When the Raven Flies over the Recycled House

and a cave of the little folk

When I broke my phone riding an e-scooter in Reykjavik, it was probably the bougiest thing I’ve ever done. The scooters have phone holders—which only fools like myself actually use—especially when shuddering down a cobblestone street, clutching a bag full of pastries from Brauð & Co. The scooter hauled my eighth-ton ass uphill with aplomb, but downhill, a bell-end of a bell-collared cat jogged in front of me, and I squeezed the brakes too hard. I stopped in time, but my phone did not.

Iceland’s largest church on the horizon; a less pious monument in the foreground

I was having so much fun as a newly minted member of the e-scootering escadrille that I didn’t notice my phone had been flung, until blocks later. I pulled over in a panic. My artificial brain was missing! I had also begun using a credit card wallet, which held my driver’s license.¹ I began looking under parked cars, running up the block, until a local woman—Björk’s snarky sister—muttered “phone?” and jerked a thumb uphill. I found my phone placed on a standpipe, with its credit card wallet intact. And the screen smashed beyond all hope of repair.

I was using the phone because I wanted to make a detour to the Recycled House before returning to our hotel triumphant with delicious baked goods, but now I had no way of navigating there. I was so heartbroken over my phone’s demise that I walked back, as I was now soured on scootering as well.

I’d been using my phone to navigate by car as well, but we only had a day or two left in the country, and had done the Golden Circle, drove north to the Sorcery Museum (as detailed here), and meant to use the last days to relax in Reykjavik. I wanted to see the Recycled House, which didn’t show up in the car’s built-in GPS, so we looked for it the old fashioned way: driving in circles down every possible street. It was on the coast, so hard could it be?

I love ship chains.

Let’s just say by the time we found it, Sarah was at her wit’s end and about to murder me. But it was worth the trip. The house is among more affluent digs on the seashore, and is owned by a film director best known for the 1984 Viking revenge film, When the Raven Flies. He allows his unique property to be politely toured; the front door is a lobby like a movie theater’s, and has posters of his films. Geese have the run of the place, and from what I can tell, many of the outbuildings and sculpture-structures that decorate the compound were built from recycled scrap iron, such as boilers and ship chain and the like. It suits the landscape well, in my opinion.

The geese who rule this land.

There are three sculptures that celebrate the Norse gods Freyr and Freyja, and the hero Gunnarr á Hlíðarenda. The Freyja sculpture is most interesting to me, as it resembles a sheela-na-gig:

Three sculpture shrines; Freyja sheela-na-gig center.

As I mentioned with the Elf Stone, the boundary in Iceland is thin; I’m not sure if its the stark, windswept volcanic landscape, stripped of trees by the Vikings who arrived in the 9th century, or the harsh climate mingled with ubiquitous hot springs, where one might wish to call upon the “good folk” or the gods to help you survive—but the world of Odin and his ravens, of people living in the rocks, is not too distant in the mind, whatever you, or they, believe. We also visited a cave on a farm that was in use for many centuries, and they decorated it with likenesses of the spirit-people that the landscape evokes:

Rútshellir cave and its inhabitants

But the Recycled House melds the modern wrecks of civilization with the old gods, in a naturalistic setting where the buildings blend into the rockstrewn shoreline. I’m thankful that director who owns it allows visitors to freely explore his creation. I had no idea if he was home or not, and did not want to disturb him by ringing the doorbell.

More of the Recycled House

I watched When the Raven Flies as I wrote this, and while it is less showy than the more recent Viking revenge film The Northman, it is quite good for its time. The story begins in Ireland, where Vikings find a family and kill the father for his silver. The mother and daughter are enslaved, but a boy too young to survive the trip is sent to be killed. The Viking spares little Gest, and with nary a montage, we see him years later on the shores of Iceland, avenging his family by throwing steel darts into the throats of the enslavers. The director, Hrafn Gunnlaugsson, avoids shots that would show the budget; we merely hear the song of steel, and Vikings are dead. The locations, costumes, and stoic attitudes of its characters play well with the meager plot, and if you enjoy ‘80s fantasy flicks, this one is not “so bad it’s good.” It was quite enjoyable to watch, and if you search, you can find it yourself.

A raven flew by the house when I was filming. No wonder people think they are omens. You can also watch me stumble around the grounds of the house, here and here.

The rest of my Iceland adventures:

The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft

The Golden Circle and elsewhere

The International Phallological Museum

The WWII Ruins of Reykjavik

1. Briefly convinced that these were a good idea, I am now entirely sure that they are a terrible idea.