As forecasted it was a bright sunny morning and all the people on the campsite were glad because they could leave. The café perhaps wouldn't be so glad, as takings would most certainly be down on yesterday when the place was full of travelers in sheltering from the rain and spending money.

I had both muesli and porridge for breakfast in the campsite kitchen. The German cycling couple sat at the same table didn't have cereal at all. Instead, the young woman peeled and cut up an apple; then peeled an orange, dividing up the segments, then mixing all together in the plastic bowl of their camping-cookset, to which she added a tub of Skyr; which is, something I think is only available in Iceland; and is like a yogurt, though thicker and creamier, I'm told as I haven't tried it. I usually go for the surmjolk for breakfast, a bit like natural unflavoured yogurt, though nicer than any natural yogurt I've had before, being thick and creamy. Its those Icelandic cows which are unique to Iceland which produce such creamy milk. The cheese tastes so good here too.

My tent dried in a short time in the sunshine and light breeze, then it was time to take it down, pack everything on the bike and leave. I said goodbye to cyclists riding north and set off south shortly before ten.

There was a kilometre long road back to the main highway where I turned left. The pyramid peak, Bulandstinda veiled in white cloud was ahead between the mouths of the fjord Is leaving and the next fjord south which I was cycling towards. The mountains had alternative pale green sparse grass and grey rock strata in steps which simultaneously ran diagonally along near vertical slopes rising out of the sea, looking like sinking ships. For about thirteen kilometres the road rolled up and down between the coast and rising ground until the end of the tidal inlet, then swung down and over a bridge across a mountain stream and up and around back towards the ocean. The road further went round another indent into the coast, then came a section of dramatic scree slopes running down to lapping waves which the road builders had carved a way across. I was caught up at this point by a young frizzy-haired pony-trailed and bearded guy on a Surly touring-bike, whom I recognised from the campsite. He was riding much faster than me, but we stayed together long another before he rode on to say he was French Canadian. He didn't much like when I suggested he was American because of the bike he's riding.

I stopped for lunch at a rest-place; where in the forty minutes Is there, car after car pulled in as the place was of historic interest with an interpretation board saying something like, here is the spot Christianity was introduce to Iceland in the year 1000. And about the first people to convert being baptised in the nearby river.

The nicest part of the day's road came after rounding a towering peninsular, to Lonsfjordur, a lagoon separated from the ocean by a split of sand with swans and their signets in the reeds by the roadside. Then inland again the road went round a broad area of wash-out plain to the left of the road, with scree slopes and cliffs on the right with many bridges over the rivers flowing from valleys out to sea.

I reached Hofn at quarter to eight and first called at the petrol station where Is glad to see they'd alcohol for my stove. Then after drinking a litre bottle of Sprite because they didn't have a thermos of coffee, I crossed the road to the campsite, which was much like Djupivoger; more cyclists and cost was reasonable at eleven hundred kroners with good services and the weather forecast posted at reception. Though there was one fault: there were notices by all the powerpoints with a picture of a mobile saying it is forbidden to charge mobiles and that you can charge your phone at reception, charge, one hundred kroners.

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