Iceland
Yamaha Townmate
Despite what AC/DC have been telling us for years, there isn't a main road to the underworld. It's not even a back road. More of a bumpy track which then turns into a quagmire of mud and sand, requiring quite a long hike on foot.
This particular misadventure was our fifth instalment of our alternative version of the Long Way Round series. We'd already done wrong, hot, high and stormy. Now it was time to do cold. And it was cold, in a sort of "that's an enormous glacier" kind of way. But also quite hot, in a "that's a massive volcanic crater full of bubbling stuff" kind of way.
Even though we went above and beyond by fitting knobbly tyres to our bikes, unbelievably, the unbelievable happened. A Yamaha Townmate broke down. Properly, terminally broke down. Apparently leaving a moped outside on a trailer for two years and then expecting it to bounce its way over shards of solidified lava and glacial moraine is a step too far.
Fortunately, inflatable Björk enjoyed herself, apart from maybe the last one hundred kilometres or so where she let us, and most importantly herself down.
On this trip we learnt never to buy beer from a campsite vending machine unless your lottery numbers have come in, or to eat fermented shark unless you like the taste of a troll's underpants.
Welcome to the Wrong Way Round - Iceland.
Who knew planning a trip to Hell and back would be like a trip to Hell and back?
It all started at our Pub General Meeting. To get our creative minds at full capacity we decided to hold the PGM in Marbella. This was good for many reasons but bad for one unexpected reason. That reason is normally Charles but on this occasion was Gordon. The moral of the story is never buy a crate of foreign beer because it has a comedy name without checking the strength first.
The next morning we were at a loss to recollect events of the previous night but evidently at some point we'd joined a What's App group called "Mums go to Iceland - because mums are heroes". We were the only members so it would seem we also created it.
Whilst it is a well known fact that mums go to Iceland, it's not as clear how you achieve "hero" status by filling a trolley with frozen prawn rings but that was not the most pressing issue of the day.
Based on the available evidence, the brain-addling effects of our "exotic" beer had inspired us to to visit Iceland (the country not the supermarket). In the cold light of day nobody was arguing that this was not an excellent idea so we set about doing some research.
The clincher came when Google maps turned up a volcanic crater in Iceland's deep interior called "Viti" which translates as "Hell". Job done. That's a destination and a theme right there. We now had a fully fledged plan and didn’t even need the usual long list of visas and vaccinations.
In spite of the atomic hangovers we forgave Gordon. All we had to do was get ourselves and our trusty Yamaha Townmates to the most remote country in Europe.
This is Gordon. The love child of Tennent's Super and weapons grade plutonium.
So how do you get a bunch of mopeds and riders to Iceland? It was proving difficult to find any points of reference. Google turned up a blog by some BMW GS riders (obviously) who had ridden around Iceland a bit. We say a "bit" in the same way as someone puts a "One Life Live It" sticker on their Discovery and drives it to the golf club.
Apart from some meticulous detail about fuel economy and GPS coordinates there was not much to go on. Save for insomniacs it was a blog that provided no useful purpose, except for revealing they'd caught a ferry from Scotland.
Progress! Unfortunately booking the ferry proved challenging since a few taps of the keyboard revealed it had ceased to operate in 2012.
Realising there was no direct sailing route to Iceland we hatched Plan B. This involved riding to Denmark (yawn), spending two days on a ferry, two nights in the Faroe Islands, and two more days on the ferry to Reykjavik.
"Interesting facts about the Faroe Islands” revealed it would be only marginally more stimulating than spending two nights in a prison cell.
In summary, we’d have to endure nearly a week of puking over the side of a ferry just to set foot in Iceland and then do it all over again on the way back, by which time we would have forgotten why we went.
With plans A and B now in the bin it was time to go back to the pub. We set an agenda to discuss at least one plan per pint :
Plan C was to fly in and rent local vehicles. The combination of a limited choice of extortionately priced non-comedy vehicles, coupled with the fact that off-roading was off -limits soon ruled that out.
Plan D was to air freight ourselves and our trusty Yamaha Townmates to Reykjavik . We got a quote. We felt faint. We had a lie down.
Plan E was to sea freight ourselves and our trusty Yamaha Townmates to Reykjavik . We got a quote. We felt faint. We had a lie down.
Plan F was to sack off Iceland for a new trip but that would mean having to start at the beginning of the alphabet again.
The mood was starting to get a little gloomy. In the circumstances the right thing to do was have a small recess for toilet-time then go back to the bar for another round of ciders with a bonus side order of barbeque flavour Hula Hoops. Clearly this helped with our creativity as not long after, Plan G was floated.
Plan G got us very excited. So much so that we wanted to immediately return to base and put it in to action. Sadly, six pints of cider and power tools don't mix so we ordered a seventh and decided to go all out the next day.
Sunday morning. We literally sprang out of bed to set about PLan G but not before breakfast, several cups of tea and recounting the previous nights discussions and regaling ourselves all the plans that didn't work.
Somewhere around midday we set off in search of a wooden pallet.
Plan G was crude but simple. The extortionate freight costs were based on the amount of floor space a moped takes up and then you still have to pay for all the empty space above it.
The most cost effective storage configuration was to be able to contain everything in the floor space of a standard wooden pallet and about the height of a fridge freezer. Surely we could make our bikes fit...
The search for a pallet was surprisingly swift. Our plan was to try and blag one from the local B&Q but we found one lying around Charles' workshop next to an old toilet, surrounded by a pile of rusting car parts, nestled in some undergrowth. Result. Except we still needed to go to B&Q to buy all the materials to make the sides of the container.
We returned confident in the knowledge there would be no need to consider a plan H. As usual we left it to Matt to measure, drill, saw and screw while we made tea or held bits of wood while he did the measuring, drilling, sawing and screwing. Within the hour we had mocked up the dimensions of a pallet container.
After a short drum roll involving two pencils and a tub of screws we wheeled over one of the bikes looking rather pleased with ourselves. We hoisted it on to its back wheel and rolled it up on to the pallet. It fitted perfectly. Or it would have done if the pallet was about 30cms higher.
No matter what angle we tried or which swear words we used, the bastard twat wouldn't fit.
When kicking the bike didn't have the desired effect either, we rolled the bike off the pallet, called it another name, and sat down in ponderment. We pondered that it didn't matter how much pondering we did, the bike - let alone one stacked with luggage - didn't fit.
Charles began muttering about an angle grinder so we knew we had to act fast. In the end, the solution was embarassingly simple. We just had to take the front wheel off. And the mudguard. And the front luggage rack. And ALL the luggage.
So the original vision of us riding our bikes straight out of the container like the A-Team was scuppered. Instead we would have to rebuild and pack the bikes before we could leave the port. About that, we still didn't have a shipper sorted but, energised by our cunning shipping solution, we parted ways and did nothing for months.
The thing about Iceland is it's a land with a lot of ice. We don't mind a bit of cold but weren't keen on going full Ranulph so we had always planned to go in the summer. It was already summer. We were now in danger of missing the narrow weather window for the year so with a renewed sense of desperation we did some more Googlying.
Iceland’s Directorate of Customs website advised that we were allowed to drive our own vehicles in Iceland, but was short on info about how to go about it. After a succession of digital dead ends, finally, there it was. The "E9". A form you'll agree with an important sounding name.
This was what we’d been looking for. If Iceland didn’t routinely offer all its official websites in the English language we’d have given up there and then but fate had thrown us a rubber ring of hope.
The E9 guidance notes advised if we had any questions about completing the form to send an email. We sent an email. Three days later we got a reply saying “ask the shippers”.
We contacted three random shipping companies. One didn’t respond. Another did but omitted to answer any of the specific questions we’d raised. Then, the third shipper’s email arrived in our inbox. It was written by someone who looked like they actually shipped stuff for a living. Guidance about things we hadn’t even considered. It was helpful.
We now knew what we needed to declare and who we needed to declare it to. It was only slightly less information than is needed to get a mortgage.
We assured the shipper that everything was in hand with our containers. The shippers then kindly advised us of the need to only use packing materials which conformed to ISPM15.
We didn't know what ISPM was let alone there were fifteen of them. Some more furious internet research took place. By this point, inserting wasps into one's own anus have seem liked a better alternative.
The road to hell was looking hellish.
You can't open a tub of fermented shark meat in a bar
The AA are not the 4th emergency service in Iceland. They are not even a service.
The northern lights are shit if it's cloudy
The Northern Lights are shit if you're asleep
Discover all this and more in our trip diary!
