This is a travel book written by Tim Moore, who has carved out a career from following esoteric and humorous journeys involving personal indignity or placing himselves in strange situations.This was his first book, and in it he follows the travels of Lord Dufferin.
I foudn a copy of Dufferin's original book on his travels in a second hand book shops as it happens.
This involves him cycling (as many of his books do) across part of Iceland before heading even further north to Svalbard. He pits himself against the interior of the country and endless gravel roads on his journey on the Kjolur trail.
I have the issue pictured here, which I've had since it came out, along with all of Tim's books.
From the reviews:
Dufferin's battles with icebergs, polar bears and the deep potations of hospitable Norsemen is a tale of derring-do; Moore's struggle against seasickness, vertigo and over-priced groceries is all too plainly one of derring-don't. As his bid to emulate the Empire tradition of fearless pluck in the face of adversity crumbles before haughty Icelandic skippers, a convoy of Norwegian Vikings and Spitzbergen's Soviet ghost towns, he finds himself transferring his affections to Dufferin's valet Wilson, a man so profoundly gloomy that 'he was seen to smile but once, when told that his colleague, the steward, had been almost thrown overboard'.
'Yes, we must show you how to wear the survivor suits,' said the captain, as I squinted stupidly at the safety poster, a comment I made the terrible error of thinking was a joke. As it transpired, I didn't even see a lifejacket, and even in my darkest hours I was too embarrassed to ask again about the survival suits. Shouting, 'No, no! Come back! Please show me how to live!' as the captain whistled away down the corridor wouldn't have sounded great, and it might easily have cursed the voyage in line with some 'Scottish-play' type nautical superstition. All I could do was to try and recall from my Bronze Survival Medal course (failed) how you go about making a float by inflating a pair of pyjama bottoms. 'Excuse me, could you blow into my trousers to make them swell up?' was not a question I wanted to ask a sailor.'
The author was a glutton for punishment. No sooner does he embark in Reykyavik than he goes on a bicycle ride through the dreaded Kjolur route, some 250 kilometers of uninhabited desolation that marks the center of Iceland. (Some 95% of gthe population of the island live within hailing distance of the coast.)
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