Once there was a boy who cut the lawn in front of a house. Up on the first floor there worked a girl who did not notice him. One day the boy cut the girl's name into the lawn. She did not begin to love him anyhow.


This was many years ago. Today two Belgians, an Icelandic and I stand in front of the house. This is an old people's home now. Stéfan, the Icelandic, closes with a faint smile. He has grown into a handsome man. The sun is shining so thoroughly that I forget how far North I actually am. I want to take off my shoes and feel the grass under my feet.


A black cat stretches in the sun. Stéfan lifts her up. Miserably she calls out. She is not sunbathing, she is in pain. She can barely open her eyes. I touch her shimmering fur. What shall we do? Stéfan carries her inside the house. The cat's owner works as a nurse and takes the whimpering creature off his freckled arms. A lady navigates a squeaky rollator past them.


Cycling through Reykjavík agrees with me, I can smell the ocean. In the city centre heat lingers. At the seaside the wind rustles my senses. I think of Stéfan. With coffee and quiche in front of me I grow tired. The sun won't set for another six weeks. I will tell you about Eve's hidden children another time. Or maybe you have already heard the tale of how Iceland's fairies first came into being.


Wishing you a loving -