Bergur: The Silent Guardian of Breiðabólsstaður
Bergur was a rock pillar in the cliffs of Breiðabólsstaðarklettar, standing watch over the farms of Breiðabólsstaður—Gerði, Breiðabólsstaður itself, and Hali—since they were first settled. For thousands of years, he remained a sentinel over the area, an eastern guardian visible from the farms. His slender, upright form stood tall against the sky, a steadfast point of reference in the ever-changing world. When one looked east, their gaze naturally rested on Bergur, his striking figure impossible to miss.
In recent years, visitors to Þórbergssetur at Hali came to acknowledge Bergur, greeting him with quiet respect. There he stood every day, looking out over the farms, an ancient and immovable friend to those who toiled below. He seemed eternal, a figure unshaken by time, silently witnessing the lives of the people who lived in his shadow.
But in the early hours of 13 November, Bergur fell from his pedestal. His fate remains uncertain, but it is believed he shattered into fragments, now scattered on the cliffs below. Some hold hope that his body may still be intact and could be salvaged. However, one thing is clear: Bergur, as he once stood, will no longer grace the horizon as a familiar presence for generations to come.
It is now our burden to say goodbye, to watch as he disappears into the realm of memory, becoming part of eternity itself.
“Such is the looseness of the world,” as Þórbergur Þórðarson, Iceland’s great literary figure, once wrote—a reminder of the fleeting nature of even the most enduring presences.
Þórbergur and the Speaking Stones
Þórbergur Þórðarson described the rocks above the Breiðabólsstaður farms in his remarkable book, Steinarnir tala (The Stones Speak). Widely regarded as a classic of Icelandic literature, this work gives life to the stones, cliffs, and crags, treating them as living entities bound by time. Although Þórbergur does not mention Bergur specifically, his portrayal of the stones imbues them with a sense of awareness, a silent existence stretching over millennia.
These stones, he wrote, stand rooted in the same spot for thousands, even millions of years. Þórbergur called them “my men in the mountain,” and Bergur was undoubtedly the chief among them. These stones had witnessed the coming of the Papar monks and the first settlers like Hrollaugur. Occasionally, some stones might “free themselves from the mountain’s servitude, tumbling down the slopes to become free individuals.” Yet for most, their fate was to stand still, unchanging, for eternity. “What an eternity is the life of a stone!” Þórbergur marveled.
Farewell to Bergur
Now, Bergur is gone. His upright figure, once so familiar and comforting, has disappeared from the landscape. His fall reminds us that even the seemingly eternal can change. For generations, Bergur stood as a silent friend, watching over the farms and the lives of those below. His loss leaves a void, one that will not be filled for countless years.
As we bid farewell to Bergur, we are left with Þórbergur’s words as a guide: “Such is the looseness of the world.” Even the strongest and most steadfast among us are not immune to the passage of time. Bergur, who stood for so long, has now joined the flow of history, a reminder of the fragile balance between permanence and impermanence in our world.