An erudite reverend

The next day I drove to Reykholt and visited the priest there, Séra Geir Waage. I had been told that I should see this man, and it was indeed very worthwhile.

I had not announced my coming beforehand, and Geir was out planting trees when I met him. But he made time for me immediately. We first spoke a while about Konrad Maurer. Then Geir showed me what he had built here where we were sitting: A fold, an enclosure for horses (ein Pferch), and a house next to it. Both he built from rocks that have a special historical significance, as these same rocks were already used here for buildings in the 13th century, in the days of Snorri Sturluson (more about him soon). The fold is now used once a year on the 17th of June, the National Holiday, when people come to a special service to Reykholt Church on horseback, just like in the old days. And the small building is then used as a saddle shed.

Behind the fold is a forest, and Geir said his grandfather (or was it the previous priest?) had planted it, and he continues this work, planting more trees. He has just planted two oaks and several fruit trees. "Do they really grow in this climate?" I wondered. "We don't know until we try it," was his reply.

It began to rain and we changed location to the rectory (dem Pfarrhaus), where he offered me coffee and showed me his books. He had the travelogue of Konrad, along with many other books written by foreigners who travelled to Iceland in the 18th and 19th century and wrote about it. "These books are very valuable for us Icelanders, because foreigners notice things that the local people did not write about," he explained.

Geir is a very gifted storyteller and for the next two hours he related to me the stories, biographies and anecdotes of many different people. The most remarkable was the story of Jørgen Jørgensen. To compare his biography to a roller-coaster ride is an understatement. Jørgen, a Dane, came to Iceland in 1809 to trade goods, but the authorities forbade the locals to trade with him. So he captured the Governor and declared himself "King of Iceland". His rule lasted for only a couple of weeks before he was seized and transported as a prisoner back to Denmark where he was to be hanged. But due to the influence of his friends, he got out of it. Later he became a spy for England in France and Germany, had lots of money, drank and gambled all of it away, was imprisoned again (for theft, this time in England), nearly hanged again, then deported to Van Diemen's Land (Tasmania). Eventually he became a Constable, negotiated with the aborigines, and if you want to learn more, you must read his biography.

Geir also showed me a copy of the publication Ný Félagsrit by Jón Sigurðsson from 1847, a sort of "magazine in book form" that appeared annually since 1840, was printed in Denmark and shipped to Iceland. Geir put himself in pose and with a vibrant stage voice, recited the medieval Danish poem with which Jón had encouraged his countrymen to stand up for Iceland's independence:

Dagur er upp kominn,
dynja hana fjaðrar,
mál er vílmögum
að vinna erfiði.

Rough translation: A new day has begun, / the cock has shaken his feathers, / now is the time for worrybellies / to do something useful.

(Reverend Geir Waage loves this poem, especially the word "worrybellies". And how ingeniously Jón Sigurðsson has selected these lines, of all: historically charged, unattackable, Danish words "against" the Danish.)