Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

We are at Glacier; the driver says this is where you get off. On the seaward side of the road, behind a green hillock in the homefield, is a bare patch of gravel. On it stands a ramshackle old shed of corrugated iron, about two metres by three. It's shut. Evening; fog has settled on the brows of the mountains. Apart from the shed, the only other sign of human habitation is a decaying wooden bench of three planks, fastened to the ground beside the door. The undersigned sits down on the bench with his duffel bag beside him and brings out a map. The fog has sliced the tops off the mountains, and is thickest where the glacier should be, according to the map.

There is a fine drizzle. The hillock glows green in the twilight, and lava-knuckles protrude from it here and there. When I tried the locked door again I noticed there was a board above it; some letters had been painted on it with lamp-black or tar a long time ago, and even though the lettering was blurred and grimy and the board decaying, one could still make out the words: PRIMUSES REPAIRED HERE. The bridle path to the parsonage lay in a semicircle past the hillock. Beside the path stood a tethered calf, very wretched-looking, swollen-bellied, suffering from the scour, wry-faced, his forehead matted, hanging his head, not lowing. The visitor stops on the paving at the door. The long side of the house faced the sea, and the homefield reached to the edge of a sea-cliff where white birds sailed overhead.