my fellow zookeeper informed me. Brattholt was a combined hotel and farm near Vik, a tiny seaside community southeast of Reykjavik where she and Ragnar boarded their horses. When not slapping Drunk Elvis around, Ragnar was the soul of generosity, and had graciously offered to lend me his gelding so that I could enjoy a day in the saddle. “Pretty isn’t it?” Bryndis said, pulling her Volvo to the right to avoid hitting a sheep walking down the center line of the highway. “The sheep?” She laughed. “No, Teddy, the scenery.” Unlike the barren lava fields I’d seen during yesterday’s drive from the airport to Reykjavik, the scenery along this part of Iceland’s Ring Road, which looped around the entire country, was gorgeous. As the sun rose, I saw glacier-topped mountains to our left, and lush, emerald-green pastures to our right. Herds of shaggy Icelandic horses grazed peacefully in those pastures, careful to make wide berths around the steaming hot springs the country was famous for.
What do You think about The Puffin Of Death (2015)?
