I took a last stroll in the silent dampness of Hólavallagarður. Such a melancholy place during the autumnal months. It’s all fallen leaves and rowan’s tiny pomes. And rotting graves, fading flowers and forgotten angel figurines. I bid my farewell to all the little children sleeping in the womb of that mossy soil, to the nameless crosses falling to pieces, to the entwined hands and to Jón Sigurðsson with his unassuming tombstone concealed in the intricacy of the contorted trees.
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Angel figurines are a wonderful way to remember the ones who have gone on before us.
Really nice pictures! You made a sad place look very interesting and well worth a visit
It’s a spooky view, but I must say your photos frame it well.