What they say about Iceland is true. Sheep outnumber people two-to-one.

Iceland’s sheep, brought to the island by the Vikings late in the ninth century and bred in isolation for more than a thousand years, are the oldest and purest breed on the planet. Like the Icelandic people, they’re extremely hardy. Even so, early in September, the country begins its réttir, an age-old multi-day, multi-generational round up of these stocky wool-puffed animals, fat from a summer of free-ranging on grassy highlands. 

We caught our first glimpse of the réttir (pronounced, rhett-tur) on the second day of September, farmers herding a few sheep on the dirt road to Langanes at the northeastern tip of the country. In this remote area, they start early.

A week later, the most popular time for the rettir, we came upon the real thing on the other side of the country on scenic Highway 608 in the western highlands.

Well, the culminating part of the real thing. 

In past centuries sheep were left out to pasture year-round. As the number of flocks increased, over-grazing led to the autumn réttir.

Farmers, their kids (who skip school to help out) and people in local communities head to the pastoral highlands, often overnighting in mountain huts. Assisted by GPS, drones, two-way radios and their trusty dogs, a crossbreed of a collie and Icelandic sheepdog, they track the sheep, herding them homeward. Working on horseback, on foot, on tractors, on quadbikes and in support vehicles, they take a few days (and sometimes nights traversing mountain switchbacks) to a few weeks to round up the sheep. It’s a hard task, but easier than a century ago when Maurice Lesemann wrote “Sheep Herders:”

You too, of course, have counted sheep
Trying to put yourself to sleep? 

If you should ever come to hate 
That simple harmless opiate
And ask a subtler one instead. 

More potent for a pounding head 
Than mere monotony of number. 

Try this formula for slumber:

Imagine men who earn their bread 
By counting sheep, who for the sake
Of counting sheep must keep awake, 

(Lie long and quiet in your bed)
...
Lie still. Suppose 
That you yourself were one of those.
...
Think of them slowly one by one 
Till you are wakened by the sun.

Watching the expertise of these people as they neared a farmyard, especially the dogs herding rogue sheep back into the flock, frisky and plump sheep running so fast their back legs left the ground, Magellan and I felt like were seeing Iceland’s version of the Stampede.

Laura Kiniry, a writer for the Smithsonian, describes the process of gathering the sheep into folds and putting them into a sorting ring:

On the day of the rettir, hundreds of sheep are released into a central wooden sheepfold that’s surrounded by marked compartments—one belonging to each local farmer—that jut out from the inner circle like rays of the sun. Here, the sheep run haphazardly from one side to another, often pressing together for safety as they try to avoid getting caught. This latter part is a sport in itself—it often requires grabbing one of their horns first, then straddling the sheep as quickly as possible to keep it steady. Once you’ve identified its earmark, it’s about getting that sheep to the appropriate farmer, who then keeps it within their marked compartment with other sheep until the entire flock is ready to head back to the farm.

I wonder if the sheep know what awaits them?

The strongest are sheared and overwintered in a barn until next May when they return to the wild highlands pastures.

The rest are slaughtered for their lean and tender meat, deliciously tasting of grass and aromatic herbs. 

Seeing people in the round up wearing Icelandic wool sweaters reminded me of their popularity in Canada in the 1980s. Icelandic sheep have dual-coated wool. The external coat is called tog, the internal one Þel, and when woven together they form a yarn made only in Iceland called Lopi. In my closet is a patterned Lopi vest mom knit for me as well as a cardigan. 

When the round up is complete, many communities celebrate with a réttaball, a night of singing, dancing and drinking. And feasting, sometimes on you-know-what. Svið (sheep’s head), kjötsuppa (mutton soup) or tender racks, all made from last year’s lamb. At farms that follow the old ways, this year’s sheep that won’t be returning to wilderness pastures next summer have until gormánuður, October 21–27, slaughtering week on the old Icelandic Calendar. 

On that note, a fall tradition of ours for the last half century is Stew of Lamb with Dill from a cookbook Magellan’s mother gave me for a shower gift. Made from simple ingredients—lamb, onions, dill and yogurt—it’s worthy of being served at an Icelandic réttaball—or when you feel like a light, refreshing dinner to welcome another September.

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Hillman, Libby. The Menu Cookbook for Entertaining. New York: Hearthside Publishers, 1968. Magellan’s mother, GS1, would be the first to tell you she was not into cooking, but she gave me one of my most beloved cookbooks, the source of the two recipes above.

Kiniry, Laura. “Iceland’s Annual Tradition of Counting Sheep Is Far From Sleepy.” Smithsonian Travel. October 28,2022.

Lesemann, Maurice. “Sheep Herders.” Poetry Foundation. October, 1926.