When we weren’t white-knuckling on our aborted trip out to Hólmavík along route 68 in the Westfjords, Mr. Pretty and I were marveling at the scenery. Sure, the road was somewhat dangerous, but the landscape sure was pretty–and desolate. We’d be driving along, nary another car to be seen, and then–BANG–a random church and a graveyard, just feet from the water.
A little farther down route 68 was a pretty black beach that begged for a stop-off. And then a picnic area with beautiful views. It was one thing after another, and sure, we were relieved simply to get a break from the winding roads, but it was a lesson in remembering that the journey is just as important as the destination. Cliched, but true.