Читая Letters from Iceland Одена и Макниса, наткнулась на литературный прообраз путешествия хоббитов с Арагорном из Брыля в Ривенделл, а именно, раздел XII Hetty to Nancy, написанный Луисом Макнисом и опысывающей в юмористическом ключе (и еще in drag) поездку группы "подружек" на пони по Исландии. Приятно находить общие читательские предпочтения с авторами любимых книг.

Небольшой фрагмент (расшифровка персоналий: нарратор - Хэтти - Луис Макнис, Мэйзи - У.Х.Оден, адресат Нэнси - Энтони Блант).читать дальше

«Today we did our longest trek - 70 kilometers. You work that out in miles and take off your hat to us! And what was more, we walked half of it on our own feet. Because today we were doing undiscovered country. Doesn't that excite you, darling? We had to get across, you see, from Hveravellir to Arnarvatn. Well, people don't do that direct. They go up much farther north and then down again. But we hadn't time for that because girlg have to catch a boat. The guides themselves were quite excited and amused themselves by building cairns - a game to which the country is admirably adapted. In the centre of Iceland there are only three kind of scenery - Stones, More Stones and All Stones. The third type predominant today. The stones are he wrong sizes, the wrong shape, the wrong colour, and too many of them. They are not big enough to impress and not small enough to negotiate. Absolutely unpicturesque and absolutely non-utilitarian. We stumbled over their points in gumboots, dragging the wretched horses behind us. And at the same time we were climbing. Maisie was disgusted. She said it was like after party which no one had tidied up. It's certainly hard to think how a country gets in a mess like this. A geologist would know, I suppose. The glacier was now to our south looking distinctly jaded. There were peaky mountains on our right, dull and sullen in the mist. About 1.0 we found a fallen-in cave, a thing like subway and no more beautiful, and stopped there to eat chocolate.[...] Then we went on again over the stones. Next time we ford the river I shall be very surprised if our boots do not turn out to be punctured. I tried to remember my T.S.Eliot and said something to Maisie about stony rubbish and dry bones but Maisie said anyone would be an optimist who expected to find anything as human as a dry bone in these parts. Then we came to dry bed of a river which seemed even more desolate still and was also a litter of stones. And then at long last we came to a miracle - a small patch of grass with sheep on it. Not that I would be those sheep all the same. Still they seem to thrive on it. In fact, the sheep in Iceland all look the size of horses. Once we had seen the sheep things went better. The sun even came out. We came to a clear stream where the horses could drink and not long after we reached our destination - a very beautiful lake lined with long gleams of silver in the low sun.

(W. H. Auden, Louis MacNeice, Letters from Iceland)»