Anybody hunting for Britain’s lost summer need look no further than Iceland. I spent last week there salmon-fishing, in torrid sunburn conditions caused by a northward shift of the Atlantic jetstream which means that the place has scarcely seen rain since spring, and not many salmon. I failed to hook a single fish, which caused unkind critics to mutter that it is lucky I write books rather than cast a fly for my living. But if I were a Greek, irrespective of the rotten angling conditions, I would head north for a look at Iceland. Since its bank collapse and debt default four years ago, normality has returned amazingly quickly. Tourism is booming, thanks to the currency devaluation. I know nothing about economics, but almost all my numerate friends, including one at the Bank of England, reckon Greece could bounce back equally well if it quit the euro and abandoned the hairshirt policies which promise only depression and extremist politics. Sages like my fishing partner, the Daily Telegraph’s former City editor Neil Collins, claim that the biggest threat to the rest of the eurozone would be that once the Spanish, Portuguese etc. saw Greek tourism flourishing, they too would be fighting for the exit.
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News of John Keegan’s death arrived by iPhone in the midst of the volcanic wilderness. For years, he held an important place in my life. One day at the beginning of 1986, he rang to gossip. I told him an implausible announcement was due that night: I was becoming editor of the Daily Telegraph. John instantly said: ‘Can I be your defence correspondent?’ He was half joking, but I seized on the notion: he became one of the new regime’s first appointments. He knew nothing about journalism, but adapted brilliantly to its discipline and indiscipline. He was also, of course, an important influence on his successor generation of writers about war — me, Antony Beevor and many others. The Face of Battle, his first and best book, created a new genre of military history dominated by human experience. Few modern readers care whether the 51st Division marched north-north-east while the 3rd Division enveloped an open flank; they want to learn about what men do and have done to them on battlefields. I differed with John on one issue: he was a romantic about warriors, imbuing them all with a lustre which seemed to me overdone. I think of soldiers as the usual mingling of good, bad and ugly. Keegan was a man of fierce passions — social, political, religious. Most of his enthusiasms were worthy ones, which is much more than many of us can boast.
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During some time-killing hours on the riverbank, I caught up with Jonathan Steinberg’s biography of Bismarck, which seems as good as the critics suggested when it appeared last year. I was irritated to find the author throughout spelling ‘field-marshall’ with two l s, in the German fashion. But it would ill become me to make too much of this. A consequence of having a personal website, as most authors now do, is that one is exposed to correspondence from readers all over the world, pointing out egregious errors, usually relating to the history of their own countries. Global culture makes writers somewhat richer, but ensures there are few hiding places when we get things wrong — as we all do.
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The night before I flew to Reykjavik, we took a ferry to Cowes for the 60th birthday party of an old friend, Victoria Mather. Beyond jolly company and a topping speech from the guest of honour, everybody agreed that the food and wine were as good as they get. My wife says I think far too much about what I eat, which is probably true. But most of us feel a surge of goodwill towards party-givers who take trouble about the browsing and sluicing. There is no correlation between wealth and cuisine: some very rich people do not notice what they or their guests eat and drink, while others with modest bank balances produce wonderful things. We sailed home from Cowes nursing hopes that Victoria’s sainted husband Johnny will do the same again for her 70th.
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Icelanders are rugged individualists. Where there is so much wilderness and so few people, eccentricity can be indulged. On the country road beside which our river ran stand some summer bungalows. One owner gets cross about the manner in which traffic seeks to race past in clouds of dust. He has created a chicane by planting a derelict car in the middle of the road; this obliges even the most manic road-hogs to slow and swerve to squeeze past. Kingston-on-Thames and suchlike might care to copy: it would save council-tax payers a fortune in speed-bumps.
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Iceland is densely populated with charming, chunky, hairy ponies of many hues. Most of these get exported, to be ridden by little girls; but a good many get eaten. Our guide on the river explained that selling horsemeat for human consumption is illegal, but the law is never enforced. Thus, he said, this is a local delicacy. However, having sampled Icelanders’ beef and lamb, cut from beasts that seem to have led uncommonly hard lives, I would be cautious about accepting their endorsement for roast pony.
Max Hastings is a former editor of the Daily Telegraph and Evening Standard. His latest book is All Hell Let Loose.