It's told in the Icelandic Landnámabók that Ingolf Arnarson, one of the first Nordic settlers of the island, upon sighting land threw his two high seat pillars into the sea. These were most likely the two ornate columns that flanked the seat of the household head (while also supporting the roof) in Viking-era Scandinavia, and would have been brought along to frame the dwelling's center in the new land. Two servants were sent out to discover where the posts struck land.

This was, apparently, done for reasons beyond superstition or homesickness. The floating posts would not only follow a current that would prove to be most gracious for carrying a ship homeward, but they would locate a beach that would quite likely be a site for accumulating driftwood for fuel and construction. This would be an ideal site for a farmstead. Ingolf's gambit paid off: he located his farm in what is now the city of Reykjavík, where the event is commemorated by its coat-of-arms.

It seemed appropriate, then, that if one were to have a contemporary Viking birthday celebration, it should be located in another "house" made of cast-away wood that has finally found its way home. Such was the thought behind what I thought would have been an intimate gathering of immediate family and friends. I was very surprised that, as the night wore on, it became a rather extensive celebration among a horde of friends both local and long distance, undoubtedly drawn as much by curiosity regarding this unique construction as by the promise of legs of lamb, fish stew, and beer in drinking horns.

Since my birthday usually marked one of the first days of lingering snow in early winter, we had hoped to see the cabin in the snow with its rough wooden and cement contours capturing drifts and wisps of powder and ice. Instead, it rained. Well, you know…. Nevertheless, the fire in the hearth welcomed many to the interior, where candles burned and the bench was cloaked with the extravagantly furry hides of Icelandic horses (all of whom, we can tell from their coloration, died peacefully of old age). And, despite the rain, many more revelers were drawn to the exterior, where the cabin seemed like a mountain troll, with different sets of glowing eyes visible as you circled it, its snout gushing rainwater from the roof onto a large rock below.

The candles inside were extinguished, the furs gathered for the trek homeward, the dual grills outside were allowed to douse themselves. Leaving, one couldn't resist taking one last glance back. The cabin's silhouette reinforced its metamorphic and anthropomorphic identities: rock-like and animal-like, ship and dragon, inhabitant and inhabitation.

— Val Warke [Special Cabin Visitor and Associate Professor at Cornell AAP]