No Bull

We were headed north along the Ring Road. My wife and I had decided to launch our Iceland vacation by driving the length of the country’s famed scenic route, which encircles most of the island nation. We’d been cautioned about the kind of weather September usually brings, and, about an hour outside of Reykjavík, the rains arrived. Our phones told us the storm was climbing toward an orange warning, which comes with an advisory to stay inside. We pressed on toward our hotel, through winds of more than 30 miles per hour and precipitation that looked more than biblical. Then we saw the golfers.

Just off the road, on what barely passed for a course, we spotted multiple groups braving the conditions. We hadn’t planned to stop, but I had to find out what pulled these sickos into the gale. I whipped into the parking lot, assured my stunned wife I’d be back soon, pulled on my hood, grabbed my camera, and went looking for someone who could speak English.

Haukur was about to tee off, and, with a kind but serious tone, he welcomed me to the Garðavöllur undir Jökli golf course. 

As the weather thankfully eased, the 69-year-old farmer let me walk a few holes with him. He explained that he had built the golf course with a few of his brothers and friends, and they maintain it throughout the year with their farming equipment. It was rugged but beautiful, nine holes with mostly circular greens tucked between the Ring Road and Faxa Bay.

They put on several tournaments a year at Garðavöllur, but this was the biggest: Haukur wiped the rain from his brow, looked me straight in the eye and said they were playing for half a cow.

My wife shook her head at my excitement when I returned to the car and told her the member-guests back home had better step up their trophy game. Over the next few days, we checked off a litany of bucket-list experiences. We stopped in small fishing villages like Siglufjörður, where the northern lights made an appearance; watched the whales off the rocky coast of Húsavík; ran our toes through the black-sand beaches of Stokksnes; and lost count of the sheep we passed on our way to the next wonder. This was not a golf trip, but I did quietly take note of the surprising number of signs emblazoned with little golfers, pointing out yet another course along the Ring Road.

A few days later, I once again left my wife in the car to run out to a nine-holer along the water. Golfklúbbur Ness (also known as Nesklúbburinn) is in Seltjarnarnes, a spit of land minutes from Reykjavík, surrounded by the ocean. It’s known as a great place to catch the aurora borealis, but I was more interested in what was happening on the ground.

The folks running the place were happy to let me walk out there to get a feel for it. The course was more professionally maintained than Garðavöllur, clearly got a lot of play and had a comfortable, neighborhood feel. I quickly fell in with a foursome of guys from their teens into their mid-20s. And they could play. They were polite, but locked into a four-ball match. Still, I was a little surprised that they carried tour bags. They weren’t that good. I asked one of them about it as we walked down a tight fairway, and he laughed and explained that they weren’t trying to turn pro; the weather here is so unpredictable that bigger bags are essential to hold all the gear they might need. 

That evening, as the late-summer sun finally set and my wife and I prepared to make the long journey back home to Philadelphia, I thought about Haukur. In some respects, it’s wild to consider the lengths folks like him go just to play on something many back home would derisively call a “goat track.” Then again, I’d guess Haukur and his friends wouldn’t want it any other way.