Egg-citing times 
Punning your way to Langanes and back 

Auther: Tony Fogarassy, Vancouver, BC

Visiting the Langanes peninsula, near Þórshöfn in Northeast Iceland, with Blair, my most egg-cellent wife, was spectacular not only for birdwatching but also to witness an Icelandic tradition that goes back to the time of the sagas – egg gathering. I mean, how cool is that?

Our visit was a bit scrambled, as navigating the dirt road to the Skoruvík cliffs and the Stórikarl Skoruvíkurbjarg bird viewing platform tested our rental car (a Kia – not a Skua). Blair, whose mother’s family – the Amundsons – were Icelandic immigrants to Canada from near Akureyri, would yoke with me that driving up the hills of Langanes peninsula required us to egg-celerate and to break on the way down.

The drive was bumpy and scenic. We clawed and scratched our way along the track. We did not want to chicken out. To pass the time, Blair asked me what would I call a city of 200,000 eggs? No idea, I said. Proudly she said, Rey-yolk-vík! Ha-ha, I replied. And I asked her, what about a city of 10,000 eggs? Egg-ilsstaðir, chirped Blair. Icelandic Canadians have such a sense of humour; they like to ham it up.

We finally arrived at the Stórikarl viewing platform, home to a massive, noisy northern gannet colony and many other bird species. All manner of sea birds were co-existing and nesting within centimeters of each other on cliff edges and on the prominent sea-stack which you can almost touch from the viewing platform. The Atlantic waves crashed and cracked sheets of egg-white spray and the wind beat us like omelettes. We were shell-shocked by the rugged beauty. The diversity of birdlife attracts tourists, school pupils, and sea bird researchers to Stórikarl to get egg-ucated.

We were delighted to witness the ancient activity of egg-gathering on the iconic Skoruvík cliffs. A father, teenage son, and a close friend were high on the cliff edge. The father, Jón, was rappelling down the cliff face. He ranged freely, gently taking guillemot eggs precariously perched on the rock cliffs. Jón’s son, Björgvin, was watching, eagle-eyed, from the cliff top. The close friend, Sæmundur – and I use the phrase “close friend” purposefully – ensured the rope was safely secured to a Toyota Highlander with an elaborate pulley and hoist system. The rope was thick and it was heavy. Sæmundur was clearly puffin-g to keep the rope taut so no rocks fell on Jón.

Speaking with Jón and Björgvin as they sorted their eggs, we learned most were destined for restaurants in East Iceland. Hard-boiled eggs can’t be beat, they say. Apparently, the eggs are never shipped to France as in France one egg is un oeuf.

Sadly, the ten-century-old cultural practice of egg-gathering in Iceland is on the decline. As a result, so too are egg jokes, especially when eggs-perts, like me (rated Grade A by the way), tell LH readers about eggs’ most disliked day of the week. Yup, Fry-day. I can’t help but crack a bad yolk.

Jón’s day job is as a fisher, but he tries to keep traditions going for his son, Björgvin. Watching Jón, Björgvin, and Sæmundur gather eggs was enlightening and, yes, egg-citing.