Lord Dufferin, Letters From High Latitudes (1857).
The first thing to do was to buy some horses. Away, accordingly, we went in the gig to the little pier leading up to the merchant's house who had kindly promised Sigurdr to provide them. Everything in the country that is not made of wood is made of lava. The pier was constructed out of huge boulders of lava, the shingle is lava, the sea-sand is pounded lava, the mud on the roads is lava paste, the foundations of the houses are lava blocks, and in dry weather you are blinded with lava dust. Immediately upon landing I was presented to a fine, burly gentleman, who, I was informed, could let me have a steppe-ful of horses if I desired ... and in a few minutes I had the satisfaction of learning that I had become the proprietor of twenty-six horses, as many bridles and pack-saddles, and three guides.

There being no roads in Iceland, all the traffic of the country is conducted by means of horses, along the bridletracks which centuries of travel have worn in the lava plains. As but little hay is to be had, the winter is a season of fasting for all cattle, and it is not until spring is well advanced, and the horses have had time to grow a little fat on the young grass, that you can go a journey. I was a good deal taken aback when the number of my stud was announced to me; but it appears that what with the photographic apparatus, which I am anxious to take, and our tent, it would be impossible to do with fewer animals. The price of each pony is very moderate, and I am told I shall have no difficulty in disposing of all of them at the conclusion of our expedition.

The next day it had been arranged that we were to take an experimental trip on our new ponies, under the guidance of the learned and jovial Rector of the College. Unfortunately the weather was dull and rainy, but we were determined to enjoy ourselves in spite of everything, and a pleasanter ride I have seldom had. The steed Sigurdr had purchased for me was a long-tailed, hog-maned, shaggy, cow-houghed creature, thirteen hands high, of a bright yellow colour, with admirable action, and sure-footed enough to walk downstairs backwards. The Doctor was not less well mounted; in fact, the Icelandic pony is quite a peculiar race, much stronger, faster, and better bred than the Highland shelty, and descended probably from pure-blooded sires that scoured the steppes of Asia, long before Odin and his paladins had peopled the valleys of Scandinavia.

Mrs. Disney Leith, Peeps At Many Lands: Iceland (1908).

There are no railways in Iceland. The people are beginning to make more roads now, and to some of the principal towns you can drive in a little carriage; but for all ordinary journeys and travelling excursions you must ride the ponies. And this is what makes Icelandic travelling so unlike any other sort of travelling, and gives it much of its charm. You would think it great fun starting on a journey, when the ponies are all collected and the boxes packed. You have to put all you want in a little wooden pack – the Icelanders call it a "koffort" -- and one of these is hooked on either side of the pony's pack-saddle. The boxes must be fairly equal in weight, or the load keeps shifting. When the pack-pony is loaded with his two boxes, and perhaps a bundle of wraps in the middle, he looks a very funny figure. The pony is very patient while his load is being strapped and corded on; then he waddles off at a funny little amble, and keeps it up nearly all day, except where the road is very rough. He climbs over rocks and mounds like a cat; walks up steep hills and down, where riders have to dismount, and fords rivers, and it is very seldom that he makes a slip or meets with an accident.

Everyone who rides a long journey should have a remount to rest the ponies, and the packs should also be changed; so that means two ponies to every rider and load. The spare ponies run loose, under the charge of a man or boy, and look very pretty running along the moorland paths. After riding two or three hours there is halt for refreshment, sometimes at a farm, sometimes in the open, but always where the ponies can get grass and a drink from a stream. It is delightful picnicking on the road in the fine weather, but not so pleasant in pouring rain, if you are far from a dwelling-house. You are glad to sit on your pack-boxes when they are taken down, and must make the best of it, while the rain-drops pour into your meat-tin or cup. Yet it is seldom that anyone takes cold or any harm from a little "roughing it" in Iceland.

After a long ride, some eight or ten hours, and various halts, you are very glad to draw up at the farm where you are to sleep. No matter whether you have met the inhabitants before or not, no matter what time you arrive, the kind, good people turn out and bid you welcome to the best they have. There is generally a nice little "guest-room," like the parlour in a small farm-house at home, and a spare bedroom, but they will make up beds in the parlour if required. You have nice clean sheets and warm down quilts, for the eider-ducks are very abundant here. They give you very good food, too, nice fresh fish if you are near a lake or river, tender mutton or lamb, eggs, milk, cream and butter, and especially good coffee. Once I was put up at a parsonage when the pastor and his wife were away, and the children were our hosts. There were two big boys and three girls, and no children could have been kinder or have prettier manners than these little Icelanders, far up in the country. The boys had been fishing, and caught a beautiful salmon, and insisted on our having it for supper. The eldest girl helped their servant to lay our table, and the boys were always waiting to fetch what we wanted, though they never crowded about us or stood staring at the strangers. No, they behaved like perfect little gentlemen and ladies, and made us feel as if on a visit to real friends.

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