By Fell and Fjord, or, Summer Scenes in Iceland. (1882)

Reykjavík
There are three streets in Reykjavik parallel to the shore, and one leading up inland at each extremity of the town; these are nicely gravelled and neatly kept. There is also a square, with grass in the centre, in the middle of which stands a fine statue of Thorwaldsen, the only ornament of the town. The rest of it is all irregular, houses dotted about by twos and threes over a considerable space of country. The public buildings consist of an ugly salmon-coloured church they call the cathedral, a plain whitewashed house for the governor and a larger one, salmon-coloured again, for the college. Most of the houses are of timber painted black, picked out with white; many stand in gardens among hardy flowers, or, with a complete disregard for appearances, turnips and potatoes. How I longed often to do a little gardening, and square things up! for the Icelanders have no ideas about out-of-doors amenity. The houses are, however, generally neat inside, and some of them are daintily pretty; and they are usually ornamented by roses, carnations, and geraniums, blooming in the windows, tender favourites which are rarely exposed to the open air. There are a few old turf-houses, which are among the worst and smallest specimens of the genuine Icelandic bae or dwelling; and of late many new substantial houses of grey whinstone have been built. The red Danish flag flutters from many a roof, and the whole place has a thriving air, and an increasing trade and population.

The two or three stores, which are like our Highland "general merchants" shops, places where you can buy everything rather dear, are crowded in summer. There are stacks of fish on the shore which are built up in rain, and spread out to dry in sunshine. The dried fish is made indeed, just as we make hay, by busy women, while numbers of men are employed in plying with boatloads of fish to the ships in the roadstead.

There was no inn when we were there first, only a public house; but though the town now boasts of a humble hotel, it is better for ladies to lodge, as we did, in a private house. They told us we could dine at the hospital. This sounded rather melancholy; but it proved to be a jovial sort of hospital, where dinner parties and balls were given, and where an excellent cook provided dinners for many strangers. There were only four patients there at that time, and when there are any infectious cases, they are sent to a lonely house across the bay.

An English gentleman I met at our hospital told me he disliked towns in general, but he liked Reykjavik certainly better than any other town; perhaps because it is as little of a town as a town can be. It has the advantage of a very pleasant little society, simple in externals, yet refined, and withal rather ceremonious.

Dress
The women all wear a pretty black cap, like a small Greek cap, with the same sort of tassel falling over one shoulder, and it sets them off not a little. They have smartly fitting dark jackets and skirts, and gaily coloured handkerchiefs and aprons; and they wear Scotch plaids over their heads in cold weather. The men have no especial costume, except that their brown suits look very loose and clumsy; and in cold weather they pile clothes on above and below till they have the figures of bears. The richer sort are dressed like people elsewhere, only constant riding inclines them towards wearing clothes to suit, and high boots.
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