Anything but go on a sugar-free diet. In fact anyone suggesting such an atrocity would probably have been banished to the highlands, stat.
35 Precious salt
That was sugar. Now let’s talk a little about salt.
Today we have an oversupply of the stuff. Much of our food is saturated with it, whether we like it or not. But back in the Iceland of old it was both scarce and highly coveted. Very little salt was imported, and when it was it was out of the price range of ordinary folk, except in very limited quantities.
So what did people do when they had no salt?
Well, you might think (as I did) that their first course of action would be to make some. After all, they had an abundance of salty water all around the country ... couldn’t they just boil the hell out of the sea until there was plenty of salt left over?
Well, yes they could. In theory. Except that boiling like hell requires a big fire, and a big fire requires lots of firewood. You see where I’m going with this, right?
Yep. I’m going nowhere.
Not to be undone, the Icelanders adopted a different strategy: freezing the sea water. They would take it, leave it to freeze, scrape the ice off the top, thaw it, freeze it again, scrape the ice off the top ... until eventually, like maybe ten years down the road, they had about a half a cup of salt to show for their efforts. And who the hell wants to wait that long to put salt on their food? Not me - and not the Icelanders. Which is why they ended by taking some seaweed, drying it, burning it, and then sprinkling the ash on their dinner.
So the next time you grind some of that premium coarse sea salt onto your filet mignon with your fancy salt dispenser, spare a thought for the poor Icelanders. With grey ash all over their food.
36 Beggars and vagabonds
In spite of their valiant efforts to impose social order, the Icelandic authorities were not entirely successful in eliminating vagabonds. At any given time in Iceland’s history there was a significant number of people roaming from farm to farm, managing to procure free food and lodgings for themselves.
Some of them were folks that had obtained permission to be freelancers. You’ll recall that they hired themselves out to different farms, usually during haymaking season. But as with all freelancers there were times when the work dried up, when they were, as they say, “between jobs”. At such times they sometimes morphed into travelling salespeople, touring the country on foot and peddling whatever wares they managed to carry on their person. Things like linen, needles, knives, scissors and the ever-coveted books, to name but a few.
That was one group of vagabonds. Others ... well, they were often folks who just didn’t feel like working. They pretended to be on Very Important Business, moving from one farm to the next en route to the place where their VIB was supposed to be conducted. And the Icelanders, hospitable by nature, rarely turned these weary travellers away. Some folks could keep going like that indefinitely ... or at least until the jig was up and farmers realised that they and their hospitality had been taken for a ride.
But some vagabonds were truly tragic cases. They simply had no choice but to drift around. Iceland had no hospital back in the day, and when King Christian III of Denmark (and Iceland) was asked in the 16th century to build one for his poor downtrodden Icelandic subjects he refused, declaring that physically or mentally ill persons would have to depend on the kindness of strangers. In other words: become drifters. They were thereby given official permission to be vagabonds, and were called kóngsins flækingar or “the king’s vagrants”. A dastardly predicament, particularly when times were rough, like after the Skaftáreldar eruption in the 18th century that caused widespread famine and wiped out a large share of the population. At such times the ill and infirm competed not only with other sick people for food and lodgings, but with able-bodied folks as well. Trails between farms were often strewn with corpses at that time, of sick and starving people who had been turned away repeatedly and simply collapsed.
Some vagrants weren’t sick, though - they were just outcasts thought of as “odd”. Either that or they were “difficult” - perhaps with some unfortunate flaws of character. No one wanted to offer someone like that a permanent position at their farm, so there was nothing for such unfortunates to do but to drift. Also, when times were hard farms simply did not produce enough to feed those who already lived there, so taking in additional people was out of the question - even if they seemed perfectly healthy and normal. Consequently people who in more favourable years might have found a position, would in bad years have been forced to drift.
These poor outcasts would often try to cultivate some skill or routine with which to entertain people, since this improved their chances of being sheltered and fed. Some of them were very well informed about particular subjects (they might be diagnosed with Aspergers or autism today), and were welcome guests for that reason. Others sang, or sketched, or composed and recited poetry (the rappers of yonder days). Or whatever.
So vagabonds were hardly ever turned away when they came to a farm, except when times were exceptionally tough. They would always be given food and shelter for a night or two, at least. Sometimes more than one arrived at one time, though, and this could spell trouble. Apparently vagabonds were renowned for their animosity towards each other, since they looked upon others in the same situation as rivals. The jibes and insults could fly something awful, usually to the great amusement of the farm folk.
Some vagrants made a point of being useful by doing chores or menial jobs. Others were lazy and wanted only to be put up for free. Unsurprisingly those of the latter ilk were pretty unpopular, but they were tolerated (no doubt with a gnashing of teeth) because they could be spiteful and spread gossip. And if there was one thing the farm folk dreaded even more than a lazy vagabond, it was to have gossip spread about their alleged inhospitality. Clearly, then, vagabonds held a fair bit of power in the Iceland of old, more than they probably realised.
37 Aliens in Iceland
It is easy to think of the Iceland of yore as a barren rock in the North Atlantic that never saw any action from abroad, except when the king sent his minions over to impose some law or other on the poor, snivelling Icelanders.
Not so. Foreigners came and went on a regular basis. Ships from the European continent, especially England and France, routinely fished off the Icelandic coast and thus their crews often came ashore - though not always willingly. Sometimes they washed up on shore after their ships went down - dead, alive, or in various stages in between.
On the whole, the Icelandic populace appears to have been reasonably welcoming to foreign visitors. After all, the Icelanders were a hospitable people, who dreaded being called uncongenial. But alas, they did not always live up to their personal best in such matters. Just ask the poor Basque sailors who washed up on the West Fjords after their ship was wrecked in a storm. Obviously they were not able to return home by the same means as they came, and so found themselves lost in a hostile landscape with no way to fend for themselves. They went and knocked on doors, and some people took pity on them and put them up for a couple of nights. But that was not a long-term solution, and eventually they found that all doors had been shut. Consequently they resorted to desperate measures: breaking into places and stealing food and other essentials. When the district magistrate, the formidable Ari í Ögri, found out, he sent a posse of his best men to search for them, and ordered that they should all be executed. Which they duly were. This shameful event in Iceland’s history has since been dubbed Spánarvígin, or “the Spanish killings”.
I’m tempted to blame this on the fact that West Fjords folk were a little, um, paranoid. They travelled to some pretty dark places, metaphysically speaking. For instance, someone would get it into their head that someone else was causing some third person grief (sickness, misfortune, or whatever), and before you could say voodooforyou they’d be accusing them of witchcraft and burning them at the stake. It was Iceland’s version of the witch hunts.
Meanwhile, t
he East Icelanders - people who lived on the East Fjords - were as blithe and sunny as their western counterparts were dark and morose. They were open and tolerant and embraced foreigners. And how! In fact there is a strain of Icelander with dark hair and brown eyes that bears testimony to how well the East Fjords folk embraced French sailors that regularly fished off the coast of East Iceland.
This was also the home of one Hans Jónatan, the son of a Danish aristocrat and a Caribbean slave who became somewhat of a legend in the East. Hans Jónatan had had a pretty remarkable life before he alighted on Icelandic shores. Years earlier, his father, who had been a colonial governor in the southern seas, had brought his female slave and their young son (Hans Jónatan) back to Denmark with him. Amazingly this did not sit too well with his Danish wife, so when the governor died, she arranged for Hans Jónatan, who by then was an adolescent, to be shipped off to a plantation in the West Indies where he was to be a slave. But lo! Just before he was to sail Hans Jónatan disappeared, later turning up as a shop clerk in Djúpivogur, where a Dane who knew of his history recognised him. With his dark skin, Hans Jónatan stuck out like a sore thumb - but no one in Djúpivogur seemed to mind. He was well liked by his neighbours and eventually married an Icelandic woman with whom he had two children, and from whom there are many descendants.
38 A visitor comes to the farm
We’ve talked a little bit about how people went from farm to farm, and how they were hospitably received, except when they weren’t. And how generally the coming of a visitor was a welcome thing, a celebrated thing, because, you know, there wasn’t a heck of a lot happening in the rural outbacks of Iceland at the time, and a visitor would inevitably bring news, or gossip, or even just some new vibes.
As we know, guests were not only a welcome diversion, but also a convenient way to get the word out about your own general excellence in the hospitality department. And to be properly hospitable and properly excellent, you had to be prepared for the visitor’s arrival. Obviously the folks of old did not have the benefit of our modern devices to receive word of imminent visits, so they had to find other ways to foresee the arrival of a guest.
For instance someone might start yawning, or feeling a little queasy in the stomach, or might have an irresistible urge to sleep so that they just could not keep their eyes open. All of this signalled the arrival of a visitor.
If the cat began to lick its butt with its leg sticking straight up in the air it meant that a visitor was coming. The same applied if a dog lay on the floor with its front legs straight out and its head resting on them. If the nose pointed to the right, it meant that the visitor was a good person, but if the nose pointed to the left, it meant that the visitor was an unpleasant person.
If a fly buzzed incessantly around the baðstofa it boded the arrival of a visitor, and if that fly accosted one person in particular the visitor would be coming to see that person. Also, if the kettle made a certain buzzing sound when water was being boiled for coffee, it meant that a visitor was about to arrive.
As soon as someone noticed one of those portentous signs they’d grab a broom and start sweeping the floor. Then, when the much-anticipated guest did arrive, a specific set of procedures would kick in.
39 Godding on the window
If it was still daylight outside, the visitor would knock three times at the front door, or on the paneling at the front of the house. Three was the magic number. Three represented the holy trinity, and if there were not three knocks then you’d better not answer the door because the visitor was probably a ghost.
Having heard three knocks, the farmer or his wife would go to the door. The visitor would greet the host with a kiss on the mouth and say: Sæll vertu (or sæl vertu if it was a woman), which basically translates as “be happy” (yes it’s true). This is still the common greeting today, though the more-or-less universal hæ (“hi”) is hot on its heels in popularity ... if it hasn’t surpassed it already.
The host would then respond: Komdu sæll/sæl, which means “come happy” and is also still the common greeting today.
If the visitor was someone the person knew well, or if the occasion was special, the greeting might be slightly more eloquent, such as: Komdu sæll og blessaður, meaning “come happy and blessed” (... and still commonly used today). This would be accompanied by a handshake and a kiss, to which yet another kiss would be added, along with the phrase: Þakka þér fyrir síðast, meaning “thank you for the last time [we met]”. This, too, is used today - most Icelanders will say takk fyrir síðast, especially if they had a particularly enjoyable time with someone the last time they got together. Sometimes, and here I quote from Íslenzkir þjóðhættir, “... people took off their hat or headdress with their left hand, whipped their hair from their forehead with a little toss of the head, and kissed”.
Incidentally, the above applied only if the visitor arrived during daylight hours. If that same visitor arrived after dark (which was practically every hour of the day in mid-winter) he or she needed to go to the window rather than knock on the door, because - as everyone knew - only ghosts knocked on the door after dark. When the person got to the window they would say: Hér sé guð - “here be God”. (For some reason someone muttering at the window was considered less creepy than someone knocking at the door.) The people inside would then respond: Guð blessi þig - “God bless you”, after which someone would go to the door to admit the visitor. This prescribed action at the window was called, prosaically enough, að guða á glugga, or “to God on the window”. And that is probably the only time in the history of the world that God has been made into a verb.
40 Come happy, go happy, eat happy
So now that the visitor had safely arrived (and proven himself to be of the mortal rather than the spectral variety), the big question was: what to do with him?
Well, after all the kissing and blessing and tossing of the head on the front step, the visitor was taken by the hand (literally) and led through the farm tunnel into the baðstofa. There he first greeted everyone verbally, then moved around and kissed everyone. Having thus smooched his way around the room he would be invited to sit down and subsequently be made to recite any news he had. Again, these sorts of visits were pretty much the only transmission of news and gossip in those days - they were CNN and Hello! magazine all rolled into one, with a dash of The Hidden People Chronicle thrown in for good measure.
Now, if the visitor’s clothes were wet (surely not an uncommon occurrence), one or more of the women would remove his wet clothing, wash his feet with warm water, and then bring him dry clothes to put on. (And people wonder why vagabonds chose to be vagabonds.)
Next they would bring food. And if the visitor had any sense of protocol at all, he would eat it. It was considered inexcusably rude not to accept the food offered to you. But! The visitor must not appear greedy. Always, he should say: “You really shouldn’t have - this was completely unnecessary”, or something similar, irrespective of whether or not he meant it. Next he would need to cross himself and say “God reward you for this food” or something like that, to which the home folk would reply, “God bless you”. After that they would all watch as he tucked into his grub - but God forbid that he should finish it! That was considered the epitome of rudeness, because by not clearing your plate you were, in effect, telling your hosts: “You have provided such an abundance of food that I can’t possibly finish it. Your generosity overwhelms me”.
After he had eaten, the visitor would sit for a while before getting up and thanking his hosts for the meal by kissing them on the lips. He would usually sit for a while before making as if to leave, then kiss everyone in the room goodbye, and the hostess twice - once as a farewell gesture, and once to thank her (again) for the food. The man of the house would then get up and accompany the departing guest through the tunnel to the front door. It was absolutely essential to accompany him to the door because, if this was not done, he would take all the sanity from the house. (This is still customary today, thou
gh I think it has been determined that the residents won’t automatically go insane if someone forgets. It is simply considered polite, and references to the old days are made in jest, as in: “I’ll walk you to the door so you don’t take all the sanity with you, haha”.)
At the door, an elaborate farewell ritual took place, similar to the greeting conventions described earlier. The visitor would bid farewell to the host with two or three kisses. Before each kiss, he would speak these words, or a variation thereof: Vertu nú blessaður og sæll - “be now blessed and happy”, þakka þér kærlega fyrir mig - “thank you most kindly for what you have provided”, and feginn vil ég eiga þig að - “it would be my fortune to have you as a friend”. (Translations are approximate - unfortunately you can’t convey the delightful nuances of this exactly.)
After that, the visitor would trot (or amble) off into the sunset.
Mind you, sometimes the visitor would not leave, but would stay the night. When he did, he was usually made to sleep in a bed with someone in the baðstofa. If the visitor was a Very Important Personage, and if the farm was so luxuriously equipped as to have a spare room (like a separate living room for receiving guests), he would be given the choice of sleeping there if he wanted. Still, he was always given the option of having someone sleep with him, just in case he was afraid of the dark.
41 Offensive sex
Which brings us to the prickly subject of sex.
The Little Book of the Icelanders in the Old Days Page 7