Borgarnes, our lunch stop, is like Saga Central. Everyone who killed anyone in the ancient texts did so here. Twenty miles from Reykjavik as the puffin flies, our fjord-based route has rung up 75 sweet, twisty miles to get here. On the ragged edge of Borgarfjordur-fjord, we stop to spit out the vowels and consonants filling our mouths and dine at the Buoarklettur restaurant/Viking museum. As a rule, real Icelandic folk-cooking involves an abnormal amount of cast-off body parts. You'll want to avoid local delicacies like decomposing shark, pickled ram's testicles and split-down-the-center sheep head. Exception to this rule can be made for the homemade-in-boiling-thermal-pools bread. On this trip we stick with Nuevo-Icelandic cuisine: tjomato sjoup, hjotdogs, and Fjrench fjries.