S A L L Y - K I N D B E R G ' S

elf homes
Pixy Power - Sally Kindberg goes to Elfschool in Iceland.
Evening Standard December 2000

Iceland hangs off the Arctic Circle like some exotic Northerly washing on a frozen line. About the size of Ireland and Wales put together, its population is less than that of Bromley. It's a volatile land of volcanoes, geysirs, lava-plains, earthquakes - and elves.

At my Reykjavik B&B "Baldur's Eyebrow" I chatted to Ariane, one of its owners, about this curiously Icelandic phenomenum. "You have your Royal Family," she said with a smile, "and we have our elves."

Icelanders are into technology in a big way - more than three quarters of them surf the Net, 60% chat by mobile, their homes surge with geothermal heat and buzz with hydro-electricity. Many, however, also believe in elf-power. According to a recent survey by Reykjavik newspaper DV, more than half the population puts its faith in pixies.

I popped over to Hafnarfjodur, an elf's gambol away. A small harbour-town built on ancient lava-formations and leylines, it's considered an elf hot-spot. The 19C Hansen restaurant on its seafront advertised an Elfin Menu. The place was empty except for a melancholy chef. "Are you alone?" he asked suspiciously, looking over my shoulder perhaps to see if I was accompanied by fairy friends. Disappointingly the Menu, which included 'fish duet a la Elves', was only available for groups of 6 or more. On my way back to my B&B by cab, I asked the driver if he was an elf- believer. He stared at me in the mirror. "My grandfather is psychic," he said solemnly. "He has seen them." I decided I needed some elf-education, and the Elfschool - it's listed in the phone book - seemed just the place to get it. The man who runs it is a well-known character and I was increasingly intrigued.

I knew a bit about elves. They were first mentioned in Iceland in the Sagas. These medieval bestsellers were written by descendants of the first settlers, disaffected 10C Vikings who liked a tall tale or two. The Sagas are quoted by some 21C Icelanders as if they were current Booker prizes. I'd also heard that elves get respect. Macho building constructors and even a power station have consulted sensitive "seers" who act as intermediaries before they started work on the land - to ensure they aren't offending the tenants of rocky elf high-rises.

I had some difficulty booking my elf class. Magnus H. Skarphedinsson the Elf Headmaster was elusive. I left messages which were not returned. "I am a VERY busy person," he said pompously. "HUNDREDS of people want to see me. Ring tomorrow." I persevered. Maybe elusiveness was part of his job description. Several phonecalls later we were sorted.

The Elfschool is on Sidumuli Street near the Zoo in eastern Reykjavik, a 10-minute drive from the centre. It shares its premises with a Psychic School on the first floor of a small 60s business block fronted with weeds. Plaster gnomes gazed down from their shelves into a classroom decorated with frilly-skirted lamps and plastic tulips.

Magnus, bearded and wearing waterproof trousers, bounced in. "My mission is to see that elves and other hidden people get the respect they deserve," he began. He gazed intensely at his class - me, a bored girl who did not speak and a black dog. The girl was Magnus's stepdaughter and the black dog fell asleep, having heard it all before.

Magnus has been running half-day Elf seminars for the past 7 years, claiming an annual turnover of 2000 students, mostly Germans and Scandinavians. He advertises in "What's on in Iceland" magazine, local radio and through travel agencies. He considers himself an important historian, a spokesperson for the supernatural, a committed collector of elf-data who lectures here and in Russia, Norway and Finland.

The Elf Headmaster ran through elf-classification, pirouetting in front of a white-board. He wrote lists and gave us the low-down on dwarves, mountain spirits and lovelings - tiny childlike creatures who lurk in vegetation. Projected photos of some of 400 'witnesses', materialised eerily on the wall. These were ordinary-looking Icelandic folk with no-nonsense faces who've had encounters of a magical kind. Magnus has recorded them all. He showed us drawings of elf-homes - invariably large rocks. If the feelings of these earth-guardians are ignored, building projects have a habit of going haywire - earthdiggers mysteriously break down, drills blunt or workmen go sick.

According to Magnus and others with a discerning eye, this sparsely-populated land is actually a hurly-burly of activity, swarming with spirits popping in and out of their rocky homes. And other dimensions of course. Magnus held up a battered pot, a gift from a friendly sprite, but disappointingly empty of fairy-food. The bored girl fetched a Coke.

How to recognise these mysterious lava-lovers? Size matters, of course - being 6 inches tall and wearing a pointy hat is a bit of a giveaway for a gnome. Clocking one of the 'huldufolk' or hidden people is trickier, because they have a humanoid appearance. Magnus gave us clues. "They wear out-of date clothes," he told me and the gently snoring black dog - the girl had disappeared. "They walk like this," he demonstrated, wafting his hand a few inches from the ground. I discreetly checked Magnus's feet. They were both firmly on the ground. The elves provide him with a living, after all. However cynical I might feel, I still wanted the Elfschool Certificate - what an addition to my C.V.! - awarded at the end of the 2 hour session.

I headed back to downtown Reykjavik, scanning the street for floaters in flares. No luck - but up a little alleyway in Reykjavik at the Penis Museum, amongst gigantic whale appendages mounted on heraldic shields, was a tiny jar of cloudy embalming fluid labelled 'elf's penis'. It was invisible to my sceptical English gaze. Sadly, despite my time spent in elf education, I still lacked that special elfspotters' eye.

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