Sigga’s father takes visitors by boat to Drangey island, a 500 foot high extinct volcano rising like a top hat off Iceland’s north coast, and Sigga guides small groups to the top. Is it a walk or climb? Certainly it involves a ladder, and a ledge along a sheer cliff drop, which I wouldn’t have made without Sigga’s determined encouragement. On the flat top we visit the puffin-hunters’ summer hut, marvel at the thick mane of grass and flowers blowing under the 9pm Icelandic sun, and admire the hollow where an eleventh century fugitive was said to have survived for three years until mainlanders murdered him. The beauty and remoteness compensate for the climb, with only zipping puffins and nesting kittiwakes to distract me on the vertiginous return.
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