A certain person has been nagging me about not finishing my Iceland blog, so I'm going to attempt a summary of our recent trip to Whitby before I forget:
Weather: Windy, cold, rain and hail at various times.
Food: Fish and chips, lots of cake, full English breakfasts, steak and ale pie, treacle toffee, liquorice and shortbread.
Sights to remember: The first glimpse of Whitby from that car park full of camper vans; the Abbey in various different lights; gravestones in the churchyard, their inscriptions weathered away; a ewe with her new-born twin lambs on Goathland moor; glimpses of Rievaulx Abbey from the terrace high above
Moments to treasure: "Then why is there a Goth here?"; Help the Aged; Pirates!

More may follow, once I have completed Scene 4 of 'Babes in the Wood'. Lingering on the internet is a great way to stop you doing things which you know you should already have done!

The plan was to see if we could survive a 2 hour ride in the intense cold. I wore about 4 layers of clothing; Lorraine had 5 (but she didn't have the benefit of Rachel's amazing arctic coat that I had borrowed). We were both using heated insoles in our boots – these are amazing little gadgets that heat up as soon as you remove them from the packaging and last for about 5 hours. I wish they'd been invented back in the days when I was working with horses and when we had properly cold winters over here.
As soon as we left the hotel we knew it wasn't going to be so bad – the temperature had risen to a balmy 2°C and the wind had dropped.
At the stables we were introduced to our horses (strictly speaking, size-wise, they are ponies, but the Icelanders call them horses). Mine was a chestnut called Ace and Lorraine had a grey called Swan. There were some other interesting variations between the way things are done in England and in Iceland. Firstly, they put the saddles much further back than we tend to, but this is probably because the horses have low withers and short necks. Secondly, they run the stirrup leathers under the saddle flap. Thirdly, you can mount from either side.
Icelandic horses are trained to use a gait called tölt, or running walk, which is exceptionally comfortable over long distances. Both Swan and Ace could do this if you gave them the correct aid, which was two short tugs on the reins. Ace couldn't go as fast as Swan, though, and tended to break into trot if he was being left behind. This wasn't really a problem while we were out as the ground was frozen so hard that there were only a few times we could go faster than a walk.
It was lovely to be outdoors, miraculous not to feel the cold, and wonderful to be able to get much closer to nature. We had to lead the horses over a particularly bumpy piece of ground to avoid a herd of cows. The ground was covered with low growing dwarf willow. Ace was very careful, but Lorraine feared that Swan might jump on top of her. Fortunately, all went well, and we soon realised that 2 hours wasn't enough – we could happily have gone on for 3 or 4.
After the ride we had coffee and ginger biscuits with the couple who owned the stables. I'd really love to go back in the summer and do one of the trail rides across the mountains, so they gave me some information.
As there were still about two hours of daylight left, we asked if they had any suggestions where we should go next. They said the falls at Skógarfoss were worth seeing, so having programmed Mrs SatNav, that was where we headed next.
The sun was getting lower as we skirted the Myrdalsjokull glacier. Out to sea, the misty Westman Isles bathed in golden sunset light. We stopped several times for pictures on the way, although not wanting to waste too much time in case we lost the light.
Skógarfoss was deserted. Earlier in the day coaches may have filled the car park, but now, at dusk, and with a biting wind blowing off the glacier, we had it all to ourselves. Ice coated the rocks and made walking on the stones slippery. The falls were smaller than Gulfoss, yet somehow far more magical in appearance. Anything might be hidden behind the roaring curtain of water; treasure or the entrance to another world.
Driving back, I felt strangely happy. It had been another great day in Iceland.

I'd set the alarm for 8.30am, and went to the window. There was a ruddy glow on the northern horizon, flickering like a forest fire, and on later reflection, this may have been a first glimpse of the Northern Lights. Dawn drew a pale blue line in the eastern sky, although the sun wasn't due to make an appearance until 10.48am. Iceland has long, slow dusks and dawns.
Lorraine asked the girl at the hotel reception to look into riding trips for us on Sunday. "Nothing shorter than three or four hours, and preferably with some dramatic scenery," she specified.
It was strange having breakfast at sunrise and made it feel a lot earlier than it actually was. By the time we left the hotel it was after 11, and the sun was turning the snow capped summit of Mount Hekla pink.
We drove up to Geysir, with Mrs SatNav giving impeccable directions. As there was very little traffic, it didn't really matter anyway. For the first time, I began to enjoy driving in Iceland. We stopped on the way to take pictures of rugged mountains dusted with snow and bitter chocolate coloured ponies with manes and tails looking as if sifted with icing sugar – Christmas Cake ponies, we later called them.
At Geysir we stopped and left the heated comfort of the Vitara. Outside was bitterly cold. The temperature gauge on the car said -2°C, but with the wind chill factor it was probably closer to -10. The steam from the geysers blew horizontally across the dried brown grass, freezing after just a few moments. Lorraine lost all feeling in her legs after about five minutes of waiting for Strokkur to erupt. I thought my nose would drop off.
When we got back to the car she uttered the immortal lines, "Iceland is very beautiful – from inside a car with heated seats."
It was only a short drive to Gulfoss, the famous falls in Iceland's Golden Circle. We dressed up extra warmly for the short walk down the wooden paths made slippery from frozen spray. Far below, people were sliding along the lower path that leads right up to the falls, covered in sheets of ice. We didn't fancy breaking our legs this early in the trip, so stayed at the top and took some pictures with numb fingers and frozen expressions.
"Maybe we shouldn't go riding for four hours tomorrow," said Lorraine. I totally agreed.
On returning to the hotel we sampled the excellent buffet again (this time we had to pay for it) and then Lorraine went to check her messages on Facebook and MySpace at the laptop in the reception while I wrote my diary and wondered if we would get to see the Aurora. She came back after about half an hour, looking strangely flushed.
"My hair just went up in flames," she said. She'd been leaning close to the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights outside, and hadn't noticed that there was a tea light burning on the window sill. "There was a 'whoosh' and I had to bash out the flames," she said. "For a moment I thought the laptop had caught fire, then I realised it was me! People came out of the dining room to see what was happening – they could smell the burning. The man on reception seemed quite relieved to find out it was only a guest on fire, not the hotel or the polar bear."
After this experience, she decided to use the whirlpool bath. You don't have to feel guilty about using lots of hot water in Iceland as most of it is heated by volcanic activity. I tried turning on the jets before checking they were pointing downwards and got soaked by the resulting geyser.
As my jumper dried out over the radiator I looked out of the window and started to see faint blue-green patterns in the northern sky. At this stage I wasn't sure they were the famous lights – they didn't look as dramatic as most of the pictures I'd seen, but then they probably wouldn't bother to publish the pictures that were less colourful. I checked the NOAA website to see what the auroral activity was like – quiet – and looked out again. The blue light had moved a little and spread out. Some areas were a deeper blue, which dimmed and brightened over a few minutes.
After her bath, Lorraine braved the cold to go outside beyond the car park lights and reported she could also see a bit of pink at the top. We watched the lights until about 1am.
See some pictures of the Northern Lights

If I wasn't so tired now I would have lots to write about – the planes taking off over our heads in the Heathrow long stay car park, Truck meeting Skid Row in the check in queue (they are playing in Reykjavik Saturday night), the plane almost blown sideways across the runway as we came in to land at Keflavik after crossing a landscape of lava and moss.
Picking up the hire car to dire weather forecasts by the two women on the Hertz desk – hurricane force winds (we'd already got a taste of those on landing, and the wind wasn't just whistling around the terminal, it was howling like a thousand banshees) and snow all across Highway 1, which was our route to Hella. They worried that we might not make it to the hotel – that maybe we should try and stay in Reykjavik for the night as the wind was due to drop later on.
In the car park, I had to hang on to the doors of the Suzuki Vitara to prevent them being wrenched off by the gale while Truck held the luggage trolley still and passed me the cases. It was pitch black, and I was getting more nervous by the minute about driving a strange car across a strange country in such extreme conditions. We couldn't get the sat nav to work, so Truck went back to see about buying a map, while I waited for the hotel to call back telling us of an alternative route via the 38 and 39.
She returned with a newer sat nav into which the route had already been programmed. The trouble was, it didn't seem to know where we were and I ended up re-booting it outside a KFC somewhere on the outskirts of Reykjavik, while having a short break from wrestling with the steering wheel. After that it began to work properly and we started to hear the dulcet tones of Mrs SatNav telling us to "Turn left in 750 metres."
As we left Reykjavik Truck began to develop a mysterious pain in her left arm which she thought might be the result of sampling some port in the duty free shop at the airport, but I worried might be the beginning of a heart attack. I realised I didn't even know what number to call for the emergency services. We made a wrong turn at a roundabout and Mrs SatNav began to go frantic, "Turn left, turn left, recalculating…"
There were ominous signs beside the road – lots of crosses with something weird stacked on top – it was too dark to see what it was. The wind was still trying to tear the steering from my hand and I had to engage 4wd as the surface became icier. Snow blew horizontally across the road ahead as we turned onto the 39, and Truck said she could see a mountain, or maybe it was a cloud, or even a cloud disguised as a mountain. In the alien wilderness, anything seemed possible.
After what seemed an endless drive, we came at last to the Hotel Ranga just outside Hella. It was the best arrival at a hotel I had ever experienced, as apart from the relief at having actually made it, they gave us each a glass of mulled wine, didn't insist we filled in lots of forms, and let us have a free meal from the buffet which we later discovered cost ISK 6,200 per person (about £50). I tried various sorts of smoked salmon, whale meat (very dark in colouring with an aftertaste a bit like old leather), wonderful Icelandic lamb, pastrami, eggs stuffed with salmon and dill, smoked duck and goose, slices of beef and gammon. Truck also managed to sample about 3 different sorts of pudding, which all looked a bit dairy-heavy to me. In any case, I was stuffed by then.
We sank into soft beds with eiderdown duvets and pillows, the wind still howling outside.

There was a mad panic this afternoon in the cinema. "You're supposed to be showing 'Wild Hogs' in Screen 8 and it's '28 Weeks Later'."
I checked my time sheet. It said '28 Weeks Later' all day. Actually, I'd checked it earlier, before I plated off 'Wild Hogs'. It was still the same.
It turned out that despite all the time sheets showing '28 Days Later' for every show in Screen 8 today, the ticket sales had been wrongly programmed for two afternoon shows of 'Wild Hogs'. Luckily, of the six people who had paid to go in, three decided they might as well watch '28 Days Later' while the others went in to 'Spider-Man 3'.

I'm feeling rather annoyed today. I was looking forward to an afternoon with HATS down at the village hall and having a drink in the pub afterwards. I'd also bought food so that people could come back to my house later.
Then, when I rang Steve to find out what tracks he wanted me to burn to CD, he said that today's rehearsal was cancelled because people are going away for the Bank Holiday. So my perfect Sunday is wrecked, it's starting to rain and it looks like the most conversation I'll have today was with the checkout girl in Sainsburys.

I found my third dead thrush in a week today. It's the time of year that the fledglings leap out of their nests before they are really ready and fall foul of whatever happens to be around that can kill them. The ones around here seem to have a peculiar fondness for drowning. I found one in the drinking bowl I leave filled for wildlfe (there was only about 2" of water in it, but the silly bird had still managed to croak) and this afternoon there was one in the pond as well. I don't know what killed the first one; it was lying in the middle of the lawn with its legs in the air. There were no signs of damage, so I don't think a cat got it.

For any film projectionists reading this blog, look at the state of this xenon lamp someone is selling on eBay. Do you think it's worth $9.99? And will it even get to the highest bidder in one piece?

The afternoon was grey and the Old Granary had been reduced to a long pile of bricks, reminding me of a burial mound. I noticed something about it that I remembered from seeing another building I knew well – Finchley Gaumont – demolished. Any piece of land looks much smaller when the building that stood there has gone.
When the Gaumont had become an outdoor market, it seemed preposterous that this tiny footprint of ground has once held a two thousand odd seater super cinema with a restaurant, kitchens, two flats and a cavernous backstage. Where the Old Granary stood, solid and massive, is an average size plot. Yet upstairs on the third floor, the area not taken up by the training school always seemed the size of a football pitch. It used to take five minutes to walk from one end to the other (or that was how it felt when I was repeatedly called down to reception to escort people up to the cinema).
Burton was its usual depressing self, full of unhealthy looking people eating burgers. Many of them now drive around in motorised chairs – the sort that my mother once saw get jammed between two tills in Sainsburys Central in Chelmsford. The difference is, here in Burton, they could probably get jammed without the chairs.
Also in massive mode at this time of year, the Euphorbias outside Riverside towering above their ivy covered mound; a truly imposing sight.

Well, after much frustration and cursing the evil demon hiding inside Microsoft Word, at last I managed to get my pagination right, and the book converted to a pdf and sent to the publisher.
Once I have viewed the proof copy, it will be available for anyone to buy. You can have a paperback copy for £8.35 or a download for £2.50.

Here's the blurb:
A Rider Through Shadow
Outside the forest he was condemned as a demon's child. To the forest folk he's an 'outsider'. But no-one can deny Mikhyle has a rare talent for taming the wild horses
What they don't know is that he's also inherited supernatural powers; a legacy he's done his best to bury. Until now.
When grievances flare into violence between the forest clans and innocent blood is spilled, ancient evil awakens. Only Mikhyle can contain it. But first, he must face his past, confront his fears, and ride into the shadow.