoes that formed as a result of sub-glacier eruptions. Referred to as the Queen of Icelandic mountains, Herðubreið is one of the countries most iconic tuyas and a marvel to behold.
Herðubreið, the Mother of tuyas
To reach our target, we followed roads 1 and F88 into the Icelandic highlands until the turnoff to Herðubreiðartögl. Herðubreið, by far the most visually captivating edifice was in fact one of a series of eruptions in the same area. A shorter, more disproportionate sibling of it was Herðubreiðartögl. Given the relatively flat nature of the surrounding wasteland, the towering series of tuyas were evidently imposing even from afar. The closer we got the more we marveled at the sight and formation of these massive volcanic centers.
Lava cave around Herðubreið
Herðubreið and the lava fields
While approaching Herðubreið, the road became quite rough as it crossed a series of old lava flows. The ride was very bumpy and we couldn’t help but joke about the extremely bouncy ride we had a couple of days before when our rear suspensions broke. Just a few moments later there was a noticeably bad bump that felt like the car’s bottom had hit the rocks beneath. I gazed over at Paul and said “That didn’t sound good”. He tried to wave it off with a smirk and an “I don’t know what you’re talking about” line.
The lava road to Herðubreið marked out by sporadic road demarcation pylons
We first pulled over to sample Herðubreiðartögl and then proceeded further to stop at Herðubreið. After a short hike up the base of the mountain to collect my sample, it was lunch time. By that time the sun was out and the sky was clear. It was a gorgeous day to be out exploring the natural beauties of Iceland. Paul and I were both very happy with how the day was going. That is until we went back to the car and noticed the back half of the chassis slanted down on the rear tire… The suspension broke again.
Dreki hut and the Icelandic park rangers
With our once more handicapped car we drove to our next destination, camp Dreki. Located at the mouth of the Drekagil gorge in central Iceland, Dreki is a small base camp for the Icelandic national park rangers offering two living huts that can accommodate 50 visitors during the summer. Paul had to notify the rangers of our arrival and intent of work within the park’s limits. He was also hoping to get some advice and perhaps some help with our limping Landcruiser.
Dreki Hut, east of the Dyngjufjöll mountains in central Iceland
One of the rangers had a look at our car and was quick to point out that it would be a bad idea to keep driving the car on the F-roads. Instead of both suspensions giving out on the back, this time only one of them broke. This caused an awkward tilt side tilt of the chassis and was putting a lot of strain on the back axel. If we forced it too much on the mountain roads it could completely break the axel. Considering we still had several targets planned in central Iceland for the next two days this was pretty bad news.
Talk about a low-rider SUV…
We asked if there was any other vehicles available at the camp that we could potentially borrow. Or if the rangers had any other suggestions. This one ranger, Hannes, tentatively mentioned that he might be able to gives us a ride to our locations. I could see Paul’s face lighting up immediately. Hope was back! But our ranger friend couldn’t promise us anything yet and had to get back to work. He left us there to settle in for the evening and would be back later with an answer.
The Icelandic National Park Rangers at Dreki
After settling in, we had dinner and tried to salvage whatever was left of our scratched up “Viking” beer cans. The recovery was about 80-90% which wasn’t too bad considering the cans were bouncing all around in the back of the car together with rocks and tools for hours. Later in the evening we met up once more with Hannes and he finally agreed to drive us around for the next two days.
A couple of the surviving Viking beers after battling flying rocks and tools in the back of our bouncing car
The desolate land of ash and rock
The next morning we got into the truck with Hannes and bolted across the grey landscape of central Iceland. The man clearly knew these roads like the back of his hand. The car was literally flying on the F-roads. We were reaching our targets in little to no time.
A shout out to our friendly Icelandic park ranger and volunteer driver, Hannes
We were once more on the infamous Gæsavatnaleið that had wrecked our car during our first day in the field. We had a short stop at Gigöldur, where we sampled an old fissure eruption as well as a few other hyaloclastite outcrops around the mountain.
Claiming my rocks at Gigöldur
Without wasting any time we were back in the car and flying towards Urðarháls. Urðarháls was a massive crater located fairly close to where we had stopped the first day when going to Kistufell. With its steeply inclined walls, Urðarháls is about 0.1 km deep, 1.1 km long and 0.8 km wide. The bottom of the crater seemed impossible to access and the thought of falling into it with no chance to escape gave us pause. Luckily, for our work it was enough to simply hammer out a piece of rock from the top.
At the mouth of Urðarháls crater
With our tasks for the day completed in record time, we drove back to Dreki for a relaxing afternoon.
The Dyngjufjöll mountains
Upon our return to camp, Paul decided to catch up on some reading/work and I got the afternoon off. I decided to take advantage of the free time and go hiking up the Dyngjufjöll mountains near Dreki.
Hiking up the Dyngjufjöll mountains
At first I was just aimlessly walking up the first slope taking the path of least resistance. After crossing a narrow valley, I reached a plateau just above the camp offering a spectacular view towards the east. The whole area was covered in a variety of volcanic sediments. The most intriguing being a centimetric layer of light beige pumice.
The eastward view from above Dreki
Apart from the eerie blanket of fine pumice, several large fragments are scattered about across the landscape. The pumice which blanketed a large area in all directions was formed as a result of the Askja eruption of 1875, one of the most catastrophic volcanic events in Icelandic history.
Light pumice fragments covering the Dyngjufjöll mountains
The highly explosive eruption of Askja in 1875 killed much of Icelands livestock and local vegetation. So much so that it led to a famine crisis. As a result much of the population emigrated to other parts of the world, especially North America. Ash and pumice from the eruption was carried across the North Atlantic, with reports of fallout as far as Norway and Poland.
Glacial striations in the volcanic rocks of Dyngjufjöll
Upon exploring the plateau further I discovered a hiking trail with a sign reading 8 km to Askja. I was immediately hyped to go see the famous caldera for myself! However, 8 km one way was quite a lot considering it was already around 3 pm. With a reluctant sigh, I decided to play it safe and not venture into the unknown alone without notice for several hours.
Exploring the valley towards Drekagil
A storm front was also visibly closing in, so staying back was the right call. There could always be a next time anyway. As the rain rolled in, I decided to go back and further explore the narrow valley I had climbed up on. This lead me to a hidden little gem of a waterfall called Drekagil.
Drekagil waterfall
I spent another hour or so roaming around the mountains without venturing too far from Dreki.
Saving a day
The following day we had just two more targets to reach. A small distant volcanic cone called Lindakeilir and a quick sampling stop along the way at Upptyppingar.
A well-defined pillow basalt at Upptyppingar
The first stop went without a hitch. We reached our hyaloclastite target, grabbed a quick sample and blasted off. The second one though ended up being quite the disappointment.
The little volcano Lindakeilir surrounded by the most vegetation we’d seen in the last two days
In the geological literature and maps, the little volcanic cone at Lindakeilir was labeled as hyaloclastite, our sought-after, brown rock types. However, when we got there there was no brown rocks in sight. The entire cone was made up of sub-areal black basalts. Not at all the sub-glacier volcanic rocks we desired.
I could hear Obi Wan Kenobi’s voice in my head saying: These are not the hyaloclastites you were looking for…
Nonetheless, we reluctantly grabbed a sample and vowed to forever mention this felonious error that made us drive all the way out there for no reason. However, with Hannes at the wheel we wasted little time and ended up saving a day of work.
Once more it was time to say farewell to central Iceland
Since we had finished our objectives in the area, Paul decided to cancel the last night at Dreki and hit the road the same day. A last minute Airbnb booking and a quick phone call to the car rental agency later, we bounced along with dodgy suspensions towards East Iceland.
The months following the decision to move to Denmark were filled with elation and renewed excitement. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of failed attempts, I was going to leave my birth country behind for good. It was now time to go out there and find my place in the world. A place I could one day call home.
The final north-Transylvanian adventure
During the spring of my last year in Romania, my good buddy Daniel and I planned a little road trip across Maramureș County. He and his girlfriend at the time came over to visit a couple of monasteries and take a steam train ride along the Vaser Valley. For me, going on one last Transylvanian adventure with my best friend was a fitting way to part ways with my past.
The trip took a little over two hours by car from my hometown of Baia Mare. On the way we made a stop in the town of Săpânța to visit the Merry Cemetery (Cimitirul Vesel), famous for its brightly colored tombstones with paintings and poetic descriptions of the past lives of its residents.
A sea of color at the Merry Cemetery, Săpânța (2015)
Northeastern Maramureș
Late in the afternoon, we arrived at Vișeu de Sus where we would spend the night in the Mocănița train yard. The train yard has multiple parked train cars with sleeping compartments. These compartments are rented out to visitors staying the night and have all the necessary amenities of a hotel room.
The over-night train cars in the the Mocăniță train yard
There are several picnic tables next to the train cars to enjoy an outdoor evening dinner and breakfast. There’s also a couple of old refurbished locomotives on display that you can view and explore.
Big old steam-powered locomotive on display
The next day we briefly visited the Bârsana Monastery to the south. Home to the tallest wooden church in Romania, Bârsana Monastery is situated in the centuries old settlement of Bârsana, dating back to the 1300’s.
Bârsana Monastery, 2015
The outside courtyard has many walkways across the Monetary gardens and boasts a couple of beautiful peacocks. The wooden buildings are decorated with wooden carvings and religious iconography.
Peacock at Bârsana Monastery
In the afternoon, Daniel and I took a little road trip to the city of Borșa situated at the foothills of the Rodna Mountains. As we saw the mighty snow capped mountain peaks in the distance, we felt them calling to us. Teasing us, daring us to attempt a little adventurous hike. We couldn’t refuse, however, after a short half an hour walk up the slope, a wet chilly breeze coming down from the mountain reminded us of our past reckless experience in the Făgărăș Mountains. So we decided to play it safe this time around and returned to the safety and comfort of our train yard in Vișeu de Sus.
Mocănița
The following morning our little steam powered train was all ready to take us up the Vaser Valley.
Grumpy morning face
Mocănița, which roughly translates to the little shepherd is a narrow-gauge railway built around the mid 1930’s. The railway is serviced by several steam engines two of which were built in Germany in the early 1900’s.
Chugging along
Partially destroyed during World War II, the railway was later rebuilt and mainly used for logging until 2004 when work began on turning it into a tourist attraction. The 47 km main line runs from Vișeu de Sus to Comanu near the border with Ukraine. However, the service usually terminates at Faina station due to ongoing rehabilitation work on the line.
Our steam powered locomotive
The train made a few stops on the way for fueling, or repositioning. The trip took a few hours both ways and crossed the exceptionally scenic Vaser Valley home to a variety of wildlife, including brown bears and deer.
Along the Vaser Valley
As the trip progressed, the valley became increasingly narrower, with the rolling hills turning into steep mountain cliffs flanking both sides of the track.
She’s getting pretty tight
Around noon, we arrived at Faina station in the heart of the Maramureș Mountains Natural Park. After having a quick snack, we spent the afternoon roaming around the gorgeous landscape before heading back to Vișeu de Sus in the evening.
In the heart of the Maramureș Mountains Natural Park
We spent the final night drinking and laughing, reminiscing and goofing around the train yard. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer farewell and ending to this first big chapter of my life.
Beyond the threshold
As my departure date came close, I recall a now familiar feeling I then felt for the first time. It’s hard to describe this feeling, but to me it’s like a “life threshold”, a point beyond which you can’t see anymore.
Perhaps it was the fairly repetitive nature of my life up to that point that made things fairly predictable. Being in the same places around the same kind of people, there’s always a type of familiarity in your life. I always yearned for more. To explore new places, meet different kind of people and experience new things. This is why I loved traveling so much, especially aboard, since this opened up a whole new world for me. Even so, as exciting and memorable as each of my travels was, they were just that. Short episodes in an ocean of fairly mundane, predictable days and weeks.
However, this time it wouldn’t be a short episode. It would be a complete overhaul of my day to day life. Everything would change. I simply could not imagine what my future looked like after moving away from Romania. I couldn’t see beyond the threshold, but I had a gut feeling that it’ll all be ok. Thus, there was no fear, no anxiety, just a calming inner peace and a trust in myself that I’ll figure it out. I was ready to embark on a new journey and begin my Odyssey from East to West.
One final look back before departing on the train of life in search of a new home
