Sarah and I headed in the direction of the general throng downhill towards Arnarhól, where a huge flag-draped stage was occupied by a band singing indecipherable Icelandic rock. The crowd was heaving, relaxed, and colourful (obviously), the statue of Ingólfur Arnarson covered in spectators and sporting a traffic cone hat, and there was a general air of happiness and human rights. We took advantage of the weather and wandered through town, remarking at everyone's excellently themed outfits and excellently squidgy dogs, and some of bars' sort-of-excellent happy hour deals. Reykjavik under sun is a city transformed, and even the gulls constantly circling the centre became ideal framing for the silhouette of the Hallgrímskirkja in the distance. I had yet to view Lake Tjörnin under anything except oppressive cloud so we did the full loop. Officially a lagoon (how exotic), Wikipedia describes it as an "integral part of the urban environment", and I'd have to agree; it offers picture-perfect views of both town and mountains - and a whole lot of ducks. Ideal.
We dropped in on the end of the weekend flea market (although failed to purchase anything more than an iron-on Icelandic flag to help decorate my currently pitiful hiking backpack), and Sarah showed me to an Icelandic institution that served me the national dish: hot dog with all the toppings. Baejarins Bestu appropriately translates to "best hot dogs in town", and has stood by the harbour since 1937. It serves your standard frankfurter smothered in fried onions, raw onions, and remoulade - a sweet mayonnaise with relish - and is v. cheap and v. delish.