Cold Comforts
From monster trucks to molten lava, with a side serving of thundering waterfalls, mineral-packed mud masks and heart pounding snowmobiling, Iceland is unlike anywhere else on earth. Let’s pack our thermals?
We're about 20 minutes into our trek on a string of Icelandic horses, steadily making our way through a spectacular valley. This could be a bucolic scene of blue skies and verdant greenery amid a scattering of wildflowers, but right now, the sky is grey and the rain is coming in sideways. My face is soaked, and my right boot is filling up with water from where the leg of my waterproof trousers has ridden up above my ankle. I'm cold and wet, but my spirits are high. I glance back at you, and I’m pleased to see the conditions haven’t dampened your mood either.
The trek is leisurely and steady: the pure Iceland-bred equines, which look like slightly larger Shetland ponies, are renowned for their mild temperaments and, particularly, the smooth ride they deliver, thanks to a fifth gait that makes transitioning from one hoof to the other less bumpy. It’s the perfect way to wind down from a whirlwind trip.
Rewind three days to our arrival into Keflavík. As we fly in, the short descent across the southern part of the island to the landing strip delivers a brief but invaluable lesson in the uniqueness of the Nordic landscape. Essentially, it’s a mixture of ancient geological formations of rock nudged up against sloping hills blanketed in brittle greenery and, of course, expansive patches of ice. The weather is typically inclement, and I shiver, complaining of being cold. I wonder if our luggage limitations mean we have not packed enough warm clothes. But my complaints are quickly silenced by curiosity as we meet our guide, Sven, in the airport lobby; after greeting us, he says, intriguingly, “You’re in luck, we’ve put on a show for you.”
As we walk to our minivan, all is revealed: Sven explains there was a volcanic eruption just two days ago and we will get to see it en route to the Blue Lagoon. “But don’t try to get close to it,” he warns with a slight smile, referencing the fact that many foolishly do. As we slow at the closest point on the road, I’m surprised the entire area is marked only by a few modest road signs, despite the jagged monolithic piece of black rock spewing molten lava in the distance amid thick smoke. Surrounding it are trickles of lava running down the crevices like glowing orange veins.
“The most irritating thing is the ash,” Sven says. “You wake up in the morning and your house is covered in it.” Icelanders, it seems, simply take seismic activity in their stride.
As it happens, Sven is a great source of knowledge for just about anything relating to his home country, with a captivating tale to accompany every experience.
He admits the Blue Lagoon spa may be considered a bit of a tourist trap, but insists that, if you get there early and beat the crowds and volcanic activity doesn’t intervene - which is common - it is still an experience unlike any other.
Set within more blackened rocks, the geothermal pools of deliciously warm milky water are a stark but welcome contrast to the brisk air temperature, making lingering here all the more inviting. There is also a swim-up mud-mask bar, with treatments served in wooden spoons directly into your hands for you to smother onto your face, all made from local silica and minerals said to have healing properties for the skin.
The Blue Lagoon’s Lava Restaurant gives us our first taste of the local cuisine. With shiny faces fresh from the spa, we delve into homemade bread with homemade smoked butter the texture of whipped cream. The butter here is a delicacy, revered by chefs around the world for its richness and purity thanks to the pure-bred local cows. It’s used heavily in the cuisine to enrich meat or fish - and is a mainstay in puddings too.
As we head to our hotel, we stop briefly at Thingvellir National Park, site of the world’s oldest parliament - founded in 930 AD - and, as such, a place of great historical significance. It is also where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates collide, the effects of which can be seen in the deep valleys and rifts, lined by walls of basalt rock.
On day two, we swap the minivan for a monster truck, in which we climb to 1,400m above sea level. Our destination is Langökull, Iceland and Europe’s second-largest glacier at 950 sq km. The remnants of volcanic ash fly through the air; mixing with the hazy morning fog; on the ground around us, there’s nothing but a vast plain of ice. After a brief safety talk from another guide, we straddle snowmobiles wearing so much protective gear that the cold doesn’t even touch us. Tentatively, we set off, the spindly skis wobbling before carving out grooves in the ice. Despite being beginners, some others seem to be hurtling ahead, and I hear your muffled voice urging me to speed up. I grip the handlebars and we are away, my confidence steadily growing as we gather pace.
The glacier is as you’d expect from a gigantic mound of snow and ice, but the way the unwieldy snowmobile navigates the terrain, where every bump combines with bursts of speed, translates into thrills throughout our bodies. “Hold on,” I say for about the tenth time since we set off. Our helmets knock together as we speed along the bumpy ice, some of which gives way to slushy puddles. Along the way, we pass dirt cones - conical piles of jet-black volcanic ash. We circle for about an hour, stopping for a brief snowball fight, before heading back, euphoric but exhausted.
There’s a brief respite in the form of delicious pizzas from a roadside diner, but Sven is eager for us to see Gullfoss - the Golden Waterfall - because the water there originates from the glacier we have just sped across. “On a good day, in the sunshine, the sun hits the water and creates a spectacular rainbow across it,” he says. “But good days are rare.” As if on cue, it starts raining. Our disappointment is fleeting - we didn’t have high hopes for rainbows anyway.
As we pick our way down the path towards the two enormous undulating falls, our ears filled with the powerful sound of cascading water, we are sprayed by both the waterfalls and the rain, but the sight is so breathtaking that the soaking is almost instantly forgotten.
You are in high spirits too, dancing your way down to the edge of the higher waterfall, giggling as you go.
This trip may be fictional, but we could share a very real adventure together. Interested? Don’t be shy… After all, we only live once… Get in touch :)