When I drove across the bridge, I was so busy looking for oncoming traffic I almost missed the sign:


On the other side, I pulled the car off the side of the road like you’re not supposed to do and jumped out with my camera. I had laryngitis, so my squeals were more like squeaks, barely visible even to my own ears over the icy wind:

Hvitá! Hvitá! Hvitá! It’s the Hvitá!

I was on a pilgrimage to visit the sites of Egil’s Saga, and here was the salmon-filled river that marked so many boundaries, the site of Egil’s first murder, where the timber was stored that his son Bodvar drowned retrieving. If I had meandered into Lantern Waste I could not have been more excited.


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