As promised the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and we woke up to a nondescript drizzle. Mindful of the ever deteriorating forecast, we made a beeline for Kirkjufell, and in our utterly uncharacteristic defiance of the natural spectacles all around, did not make a single stop during the two hour ride.
When we arrived there were a few other visitors, all braced in ponchos against the mildly lashing rain. Our families obliged with a short hike up the twin waterfalls opposite the mountain. We stayed to take pictures until our lens filters were overcome by stippled myopia. It didn't take long.
On our reluctant way out we drove down a gravel path on the other side of the mountain, and stumbled upon this absurdly scenic prison, with no fences nor guards but a warning sign.
We decided against trespassing and turned around towards Stykkishólmur, a fishing and port town on the north side of Snaefellsnes. On the way we passed one of many ancient moss-covered, surreal looking lava fields known as a "hraun."
But before lunch, an appetizer first at the putrified shark museum in Bjarnarhöfn. My dad seemed to be momentarily disturbed by the thought of Hákarl, then quickly regained his composure and even claimed that it was good with rye bread. Weiwei reacted differently, and Tiffany was not keen on imposing this rottenness upon herself.
We were quite cold and Hákarl notwithstanding, starved by the time we got to Stykkishólmur. The adults begged out of the climb up the cliffs to the orange lighthouse, which was probably wise since the wind only increased its viciousness up there.
That's about as much wet misery as we could tolerate for the day, so after some soul-warming lamb soup and fresh-out-of-the-fryer fish and chips, we were ready to go home and enjoy the evening from the hot tub.