Winter of Disconnect

by Francis Gillen (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Iceland

In a cottage in Fludir, a small Icelandic town in the middle of nowhere, I stand staring out over the lunar horizon and my mind is finally at rest. This little corner of Iceland at Christmas time has a surreal feel to it. The darkness stretches out into much of the morning and most of the afternoon. When the sun does rises at 11am, the oppressive darkness gives way to the brilliant white expanse, and everything is new. From where I stand a slight shimmer of ice betrays a frozen lake, one so camouflaged that we almost reversed our car into it the night before. In the distance, horses trot through the apparently endless snowdrifts, seemingly impervious to the cold that we have so layered up to avoid. The few visible houses all have the same pretty pattern of Christmas lights strung out amongst them, like a very strict decoration standard had been agreed between the residents of the town. Driving around this tiny village on the way to secret lagoons, bubbling geysers and gushing waterfalls, I spot teenagers cycling down long empty roads, and working in the few shops and cafes. ‘Surely they must be so bored here,’ I discuss with my siblings and cousins. ‘What do they do all day? Where do they go out at night?’ But the people here seem chatty, cheerful, happy with their lot. It all seems a million miles away from the hundred mile an hour lifestyle found in my hometown of London. When I reflect on being away from home, what surprises me is how starkly I can recall my state of mind on each occasion. Being away from normality gives my mind the space to overthink, and worries that are already there take on a fresh potency away from the hubbub of everyday life. Paradoxically, despite my travels being some of the best times of my life, they are also some of my most anxious. I remember being in the US in 2016 just after graduating, and feeling the gnawing sense of being lost in the world. I remember Vietnam in 2017, canoeing through stunning limestone cliffs, yet unable to shake my disappointment over a failed relationship. And 2018 bought me to Cuba, where even the musical headiness of the bustling city of Havana could not mask the fact that I felt broken, unsure of what life had in store for me. Amongst the calming yuletide peace of Fludir, I begin to realise that I have never really let myself leave the everyday behind. Wherever I was, I was always updating Instagram, checking the news, comparing my trip with the trips of tens of other people. I was trying to find photo spots, to take the perfect selfie. I was constantly controlled by the device in my hand that wouldn’t let me leave the buzz of the city behind. No wonder my brain was overcompensating! For this Christmas break, I had bought boots, gloves, and invested in a new coat. I had anticipated freezing temperatures. I hadn’t anticipated that time itself would freeze, and I would feel properly clear headed for the first time in years. This was perhaps the most remote place I had ever been, and the sleepy sense of timelessness you always get around Christmas was intensified by ten. It washed over me, leaving me truly relaxed. I didn’t switch my phone on the whole time we were away. I was worried that with no distractions, my mind might once again run wild with worry, (or worse boredom). But Iceland took care of that for me. For all its slow paced charm, it was a place that kept us busy. It kept us busy when we had to push the car out of deep snow, when we had to set out for the day in almost endless darkness, and when we misjudged the slim window of time the shops were open for, resulting in a fairly lacklustre Christmas dinner. It was immensely worth it though, and an escape in the truest sense of the word. Where I would normally have found plenty of time to worry, I had instead, at last, found somewhere I could truly switch off.