Mom goes to Iceland

I felt quite privileged to be able to quit Ireland on an aeroplane heading for the U.S. in these uncertain times of airspace closing and opening like a pub door. I was more surprised when we headed due north, skidding past the Uists and the other Outer Hebridean islands. I was able to recognise North Uist from the Monty Hall programmes, the last of which I shall unfortunately miss. I am sorry not to be able to see how he (and his fairly mad dog Rubes) cope with the demands of the job and whether they actually did manage to butcher the lovely Glos Old Spot piglets for Christmas dinner.
Anyway the pilot assured us that we will be able to see the volcano in an hour and a half and that those of us sitting on the left side of the plane will have ringside seats. There is no rush for the empty seats beside me, to my relief. What a change from packed Ryanair flights - more legroom and only a half-full plane. The aeroplane continues to climb slowly from 36,000 ft.
In due course, our captain advised us that we shall cross the Iceland coastline at 38,000 ft and there we can already see the ash plume streaming off to the left, heading off southwards to Morocco. Gradually, I make out the volcano itself, looking like an old briar pipe stuck in the ground, pumping out charcoal grey smoke over there almost on the horizon, under the wing. I begin taking photographs; a few people who were seated on the right side of the plane, stand in the aisle craning their necks to see but there is no concerted rush for the seats on the left side: maybe people are worried that they will tilt the plane over towards the volcano. It doesn't seem likely, as it is very far away.
I tried to work out where Reykjavik was: there seemed to be absolutely no sign of human habitation in this charcoal grey landscape enlivened only by large white snow patches and iced-over lakes, old craters filled with snow and - nothing else. A lunar landscape with snow.
I took more photographs. I realise that we are working our way around the cone of the pumper, to get upwind of the ash plume. This makes sense and I wondered why I had imagined we would go far to the south to avoid it. As it is, the flight was an hour late arriving from the U.S. and we will end up more than another hour late on arrival at Newark, as we are bucking a powerful southward airflow, the same one that is carrying the ash plume safely away from us to make life a misery for thousands in Portugal, Spain and now Morocco. A fleeting thought about what might happen if the wind changed direction is speedily dismissed; this seems to be a permanent feature.
Gradually we work our way north-west until we leave Eyjafjallajokul (approximately correct spelling) behind, cross the northern Icelandic coastline at 40,000 ft and head for Greenland. Much more snow here, with wickedly jagged rock peaks poking through a blanket of snow and the occasional dome of a very big old crater.
After what seemed a very long time we cross the Labrador straits and as we approach Newfoundland, there are what I imagine was pack-ice and maybe calving icebergs - it looks as if someone spilled a whole box of icing sugar, neither land nor sea, some looking like sand on a wide beach, in wave formations, some it pellet-sized white blobs. The scale is difficult to decipher. Finally I recognise the rocky shore of Newfoundland. No sign of habitation and I finally stop taking photos before we move south towards southern Canada and U.S. It would have been wonderful to see Niagara Falls at this point but our Capitan did not indicate that this was possible.

It was an unexpected treat to see 'live footage', as it were, of this event which seems set to reshape summer 2010 air travel for European travellers. I may have a different attitude if it disrupts my return journey or if I cannot see the eruption from my seat on the aeroplane next time. Without the view, it simple made a long flight even longer.