A glacial gathering
Far across the rugged highlands, beneath the brooding mass of the vast Eiríksjökull glacier, a line of distant horsemen moves slowly along the horizon. As a veil of cold stinging rain sweeps down from the glacier, I see straggling groups of sheep running before them, startling large flocks of geese into the grey sky.
The riders, mounted on small Icelandic horses, are spaced half a kilometre apart in a line that stretches as far as the eye can see. They are sweeping the vast plateau, located in the stark uplands of northwestern Iceland just south of the Arctic Circle, combing the area for the sheep and horses that have spent the summer here grazing on the highlands. Soon, the onset of the long Arctic winter will bring deep snow and any animals that remain will face a lingering death.
The réttir or annual roundup of sheep and horses is one of the most important events in the Icelandic year. Its origins are buried deep in the early settlement of Iceland in the early 900s, when settlers fleeing political upheaval in Norway occupied the island’s coastal areas. They moved their livestock to the uplands in summer to preserve winter grazing areas closer to the coast, and so the tradition of a subarctic transhumance was born.
A successful réttir demanded help from the whole community in the sparsely populated country, and with vast areas of terrain to cover, the Icelandic horse, a stocky, sure-footed animal, became an integral part of farming life. By the late 1800s, when Iceland was one of the poorest countries in Europe, with many living at subsistence level, a good réttir could mean the difference between a year of feast or famine.
Today, all that has changed. The majority of the population of 320,000 lives in the capital, Reykjavik, and has little connection to the countryside. Yet the roundup is still celebrated as a time when people in the isolated rural farming communities get together to bring down their livestock, and when city people come back to the countryside both to help and to reconnect with an older way of life.
Viking steeds
I had ridden up the day before from Brekkulćkur farm with Arinbjörn Jóhannsson – known as Abbi – an Icelander who has taken riders up to witness the réttir for the past 30 years. We had covered 20 kilometres in the day, travelling with spare horses, changing our mounts every hour or so, so as not to tire them.
Size in Iceland certainly isn’t everything, for these compact horses, from a breeding line that stretches back to the first arrival of the Vikings, fearlessly travelled at speed over very rough ground. Settling into the tölt, a fast gait between a walk and a trot that is unique to the breed, they carried us over high mountain pastures, up steep tracks and across broad, shallow rivers without, it seemed, even pausing for breath.
Now, at the edge of the high plateau, we join other riders and family groups – some of whom have driven up in battered four-wheel drives or ridden up on quad bikes – staring into the cold wind towards the high glaciers, waiting for the riders to appear. Before us, a long fence stretches away to the horizon. This marks the boundary of the huge area of summer grazing, which totals more than 600 square kilometres, and will be the first manmade object that many of the foals and lambs have ever seen.
Within an hour, heralded by skirling shouts from the lead riders, a group of horses appears, galloping down through the murk before gathering uncertainly close to the high fence.
Soon after, a wave of sheep comes cascading over the brow of the hill, followed by a group of riders, each leading a string of backup horses.
They shout greetings and, stiffly dismounting, open the gates and come through to their families. Pulling up his sturdy horse beside me on the track, Hinrik Ólafsson pushes back his hat. ‘It’s been hard going,’ he says. ‘Three times my horse went up to its belly in bogs and I had to struggle for half an hour to get him out.’
His group of 50 riders of both sexes – the youngest barely 14 and the oldest well over 70 – had set out the day before to a series of huts at the base of the glacier, some 20 kilometres away. Today, before dawn, they had set out in a carefully organised drag line, combing the plateau’s gullies and blind spots, driving the sheep and horses together towards the fences. Coordinated by the head of the group, known as the king of the mountain, and using their mobile phones to ensure that any animals seen breaking through the line were herded back, they had steadily made their way towards the boundary fence.
Hinrik, his face ruddy with exposure to the elements, looks every inch the typical Icelandic sheep farmer. In fact, as he offers me a swig of cognac from a flask in his saddle bag, he tells me that he’s a TV producer who volunteers to help out each year on several roundups. ‘The réttir has been part of Icelandic life since the Vikings first brought sheep up here 1,100 years ago,’ he says. ‘And today, when the market is in a slump and few sheep farmers can make a living, it is vital that we keep the tradition going. I did my first roundup when I was 14 – and I will bring my sons up here when they’re old enough. It is good to see three generations working together.’
Changing times
There are currently more than 60 réttir in Iceland, taking place in September and October, although livestock numbers are falling each year. Abi tells me that in the south, some of the réttir were now little more than a celebration, with people gathering at the Thverárrétt (the old corrals, which may be hundreds of years old) for an end-of-summer party. ‘The prices of sheep have come down so much,’ he says, ‘that farmers have far fewer, and some now do not send their animals up to the highlands any more, grazing them instead on pastures closer to home.’
We share sandwiches and hot drinks, and then, as the sun finally shines through the mist, begin the last section of the drive. The horses go first, mares and foals squeezing through the gates and then galloping down the track, manes gleaming in the golden light, to be followed by the sheep, moving at a slower pace, flowing over the hillsides and down to the river valley.
Sven Blantal, who works in a print shop in Reykjavik, rides past, his long legs almost touching the ground beneath his tiny horse. ‘At least it isn’t snowing today,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Then it can get really difficult to find the sheep.’ In the river valley, a startled fly fisherman, intent on his drifting line, waves to us as the horses thunder past, their unshod hooves clattering on the rocky moraine.
Corral finale
We spend the night in the warm farmhouse at Brekkulćkur, heated by local thermal springs, and the next morning we ride to the final event of the réttir. The horses, which had spent the night in a field close to the farm, are driven the last two kilometres to the Thverárrétt, where, wheeling in the enclosure with eyes flashing and hooves stirring up the dust, they make a magnificent sight in the morning sun.
Family groups plunge into the melee to pick out their horses, recognising them by sight or by distinctive blazes on their backs, and drive them into small side corrals. As we help herd them through the narrow gates, Abbi tells me that some of the young foals will go for slaughter, the meat going to Italian and Spanish buyers and the domestic market. Most, however, will be sold as riding horses. ‘A trained Icelandic horse will get at least €3,000,’ he says. ‘And good ones will fetch far more.’
In the afternoon, the sheep are brought in, and farmers and their families, often four generations working together, wade into the sea of white fleeces, recognising their own animals by marks cut into the ears and dragging them bodily out of the arena.
Perla, a young woman in her 20s, expertly catches a ram by its horns and shoves it through a narrow gateway. ‘Ten years ago, there would have been 10,000 sheep here,’ she says. ‘It was like a white river coming down the road. This year we’ve got barely 2,000. Now there’s almost more people than sheep!’
Close by, I find Helgi Björnsson, a retired farmer who has come with his sons, who live in Reykjavik, to witness the réttir. ‘Sheep farmers have to live with what price they can get; it was always like this,’ he says philosophically. ‘You see, the réttir is like our harvest festival. You don’t know until you see your animals what the year’s harvest will be. That’s why this is such a special time for Icelanders – and I hope it always will be.’
When to go
The réttir occurrs annually during September and October. A seven-day trip to Brekkulćkur – including four days’ riding with the réttir, transfers from Keflavik airport, food and accommodation – costs €1,100 (flights not included).
To contact Arinbjörn Jóhannsson at Brekkulćkur, call +354 451 2938, email brekka@nett.is or visit www.abbi-island.is/en/index.php.
How to get there
Icelandair (www.icelandair.co.uk, 0800 988 9989) offers return flights to Keflavik airport from Heathrow and Glasgow from Ł211 and from Manchester from Ł219.
Further information
For more on Iceland and the réttir, visit the websites of the Iceland Tourist Board (www.visiticeland.com/uk) and Northwest Iceland (www.northwest.is).
January 2009
The riders, mounted on small Icelandic horses, are spaced half a kilometre apart in a line that stretches as far as the eye can see. They are sweeping the vast plateau, located in the stark uplands of northwestern Iceland just south of the Arctic Circle, combing the area for the sheep and horses that have spent the summer here grazing on the highlands. Soon, the onset of the long Arctic winter will bring deep snow and any animals that remain will face a lingering death.
The réttir or annual roundup of sheep and horses is one of the most important events in the Icelandic year. Its origins are buried deep in the early settlement of Iceland in the early 900s, when settlers fleeing political upheaval in Norway occupied the island’s coastal areas. They moved their livestock to the uplands in summer to preserve winter grazing areas closer to the coast, and so the tradition of a subarctic transhumance was born.
A successful réttir demanded help from the whole community in the sparsely populated country, and with vast areas of terrain to cover, the Icelandic horse, a stocky, sure-footed animal, became an integral part of farming life. By the late 1800s, when Iceland was one of the poorest countries in Europe, with many living at subsistence level, a good réttir could mean the difference between a year of feast or famine.
Today, all that has changed. The majority of the population of 320,000 lives in the capital, Reykjavik, and has little connection to the countryside. Yet the roundup is still celebrated as a time when people in the isolated rural farming communities get together to bring down their livestock, and when city people come back to the countryside both to help and to reconnect with an older way of life.
Viking steeds
I had ridden up the day before from Brekkulćkur farm with Arinbjörn Jóhannsson – known as Abbi – an Icelander who has taken riders up to witness the réttir for the past 30 years. We had covered 20 kilometres in the day, travelling with spare horses, changing our mounts every hour or so, so as not to tire them.
Size in Iceland certainly isn’t everything, for these compact horses, from a breeding line that stretches back to the first arrival of the Vikings, fearlessly travelled at speed over very rough ground. Settling into the tölt, a fast gait between a walk and a trot that is unique to the breed, they carried us over high mountain pastures, up steep tracks and across broad, shallow rivers without, it seemed, even pausing for breath.
Now, at the edge of the high plateau, we join other riders and family groups – some of whom have driven up in battered four-wheel drives or ridden up on quad bikes – staring into the cold wind towards the high glaciers, waiting for the riders to appear. Before us, a long fence stretches away to the horizon. This marks the boundary of the huge area of summer grazing, which totals more than 600 square kilometres, and will be the first manmade object that many of the foals and lambs have ever seen.
Within an hour, heralded by skirling shouts from the lead riders, a group of horses appears, galloping down through the murk before gathering uncertainly close to the high fence.
Soon after, a wave of sheep comes cascading over the brow of the hill, followed by a group of riders, each leading a string of backup horses.
They shout greetings and, stiffly dismounting, open the gates and come through to their families. Pulling up his sturdy horse beside me on the track, Hinrik Ólafsson pushes back his hat. ‘It’s been hard going,’ he says. ‘Three times my horse went up to its belly in bogs and I had to struggle for half an hour to get him out.’
His group of 50 riders of both sexes – the youngest barely 14 and the oldest well over 70 – had set out the day before to a series of huts at the base of the glacier, some 20 kilometres away. Today, before dawn, they had set out in a carefully organised drag line, combing the plateau’s gullies and blind spots, driving the sheep and horses together towards the fences. Coordinated by the head of the group, known as the king of the mountain, and using their mobile phones to ensure that any animals seen breaking through the line were herded back, they had steadily made their way towards the boundary fence.
Hinrik, his face ruddy with exposure to the elements, looks every inch the typical Icelandic sheep farmer. In fact, as he offers me a swig of cognac from a flask in his saddle bag, he tells me that he’s a TV producer who volunteers to help out each year on several roundups. ‘The réttir has been part of Icelandic life since the Vikings first brought sheep up here 1,100 years ago,’ he says. ‘And today, when the market is in a slump and few sheep farmers can make a living, it is vital that we keep the tradition going. I did my first roundup when I was 14 – and I will bring my sons up here when they’re old enough. It is good to see three generations working together.’
Start the slideshow (3 pictures)
Changing times
There are currently more than 60 réttir in Iceland, taking place in September and October, although livestock numbers are falling each year. Abi tells me that in the south, some of the réttir were now little more than a celebration, with people gathering at the Thverárrétt (the old corrals, which may be hundreds of years old) for an end-of-summer party. ‘The prices of sheep have come down so much,’ he says, ‘that farmers have far fewer, and some now do not send their animals up to the highlands any more, grazing them instead on pastures closer to home.’
We share sandwiches and hot drinks, and then, as the sun finally shines through the mist, begin the last section of the drive. The horses go first, mares and foals squeezing through the gates and then galloping down the track, manes gleaming in the golden light, to be followed by the sheep, moving at a slower pace, flowing over the hillsides and down to the river valley.
Sven Blantal, who works in a print shop in Reykjavik, rides past, his long legs almost touching the ground beneath his tiny horse. ‘At least it isn’t snowing today,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Then it can get really difficult to find the sheep.’ In the river valley, a startled fly fisherman, intent on his drifting line, waves to us as the horses thunder past, their unshod hooves clattering on the rocky moraine.
Corral finale
We spend the night in the warm farmhouse at Brekkulćkur, heated by local thermal springs, and the next morning we ride to the final event of the réttir. The horses, which had spent the night in a field close to the farm, are driven the last two kilometres to the Thverárrétt, where, wheeling in the enclosure with eyes flashing and hooves stirring up the dust, they make a magnificent sight in the morning sun.
Family groups plunge into the melee to pick out their horses, recognising them by sight or by distinctive blazes on their backs, and drive them into small side corrals. As we help herd them through the narrow gates, Abbi tells me that some of the young foals will go for slaughter, the meat going to Italian and Spanish buyers and the domestic market. Most, however, will be sold as riding horses. ‘A trained Icelandic horse will get at least €3,000,’ he says. ‘And good ones will fetch far more.’
In the afternoon, the sheep are brought in, and farmers and their families, often four generations working together, wade into the sea of white fleeces, recognising their own animals by marks cut into the ears and dragging them bodily out of the arena.
Perla, a young woman in her 20s, expertly catches a ram by its horns and shoves it through a narrow gateway. ‘Ten years ago, there would have been 10,000 sheep here,’ she says. ‘It was like a white river coming down the road. This year we’ve got barely 2,000. Now there’s almost more people than sheep!’
Close by, I find Helgi Björnsson, a retired farmer who has come with his sons, who live in Reykjavik, to witness the réttir. ‘Sheep farmers have to live with what price they can get; it was always like this,’ he says philosophically. ‘You see, the réttir is like our harvest festival. You don’t know until you see your animals what the year’s harvest will be. That’s why this is such a special time for Icelanders – and I hope it always will be.’
When to go
The réttir occurrs annually during September and October. A seven-day trip to Brekkulćkur – including four days’ riding with the réttir, transfers from Keflavik airport, food and accommodation – costs €1,100 (flights not included).
To contact Arinbjörn Jóhannsson at Brekkulćkur, call +354 451 2938, email brekka@nett.is or visit www.abbi-island.is/en/index.php.
How to get there
Icelandair (www.icelandair.co.uk, 0800 988 9989) offers return flights to Keflavik airport from Heathrow and Glasgow from Ł211 and from Manchester from Ł219.
Further information
For more on Iceland and the réttir, visit the websites of the Iceland Tourist Board (www.visiticeland.com/uk) and Northwest Iceland (www.northwest.is).
January 2009
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