If there is a place to believe in magic, Iceland must be the place. The first time I knew about this magical world was in The Elf School in Reykjavik.
The teacher was Magnus, a smiley and chubby man who has investigated the hidden for years. He told us all his secrets while we ate sponge cake in a room full of books and small figurines in swarf shape. After the workshop, I got my diploma that certifies I now share all his secrets.
Icelanders don’t throw stones in the air so they are not unlike enough to hit any of them; neither do they jump from stone to stone because they don´t know if a huldufolk live inside. And once somebody told me that, if the presidents affirms he doesn’t believe in them, he would never be reelected.
Yes, elves do exits in Iceland, at least for 33% of the inhabitants. Also fairies, unicorns, huldufolks, trolls, beach dwarfs, water sprites, mountain spirits and ghost. I travelled from north to south and from west to east of the island in the search of the places where the magic beings live but mostly looking for the people who are able to see them.
I would start the day unearthing my 4×4 under the snow, then could come a gale that would not let me open the car door and would raise snowflakes that create small whirlwinds, followed by a light rain, followed by a snow storm that would perfectly end on a radiant sun. Þetta er Ísland, so is Iceland.
Often, I drove for hours without bumping into any other car, crossing landscapes so white it seemed I was flying between clouds, rollercoaster roads, ice rinks or rivers with a tranquil look and bad reputation. But I was never scared, I felt some kind of protection I cannot explain. I have never felt so part of nature and I have never cried at seeing a landscape again.
Everything ended being so personal. I met a woman who told me I would write a book two fingers fat about my adventures in Iceland, I visited a numerologist who ended up reading my future: I would play the flute, I would have a single pregnancy of twins and, as a number 11, I’m a danger at the wheel. I even had an extraordinary experience. In happened in the small fishing village of Djupivogur; I was there visiting Malfridur and we were calmly chatting in her living room when suddenly I noticed a pull in my right sock. I very quickly asked her if she lives with any magical being. She answered: ‘ Yes, I live with a bearded elf and he is right next to you’.
Even if that was probably one of the most thrilling moments, the one which made me the happiest was a personal message the elves send me through Ranghildur thanking me for making them visible and telling their story to the world. I’m not a dreamer, I just believe every reality deserves being examined and that there can be an intermediate world between the real and the imagined. Besides, here I am, writing a book two fingers fat about my adventures in Iceland.