IF GARDEN GNOMES COULD SPEAK

A text by Guðrún Eva Mínervudóttir

 

At the root of Mt. Laugarvatnsfjall, nestled amongst the brush, there was a settlement unique in our nation. Mobile homes, built to travel the roads and stop only for a moment had become im-mobile, settled, a part of the landscape. They crowded together; Þórðarlundur, Blómsturvellir, Lerkilundur, Kántríbær, Óðinstorg. Framed by wooden pallets and shelterbelts, pathways and trails cut between them; Kóngsvegur, Ástarbraut, Svansskógur, Þrastaskógur.
 

An unplanned village that grew of itself, undisturbed, over decades. The community was mired in the misconception that those who lived there had nowhere else to lay their heads, and that they resided there year-round. In reality, they spent summers there, where they’d found creative outlets different than those back home. A middle ground. A village, but not a village. Countryside, but not countryside. Both, perhaps. Nature spoiled in flowerpots, and the infamous, but essential human nature. Lively in summer, with freer conventions. Seasonal inhabitants in step. Gathering places for friends and family, for rest and rejuvenation. Growth there, spiritual cultivation. A realm of the soul where folk came to resemble one another, as in other societies, molding a miniature, uncynical, uncensored cultural niche. In winter, the windows were shuttered, some nailed in place. Padlocks on the doors and garden gates. Fox and ptarmigan tracks in the snow. Rooted, perhaps, but on shaky ground, without entitlements. They were given two months to remove all had taken such great pains to build. Their homes, parceled out at fire sales, given away, or simply discarded. In parts, the community at Laugarvatn isn’t worth much. But as a whole, it’s an entirely different matter. It was sacred in the eyes of those who created it. And to those of us, who knew them; residents seeking haven in unconventional, harmonious ways.
 

Now, it’s a vacant lot, resembling a gravel carpark.