The first half of the month was exceptionally cold, and the land bore no trace of summer when we flew abroad to Andalusia, Spain, on June 16th. When we returned fourteen days later, our country wore a different face. Summer had arrived.
As I stood in the dead calm by the lake, admiring the view, I thought to myself that nothing I saw in Spain comes close to the magnificence of Þingvallavatn. My companions and I began our session south of Arnarfell. Soon, a small char took my friend’s fly, but I saw no action except for two ‘murta’ (small lake char). There was little life near Arnarfell, so we moved north and took a few casts at Nautatangi. There, a third murta took the fly, but the char remained true to form and left us entirely alone. No matter what we tried, nothing worked—except perhaps the photography. I managed to capture a few decent shots.
