64.1265º N, 21.8174º W
At the end of the long pier-like stretches off of Iceland’s capital there is a rock wall, not taller than me. On the other side of it, it’s a deep plunge to the Faxa bay—only a moderate bulwark from the mid-Atlantic. On this wintry day, the waters were low, winds calm, and the high noon light was soft and violet. As I neared the rock face a large sign of reclaimed wood with the words written Farmers and Friends caught my eye. The pleasant lighting through the window lured us across the street and seemed a welcome pause for heat. The shop was a chicly curated assortment of handmade Icelandic woolen goods including its own brand, Farmers Market, vintage imports like a wooden sewing machine cum display table and oodles of Aigle rainboots. The clothing, muted in tints of rust, cream, and black—sophisticated and urban, and full of texture. Towards the great window onto Hólmaslóð, blue glass hangs in knotted rope catching the light, and giving a nod to its seafaring city.