Please login to vote.

Displaying items by tag: adventure travel europe


A personal account of growth through travel


Cliffs Intrv

As a species, we define ourselves by moments and stretches of time. My time in High School, the time I lived in Toronto, my time in University. And today: The time I was truly on my own.

I sit in the small bus depot in Reykjavik, writing in my journal as a girl walks by. I don’t look at her eyes or legs or any other cliché bits that single, slightly desperate guys are known to watch for. What really stands out is the sound of her heels as she walks to the café and back. Clop, clop, clop. I stop writing and just listen – until it fades.

Iceland Waterfall IntrvI catch the bus and after a few hours it turns into a narrow canyon that opens up all around us. There are a few small buildings, a large camping ground and a raging waterfall, tall and powerful, emptying into the valley. Is this Vik? No. But we’re close. I wish I’d brought my tent. I could have spent the night camped at the base of the falls, listening to the thudding water as I drifted to sleep.

My legs are bouncing. I’m hungry and it’s getting late. Why didn’t I leave earlier? Airports, airplanes, busses and tour groups— three days of sitting and it’s finally gotten to me. I want to pick a direction and run, jump, dance and do all those other things you see in the Gap commercials. Every molecule in my body unites and screams: Be free!

But I’m not free. I have an outgoing flight in 3 days. I’m on day two of my unplanned world tour and yet, I’m stuck. I’m stuck in a bus. I’m stuck with a plane ticket. For three days, I’m stuck with a plan. And I’m reasonably sure that no one with a plan has ever felt so restless.

The bus descends into a large valley that leads to the sea. I see a small town in the distance. It’s early evening and the sun is getting lower. The light is getting redder. It stops at a diner that doubles for a bus station; the doors hiss open and I quickly grab my bag. Two girls are doing the same. There’s a campground across the street and one of them has a tent dangling from her pack. I knew I would forget to bring something important.

The air is cool as I walk down the crumpling asphalt. To my right, I can see the church, its white walls and red roof radiate atop a rich green hill. Further in the distance, a huge field of yellow and purple buttercup flowers gradually grows in height. I am energy. Again, I want to run. Just dump my bag and run. But I can’t. For more than a year this bag is my home. And you can’t throw away a home.



The first hotel is full. They tell me to try another place. I hurry over there. It’s full too. My back is sweating under the pack’s weight. My steps have started to slow. Someone points me to “the last place in town.” It’s way down the road, close to the beach and seems miles away. The sun is getting lower. The light is getting duller. The white walls of the church have stopped reflecting, and I’m losing precious time. The plane ticket to Amsterdam looms over my head: Three days, three days, three days. I want to be free, and my extra energy begins to fade.

I kick a stone as I walk. It’s my second day and I can’t even find a place to sleep. How am I going to handle jungles in South America and deserts in the Middle East if I can’t even find a hotel room in Iceland?

But the last hotel in town has one last room available; Literally the last bed in Vik. I unload my bag and stroll back to the open field, defeated. The sky is bloodied with clouds, and the land blanketed with flowers. The sun lies ahead of me, at the valley’s mouth, but the incline of the ground is too steep for me to see it. My shoes brush through the tiny flowers like a boat cutting through waves. I charge forward, refueled. I can’t afford to waste another second. I only have three days.

I climb rise after rise, each time thinking it will bring me the view I know is ahead of me. But each time the horizon gets pushed back further. The flowers are beautiful, but I want the midnight sun. Iceland lies on the border of the Arctic Circle, and the sun doesn’t set in summer, it just hovers along the horizon and heads back up again.

A cool wind is in my hair. My shoes are wet with dew from the grass. Dew at midnight? I have to tell myself that eventually I’ll climb over a rise and it’ll be the last one. It could be this one. It’s not.

Midnight Sun IntrvWith cramping stomach and tired legs, the last rise comes and the sun shines out at me from between the valley’s cliffs. It turns a distant glacier orange and paints the grass in front of me with liquid gold. Breathing hard, I sit in the damp brush and watch. Hours pass. The sun hides behind the cliffs in the distance. The red clouds fade to yellow. They’ll stay that color for hours. It’s 3 am. The time I watched the midnight sun.

The next morning I set to work making my first inuksuk. The inuksuk (or inukshuk), is an ancient Inuit practice and has been in wide use from Alaska to Greenland. It’s a simple sculpture that uses any rocks at hand. The rocks are carefully stacked and balanced using one-another’s weight to form a surprisingly sturdy monument. They’re used for marking food, sending messages, or perhaps most frequently, to mark a trail.

Being something of a romantic soul, I stumbled upon the idea of using Inuksuks to mark my trail— one for every country, so I can always find my path back home.

I stand on Vik’s black sand beach looking with pride at my first attempt. A sickly little thing, balancing shakily on its two base stones. The first stiff breeze to come along will probably knock it over, if the neighborhood kids don’t see it first.



Today is a more relaxed day. There are no tours to catch, no sunsets to run to. Only me and Vik with a little time to try and figure out exactly what it means to be on my own. With my first Inuksuk standing proudly on the beach, I take a walk Church Intrvaround town. I see the church with obligatory cemetery; the peaceful streets, nearly devoid of people; and the occasional car or cyclist passing through on the ring road. I decide to tackle one of the nearby cliffs to see what this place looks like from the high ground. With my iPod set to Sigur Ros, I climb the steep winding path to the top. The cliff is a nesting area for seagulls and there are dozens of them, flying circles in the air. Sometimes they approach me curiously. By the time I reach the top the wind has picked up so much that the birds flying into it are struggling just to hold their ground. I watch one, flapping its wings with determination, yet going nowhere. It finally turns to accept defeat and is gone in an instant.

I wonder what makes us climb. I’m at the top of the tallest cliff in the region, and before me lies a large plateau. But on this raised surface there are a few groups of boulders that add another five or six meters to the cliff’s height. They sit there, taunting me, like reaching the observation deck on a skyscraper and thinking if you could just figure out a way to climb the antenna. I can’t help but wonder what I could see with just a few more meters to work with.

As I stare at those boulders, thinking about independence and being alone, I realize it’s not just the moments of time that define us. I think it’s more what we choose to accomplish in those moments. In my case, I know I won’t be satisfied until I’m looking at this country from its peak.

So I do what anyone would do: I find a foothold, and a handhold, and then another foothold. The wind wrenches at my jacket, testing me. It’s only a few meters to the plateau but the ground is rough and rocky. One slip and it may as well be a mile. The wind charges at me again but I defy it. The seagulls fly above with heads cocked and one eye on that climbing speck of a man in the distance.

I hoist myself up over the last boulder and stand triumphant on the top of the world. And I realize with pride, I defined myself just a little bit better: The time I climbed the cliff in Iceland.

©William Carne


Flight: Iceland Air offers many flights from Eastern Canada and all over the US to popular Western Europe destinations like Amsterdam, Glasgow, Paris, Berlin, Copenhagen and others. They are a comfortable and affordable airline and will let you arrange a free stopover in Reykjavic. I found a good deal booking through Expedia.

Land Transportation: The best option, if you’re in good shape, is to take a bike around Iceland’s ring road. I met plenty of travelers doing just that and I would have been one of them if I had found a little more time. Alternatively there is good bus service for the road and if you buy a full circle pass you can do the full circuit, hopping on and off whenever you feel like.

Accommodations: Vik only has a few places to stay as it is a town of only about 350 people.

Hotel Edda with 55 rooms is the biggest place to stay. There are a few B&B’s that are much more authentic options but they are hard to track down. If you’re not coming in the busy season, just show up and ask around town. You’ll find a nice room.

Entertainment: In Vik you make your own entertainment through hiking, cycling, swimming, etc. Don’t expect nightlife unless you happen upon someone’s party at the community center. If that’s the case though, invite yourself in and you’re bound to have a fantastic time. Tours of nearby glaciers and volcanoes can also be found with relative ease.

Published in individual
Sunday, 28 September 2008

Cycling the Dalmatian Islands with Ana

Ana just might be the hardest-working tour guide in Europe. During the week she led our cycling tour around Croatia’s Dalmatian Islands she rode with us, entertained us, educated us, and watched over us – from breakfast until we were safely tucked in bed at night. Because of her efforts, we were transformed from a group of strangers into a cohesive group of friends … and in some respects into her temporary family.

Published in interest
Saturday, 05 July 2008

Plitvice Lakes National Park, Croatia

The Plitvice Lakes National Park is Croatia’s best kept secret. It’s a string of sixteen blue-green lakes, with an accompaniment of forests, meadows, caves and waterfalls, across the Mala Kapela and Pljesevica Mountain ranges. For its colours alone, the park deserves its UNESCO World Heritage status.

Published in interest
Saturday, 30 June 2007

Travel Lithuania!

Looking for a safe place to explore with friendly and beautiful people, ancient castles, magnificent churches, cobblestone streets, quiet forests, thousands of lakes, huge sand dunes, and sparkling beaches lining the sea?

Published in in-depth

In the desolate Camargue region of southern France -- an untamed coastal plain marked by salt marshes, wild horses and wayside cowboy ranches -- sits a small seaside village with a unique history and a colorful ancient tradition that is still celebrated today. The press call it the “Gypsy Pilgrimage.” This quiet town, known locally as Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, comes alive each year in early spring as thousands of Roma from across Europe make the long journey to celebrate the annual festival of their patron saint Sara Kali. For hundreds of years, the village of Saintes-Maries has served as the sacred pilgrimage site for Europe’s Roma peoples.

Published in indigenous

I have a fairly haphazard approach to traveling: I like to drop myself in the middle of some locale with no plan as to what I'm going to do – and occasionally no viable way of getting out – just to see what happens. I tell myself that this is a good way to test my mettle. If I can make it out of some of these scrapes alive, the argument goes, then I must be a tough one indeed. The truth is, I’m probably just a bit lazy and can’t be bothered with stuff like arranging accommodations before I arrive in a place, or finding transport more than a day or two in advance.

Published in inept

The train out of Barcelona leaves at a quarter to noon. On the wall of the station, the iron clock reads 11:23. I turn to the line of dusty travelers in front of me. This is going to be close. I reach the window

Published in in-depth
Thursday, 31 August 2006

Le Cinque Terre

Want to visit Florence and Tuscany, but are afraid of the damage to your wallet?  For a beautiful side trip from crowded and expensive Firenze, take a little detour past Pisa, and hit the gorgeous seaside villages known as Le Cinque Terre – the five lands.  This is an area in the province of Liguria, on the Italian Riviera, which consists of five villages along the coastline that are connected to each other only by footpaths and train tracks – no cars allowed


Published in inexpensive

Search Content by Map


All Rights Reserved ©Copyright 2006-2023 inTravel Magazine®
Published by Christina's Arena, Inc.