a former landscape gardener, my affable reykjavik tattoo artist was occasionally tasked with building and maintaining traditional icelandic turf houses (composed of a stone foundation, a wooden frame, and fitted blocks of turf which settle over time; they were the only game in town for structure and insulation in the absence of a significant lumber supply in "the bad old days," as the ninety-year-old proprietor of the folk museum at skogar put it). where'd he get the turf? well, you head out into the swamp with a shovel; then you ask the owner of the neighboring farmstead if you can have some of his rocks. his reconstruction of erik the red's turf house at the site of his original farm, eiríksstaðir, stalled at the rock-asking stage: hell no, said the neighbor, that asshole killed my ancestors!
my artist didn't put it quite like that, of course; while nearly everyone we met in iceland spoke english, no one swore in english. the farmer in his story was clearly super-mad, though.
Turf. Peat. Bogs. Clearly all good for revenge, some for rendering alcohol delicious.
ReplyDeletethis may be your most readable blog post to date.
ReplyDeleteabsolutely top hole.
i cannot emphasize enough, however, that moss schnapps should be avoided at all costs. unless you're going to be in the neighborhood sometime soon, in which case hey, would you like to help me kill this giant bottle of fjallagrasa?
ReplyDeletegreen roofs are the best thing ever.
ReplyDeleteAncient feuds are the best feuds.
ReplyDeleteturf wars.
ReplyDelete