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Previously I have mentioned destinations that were “must-see” during my time in Europe (Zermatt, Norway), but there was nothing more must-see than Iceland. Ever since I was a child I was fascinated by this remote island that seemed to have some of the wildest landscape going around. It was planned from day one of my time in France that I would be going to Iceland for a couple of weeks during summer to really try and see everything it has to offer. The trip could accurately be titled something like “driving to places in Iceland to go hiking”, which should mount a convincing argument for why one should visit this remarkable place.

Pre-Departure excitement

This holiday basically prepared itself: I had had a list of things that I wanted to see and do in Iceland simmering away for some time, so when the opportunity came to finally visit, we simply purchased a large map and marked out where we wanted to go. Another planning tool that would prove to be invaluable was an extremely well chosen gift from my Reddit secret santa in 2013, a hiking guide to Iceland: Bergverlag Rother Islande. For getting around, we decided to hire a car rather than take the bus that regularly circumnavigates the island, primarily as we wanted to go to a few places that would have been difficult to get to otherwise. Things are quite expensive in Iceland, and we had learnt our lesson in Norway that you can spend a lot of money very quickly in the Nordic countries. We booked a car from the cheapest car company we could find, SADcars - the Icelandic equivalent of Rent-a-bomb - and planned to load up a suitcase full of food before we left, so we would not have to spend much money on food on the island. We would be hiking and camping most of the time, meaning our primary expenses would be the car, fuel and flights. Unfortunately we got off to a rocky start, as we had to spend more money than we had anticipated on the flights. In the planning stages, the flights were very reasonable, and with Icelandair, but by the time we booked them, they were quite expensive and with a low-cost airline, meaning we would have to pay to bring all that food over. But, other than spending a few hundred extra euros, the trip was very well planned.

Given all the planning, you can imagine my surprise when, on Wednesday night, I began to look things out for our Friday flight and my passport was nowhere to be found. I began to have flashbacks to Avignon when we were in a rush to leave the town before the roads closed and my passport was dumped in the glove box of our rental car, and how it eventually got jumbled around when the car instruction manual was taken out, resulting in it being underneath the manual. I also remembered searching the car quickly at the drop-off point whilst the attendant was watching and waiting. My stomach sank as I realised that must be where my passport remained. I immediately tried to call the car hire office in Avignon, but it was after hours, so I would have to wait until the morning. My stress levels went through the roof, not only because of Iceland, but also because immediately after that trip I was to go to the United States of America for work. I was frantically researching whether I needed a passport to gain entry into Iceland, and emergency replacement passports for both Australian and United Kingdom nationals to see which would be faster. Needless to say I was in a state, annoyed mostly at myself for allowing this scenario to happen.

Thursday morning arrived and I stayed home in the morning in an attempt to sort things out. The car rental office hours were from 0900, and I called on the hour. It was only a generic service number and after explaining the situation, I was given the number for the Avignon TGV outlet. I tried this and it rang out multiple times, so I waited a while longer and it continued to ring out. Frustrated, I once again called the generic number and had the same conversation as before, and with the same result - only this time, the phone number was different. I finally got in contact with the Avignon outlet and explained the situation, but the secretary said they had found no passports. I explained exactly where it would be and then he said they would have missed that, but he would go check the car now and call me back. An hour later, there was no response and so I called once again. He said that the car was not there and someone else was currently renting it, although offered little to explain not calling me back. He said he would try to get in contact with the renter and that he would once again call me back. The waiting during this time was sending me crazy, but there was nothing I could do.

It was about 1030 when I called again and the attendant said he had tried calling the renter twice but with no response. I was not sure what to do at this point, until he suggested he give me the renter's number so I could deal with him directly. He proceeded to give me his name, phone number and other details - which I am not sure he is allowed to do - and wished me good luck on my quest. I wasted no time in calling the new number and to my surprise, someone picked up straight away. I think the multiple phone calls must have shocked him into answering. The renter was a chap from the UK, currently exploring an area not too far from Orange. I once again explained the pickle in which I found myself and luckily he was quite sympathetic. He told me that he was about 30 minutes away from the car, but would have a look when he got back and let me know. Needless to say I was bouncing off the walls at this point!

My text message alert went off and the message “All good. They are here. What now?” appeared to my absolute delight. I called him back, costing both of us money, and explained that I could get on a train to Avignon ASAP and be there in four or so hours. Whilst he was happy to help me out, he said driving the 45 kilometres to Avignon was too much. The only other option was to get it sent up to Paris by mail/courier. For a price, La Poste can send anything around France within 10 hours* via Chronopost Chrono 10, noting the big asterisk. I found the closest post office to Orange and checked the mail pickup hours, and there was a Thursday afternoon pickup. This might happen, I might actually get away with this. I sent my details, along with a text message to show to the worker at the post office as my new friend did not speak French. There was nothing more I could do at this point, so I went off to work.

During lunch, I received a text saying that they had found the post office, but it was closed between 1130 and 1400, so they would have to return later. I tried to calmly say “for the love of god be there at 1400 waiting at the door”, but who knows how successful this was. At this point, I was just hanging out to hear from him; 1400 passes, then 1430, and then 1500. The pickup was listed between 1500 and 1600 so my blood pressure was beginning to creep up again. Finally, at 1530 I got a message saying that it was all good, the passport would be sent off today and that it cost 30 euro. I am not sure if they sent it earlier and just forgot to message me or they were living dangerously, but in any case I was pretty happy.

Flash forward two hours to 1730 and I am heading home on the train and receive an automated text from Chronopost saying that the delivery of my article is scheduled for between 0800 and 0830 on Monday morning. I was shattered. But it was out of my hands completely, all I could do was wait. In the meantime, I picked up Mia from Gare de Lyon as she had arrived for our scheduled departure the following evening. As we were to take food over to Iceland, we had to go and do the shopping for this on the off chance that the passport would arrive, which I had accepted was not going to happen, and this made the whole shopping and packing process miserable. The departure time on Friday was 2200, meaning I would spend the day at work - which would help me to stop thinking about this whole affair - and Mia would work from my place and keep an eye on the mail.

At this point, I had no idea what was going to happen. Worst case scenario, my passport would arrive Monday morning, we could not leave until Tuesday night and we'd lose a few hundred euros changing our flight, and would waste some money hiring a car which would sit in a car park. Not as grave as it could have been, so I made my peace. However... on my way back from lunch at 1330 I received a message with a photo of an envelope, ripped open to reveal two passports and the caption “We are going to Iceland motherfucker”. Never have I been so elated to be called a motherfucker.

Packed and ready to go, our Transavia flight flew out of Paris at 2200 and arrived at 0000 local time. After getting our bags we noticed the large number of people scrambling to buy alcohol, primarily just cases of beer, which we thought was a bit weird as who buys duty-free beer? Well, these people knew what we didn’t - beer is extremely expensive in Iceland. We entered the arrivals hall and found someone with a SADcars sign - as they were low cost, they were not based at the airport, rather in an industrial complex 10 kilometres away. They did not have our name on their list, but this was no major concern, so along with some other people we filled up the van and left. It became evident once we arrived back at their headquarters that we were scheduled to be picked up on the next trip to the airport, but due to delays of some other flights, we got out before a German couple who were due to arrive hours before us. The way in which this was made evident was said German couple calling the company asking where they should meet the person picking them up. Making matters worse, SADcars only had a single employee working all night, doing the airport collections, along with the paperwork and handing over of cars. Consequently, he dealt with everyone he had brought back - three groups - which took fifteen or so minutes each, before going back to collect the Germans, for whom I felt a little bad.

But once we had received our beast, an early Toyota Yaris which had already racked up a few hundred thousand kilometres, we loaded our luggage and just wanted to find the closest place to sleep. Before this would be possible, we would have to find fuel, as the company did not require drivers to return vehicles with a full tank, nor did they fill the tank themselves. The previous renters must have been pretty good at riding the red line, as there was almost no fuel, with the warning light engaged from the start. We rolled into the first petrol station we saw and contended with the slightly confusing automatic pay-at-the-pump system - annoyingly card only - and made our way towards the closest campsite. According to our map, there was a campsite on the Alftanes peninsula, which was a half-hour drive, but once we got there and drove around for a while, it was clear there was no campsite. We looked around for some time, but given it was 0200 we were both buggered and just wanted to sleep. As we headed back to the main road, we came across an area perfect for setting up a tent, so we did. We found a good spot - well, as good as you can find in the pitch black - and were ready to set up the tent; however, the car had other ideas, with the boot jamming shut. This had happened at the rental outlet, but was easily solved with just pulling harder. Here, it just would. Not. Open. Defeated, we clambered over the back seats, got what we needed and were out cold as soon as we lay down.

A taste of things to come

First light must have been sometime around 0200, but it didn’t wake us up as we were stuffed and the rain had set in, making everything a dull tone of grey. Once we finally packed up our tent in the morning, the first mission for the day was to deal with our car boot issue, which was eventually solved by climbing over the back seats, removing the plastic panels and manually releasing the locking mechanism. Without any implements, this was pretty punishing on one’s fingers, but would become the new norm. Once we had the boot open, we introduced some order into the car, setting it out efficiently for the two weeks camping and hiking, much to the chagrin of any hitchhikers, as our already small car was reduced from a four person vehicle to a two person vehicle in this process.

Stop number one - for us and almost every visitor to Iceland - was Reykjavík. The rain only got heavier as we were making our way to town and was torrential by the time we got into the centre. I had no real aims other than to see the town’s cathedral, Hallgrimskirkja, and to have a wander around and try a get a feel for the town. Parking in the centre was all paid parking, and as we had not withdrawn any money, we could not buy a ticket and simply had to risk it. We were hoping that given how heavy the rain was, no inspector would want to be out in that kind of weather!

The cathedral, built in 1986, stands 73 m tall and was named after the poet Hallgrímur Pétursson. It is somewhat spartan in its design, and is certainly an imposing building. When we arrived, it was closed for a service, so we had a look around town, with a secondary goal of finding fuel for our stove. We spotted an ATM and got out a huge wad of cash, hoping to have sufficient cash for our entire trip. At one point we ended up hiding from a particularly heavy downpour in the tourist information centre, and took the opportunity to ask where we might buy some camping stove fuel, which oddly enough seemed like a foreign concept to the person with whom we were talking. We eventually found some at BYKO at Fiskislóð, which was right on the edge of town, and whilst that is only 10 minutes walk, we would have definitely benefited from driving there, as we got absolutely drenched.

Rather than retracing our footsteps, we followed the waterfront around and ended up at another of Reykjavík’s well-known sights: the Harpa, or the honeycomb concert hall. It is an impressive piece of modern architecture and tourists are encouraged to visit and explore the interior, which is all a bit trippy. I imagine that it would look spectacular by night, but we were not that keen to hang around; quite the opposite in fact. We cut our way back through the town in the direction of the cathedral, but as we passed Krambúð, a small supermarket, we could not resist a) seeing the local fare and b) getting a snack. It was fascinating to see the fruit and vegetables, all of which looked pretty ordinary as they have traveled a long way to get there, along with much happier-looking pastries and dairy products. We picked up some fruit, a scroll and a flavoured milk, and promptly devoured the latter items, which were delicious!

We returned to the now-open cathedral, and headed inside. The decoration was surprisingly pretty, given the gruff exterior. It is possible to climb the clock tower for a fee of 600 ISK, however given the weather we did not think it was worth it. We found our way back to the car (which thankfully did not have a parking ticket) and drove out of town. The interesting thing about driving in Iceland is that, given 60% of the country’s population lives in Reykjavík, the road network elsewhere is fairly minimal. This is exemplified by Þjóðvegur 1, or route one, which is the main road. It circumnavigates the island, sticking to the coast except when bypassing the fjords in the north, especially on the western side. Almost all destinations are reached on a trip around the number one combined with a little bit of detouring, hence the road was to become our home for a while. Leaving Reykjavík, we had one choice - left or right - and we chose right, going anticlockwise around the island.

On our way out of town, we stopped in at a service centre to top up the car as we had not completely figured out the automated system the night before, but this time we were all over it. Whilst we had a plan of places we wanted to go, we were entirely flexible as to where we stayed, so our plan was to do things until we started to get tired and then find a place to set up. Our first stop was a hike in the geothermal area of Hveragerði. The drive from Reykjavík was approximately one hour, and we were given glimpses of lava fields and mountains, but overwhelmingly it was cloudy with a lot of rain. However, soon we reached the col and then descended - rather steeply I might add - into the Hveragerði region, where the weather opened up a bit to reveal fumaroles everywhere, along with lush hills and steep mountains disappearing into the clouds. The small town of Hveragerði was packed with greenhouses, which apparently grow much of the island's tomatoes, among other goodies. Along the way to the hike trailhead, a carpark near a small farmhouse, we were treated to our first view of Icelandic horses.

The walk was number 54 in the hike book, rated as “medium”. It led up to a hot spring, but via a canyon with some mountain views. We were obviously not getting the views, but we did want to get out and explore. In what would later prove a silly decision, we did not bring our swimming gear, but rather just some food and water. I had gotten changed into my hiking gear, but Mia, assuming the hike to be a quick and easy walk, decided against this and stayed in her jeans. Leaving the carpark, we immediately saw some large, steaming and bubbling mud pits. If one can deal with the sulfurous air, these are mesmerising to watch, although ever so slightly terrifying in a way that only boiling mud can be. The path wasted no time in gaining altitude, and with increasing altitude came a decrease in the path quality. For quite a while the path followed a stream, but everything got pretty real once we reached the bluff and were treated to what was effectively a flood plain with deep mud. There was a vague path - in the sense that you could see where other people had walked - and had it been clear, it would have been easy to see the path continuing on the other side of the flats, but the thick cloud made for some slow going. It was at about this time Mia started to really regret wearing jeans.

After traversing the worst of it, we caught up to another couple who were attempting to clean themselves of the waist-deep mud. We ended up hiking together for a while afterwards, especially as the path had become quite difficult to follow. It turned out they were from Germany, and when I asked what town specifically, they replied “oh, a small town near Frankfurt, you would not have heard of it”, and I asked them to try me. It turned out they were from Mainz, where I had previously worked, and they were absolutely blown away by this - I guess we were the first foreigners they had met who knew of Mainz. In any case, it became apparent that we had fairly different travel styles when we mentioned that we were renting a car, as they insisted this was much too expensive and they had each only spent a little over the same amount for one month’s travel. All they had to do was eat rice for every meal, hitch and camp illegally. Mia was also slightly put off when one of them said “Wow, hiking in jeans is a really stupid idea”, which, ignoring the validity of the statement, definitely could have been put in a better way.

After a while, we reached the bathing area: a river fed by a glacier upstream, with water that is approximately zero degrees before it being warmed by springs, often by superheated steam bubbling into the stream. There are multiple springs, and groups tend to find one for themselves. There were only a handful of people up there, so it would have been pleasant to go for a dip, but we did not have any gear. Instead we could enjoy some of the wilder water formations, beautifully coloured with extremophile bacteria, before eventually heading back down the mountain. The guidebook suggested a loop, but given the large number of paths in the area that were not on our map, it made the prescribed walk difficult to follow. We tried our best, but ended up having to perform some non-trivial fords to get where we wanted to go. Annoyingly, the loop we were taking did have a backtracking section, which started/finished at the bluff, meaning we had to traverse the mud flats again. As we had already gotten filthy from the initial crossing and the middle section of the walk, we were much quicker and cared considerably less on the way back through.

Back at the car we cleaned up a little, but critically Mia’s shoes were soaked. We decided to get some newspaper from the nearby town to help dry them out, so I drove to the service station and Mia went in, and I am told the following exchange happened: Mia picks up an Icelandic newspaper and takes it to the counter (as a bonus it was quite expensive) and of course the person behind the desk speaks Icelandic to her, to which she cannot respond and awkwardness ensues. Eventually Mia explains what is going on and the shopkeeper says to take the local tourist paper, which is both in English and free. Not only is that hilarious, but it is also an example of the friendly and helpful nature that the Icelandic people would display over and over again during our time on the island.

Our first waterfall: Úlfljótsvatn dam — Our first waterfall: Úlfljótsvatn dam

Our next major stop was to be Þingvellir, which is famed as a meeting point of the European and American tectonic plates that is not at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. The drive was 60 km and would take roughly an hour. Leaving Hveragerði, we were treated to some better weather, allowing us to occasionally see the tops of the mountains which were constantly providing sheer cliff-faces around which the road would navigate. While driving, we came across our first “waterfall”, albeit man-made, at the Úlfljótsvatn dam. Stopping here was not the best experience as the air was thick with insects. I could not identify what they were as the number was truly astounding, rendering breathing difficult. As I had gotten out of the car, I took a photo on principle and then got back in and sped away.

Winding inland to get to Þingvellir, there are numerous canyons and lakes, which are stunningly beautiful, and one finds themselves in awe of the view at extremely regular intervals. The largest lake, Þingvallavatn, borders much of Þingvellir and once we were on the eastern side of the lake, the rifts in the Earth started appearing. Cracks and folds in the landscape scar the area in a stunning manner. People often expect to see a single large subduction zone, but akin to a cake either rising or sinking near the edge of a cake tine, tears open up over an extended region. Of course some are larger than others; some end up filling with water, often filled via the water table from glacial melt filtered through porous rock, resulting in beautifully clear water. Many people come here to go diving, but that is not really our thing.

We set up at the Leirar campsite, which was ISK 1400/night and pretty quiet, given its location right next to Þingvellir. There are some other sites within the national park, but this looked extremely inviting, with a large patch of lush grass amongst the rocky outcrops. This lush grass would turn out to be supersaturated, which made us realise how useful a tarp would have been, but at least it was soft to walk on. Due to the near 24 hours of sunlight, it is very easy to lose track of time - so I am not sure what time it was, but we had beautifully warm showers, although the shower was in a room with no windows or a light, so that was fun. After dinner we went for a walk around the campsite, which was surrounded by crevices, and enjoyed the sunset while the clouds broke, treating us to some amazing landscapes and lighting.

A golden ticket!

When we paid our camping fees, we were informed of free tours of Þingvellir National Park which run daily at 1000 and 1500, so we decided to start with that. We rolled into the carpark and made our way to the small church on the grounds. Our tour guide welcomed us to the tour and then asked the group if anybody knew anything about the location. I reluctantly offered up what I knew about the geology of the area, which was met with a less than enthusiastic response. This surprised me given we were about to embark on a tour which would describe the geology of the region - or so I thought. It turns out that Þingvellir is not just a geologically interesting area, but also the location of Iceland’s, indeed the world’s, first parliament. Leaders of the various settlements around the island would meet in the area for an annual assembly, with the first recorded parliament occurring in 930. This was all news to me, but is the primary reason the area is famous. Consequently, the tour was a cultural heritage tour rather than a geology tour - which is not to say it wasn't interesting, as we learnt many interesting tidbits, it is just I would have preferred the latter.

Once the tour had finished, we wandered around the main area, which features a viewing platform over the wider area that is quite impressive and a narrow canyon which featured in the Game of Thrones television series as the Bloody Gate. Walking up the path was distinctly satisfying; it also led to Öxarárfoss, the first real waterfall that we would see. Apparently the waterfall is artificial, with the path of the Öxará altered by hand hundreds of years ago for whatever reason, but the small set of falls is rather pretty. We decided that we were going to walk around and get up the top. A path leads up the side of the rocks, follows a fence line to a road which crosses the Öxará and from there one can walk down to the top of the falls. In all, it took us 20-30 minutes to reach the top, including walking on a road with no shoulder and lots of traffic, and it was not particularly impressive. Whilst the detour seemed like a good idea when we were at the base of the falls, we both agreed that it was a fair waste of time.

Elsewhere in the park is the Flosagja canyon, one of the rifts that is filled with impossibly clear blue water. Unfortunately, many visitors feel the need to throw coins into the canyon, which really detracts from the view. From here we returned to the car and drove to the suggested car spot for walk number 52, which was a stroll through some large rifts. The book spoke of a particularly large rift, also filled with water, but we did not come across this, and instead just wandered around for awhile until we turned back. Some other hikers seemed to be following us, which was a poor choice given that we were not really committed to getting anywhere, but rather just checking out all the neat things that there were to see in the area. By this time it was getting to the late morning and we had plenty of other things we wanted to see, so we set out in the direction of Haukadalur.

Our main reason for wanting to leave before it got too late was because of the large number of tours that visit the so-called Golden Triangle: three destinations close enough to Reykjavík which can be strung together into a tour. Specifically, these are Þingvellir, the impressive Gullfoss waterfall and the volcanic valley of Haukadalur, with its geysers Geysir and Strokkur. As the tour buses started to pile into Þingvellir, we wanted to make sure we were ahead of the crowds. The drive between Þingvellir and Haukadalur is 60 km, takes 50 minutes and involved a bit of backtracking for us, however the weather was much improved compared to the day before so we had considerably better views. There are almost limitless places to pull over and enjoy the scenery along the way, be it barren volcanic desert or mossy plains.

Before long, we arrived in Haukadalur - a valley which sits upon the Laugarfjall volcanic area. The area is believed to have been activated by an earthquake in 1294, with earthquakes altering which parts of the valley are active. The most famous features are the geysers, one of which is the namesake of the word. I learned from a plaque in the area that the word geysir comes from the Icelandic verb “to gush”. Sadly Geysir no longer regularly gushes, however Stokkur erupts every ten or so minutes sending boiling water about 20 metres into the air. The “town” comprises just a tourist shop and carpark - although they also have (unsurprisingly) an outlet for Geysir Clothing, a pretty swell Icelandic wool clothing company. Waiting for a geyser to erupt serves as one of the best opportunities to prepare and eat lunch, as over the twenty or thirty minutes it took us, we saw Stokkur go off a bunch of times - all whilst enjoying some instant noodles. Their delicious scent was enough to overpower the background smell of sulphur and induce jealousy in all who came near, with several people remarking that we clearly knew what we were doing. After having a wander around the surrounding fumaroles and mudpots and seeing a few more eruptions, the buses started to roll in from Þingvellir, so we rolled out in the direction of Gullfoss.

There are few better known attractions in Iceland than Gullfoss - perhaps only Eyjafjallajökull - and for good reason. The Hvítá river winds its way down from the highlands, bringing huge amounts of water to be spectacularly dumped over two drops, one 11 metres followed by a larger 20 metre drop. The canyon carved out by the river extends past the waterfall nearby to the main drop, creating the illusion that the water is flowing into the ground. The flow rate is 140 cubic metres per second, which is much smaller than that of the Rhinefalls (which is approximately 600 cubic metres per second) but it certainly looks like more.

Driving to the falls, we were treated to our first views of the highlands, with peaks and glaciers dominating the skyline in the distance. Once again, there was little else than a carpark and a souvenir shop to let us know we'd arrived - that is until we opened the car door and heard the water crashing down. To access the falls, there are two trails: an upper trail leading to an observation platform below the first drop and above the second drop, and the lower trail providing the much more spectacular "postcard" view. The sun was behind us, meaning that the waterfall was under a perpetual rainbow. And even though there were a large number of cars in the carpark, the area is so massive that one does not really notice the abundance of tourists. It is definitely worth bringing a waterproof jacket though, as the spray - especially near the upper platform - was pretty gnarly!

After taking our fill of the waterfall views, it was time to find a place to settle down for the night, and the logical place was Selfoss, a coastal town downstream of the enormous Ölfusá river. Upon arriving in town, we did not think that it was a particularly large town, but we would later realise that by Icelandic standards it is pretty darn big! Crossing over the Ölfusá signals entry into the town, and we headed to the main (only?) campsite, Gesthús Selfoss, with a rate of ISK 1400. The campsite was really comfortable, with a nice central cooking area and as an added bonus, they had wifi and a box full of recently born kittens!

After dinner, we were still keen to explore, so we got in the car and drove the 10 kilometres south to the coast, hitting the fishing town of Eyrarbakki. We drove to the pier area and had a look around, but honestly it was not all that pleasant, there simply was not much to see. The town, which has only a handful of inhabitants, was very sleepy with the “point of interest” seemingly the prison located on the outskirts. The drive to and from the town was fairly pretty, although this may have had something to do with me being deliriously tired. We got back to camp and then it was lights out.

Falling water

The next day, we wasted little time getting packed up. Before we left town we had to visit a supermarket to stock up on perishables, and just around the corner was a Samkaup Úrval, where we also treated ourselves to a bun, which we quickly realised was a delicious specialty of the country.

The day’s plan was to make it to another of Iceland’s major attractions, the waterfall Skógafoss, and to visit the sights on the way. Skógafoss was only 100 kilometres down the road, which could be knocked off in a bit over an hour. As we were starting out, the weather rapidly deteriorated, but just as rapidly improved. Inside the rain storms, the downpours were torrential, but they were so highly localised it is more tempting to call them showers. Remarkably, we could see them as were driving along: a mostly blue sky with one jet-black cloud drenching the area below and providing quite a sight for everywhere else. Along the length of the road, the hills started to get much larger with more and more peculiar shapes - we were definitely rolling into an area affected by recent volcanic activity.

We crossed some enormous waterways, with bridges spanning 500 metres becoming common. Not long after passing Hvolsvöllur, we were able to see very large hills inland and offshore, the island of Heimaey. The island has a fascination story and footage of the 1973 eruption is just incredible - for example - but we were not keen enough to make the journey across to Vestmannaeyjar. Not long after passing by, some 70 kilometres from Selfoss, we saw the first major attraction for the day far in the distance: Seljalandsfoss. The waterfall has a 60 metre drop and is well know because one is able to walk behind the fall. We turned off the number 1 and headed for the crowds. A small path winds its way up to the impressive falls, which do not have a particularly heavy flow but do have a large enough fall to ensure that everyone gets saturated from the fine mist. The view from behind the falls is one of the most publicised images of Iceland, and for good reason - it was spectacular. The rock formation and colour were seriously interesting and there were even wildflowers in the grasslands surrounding the falls and the small creeks in the area.

After escaping the calamity that was the carpark, the next stop was somewhat unexpected: Eyjafjallajökull Erupts. It is a visitors centre/museum dedicated to the eruption of Eyjafjallajökull in 2010 which single-handedly thrust Iceland onto the world stage. As it was paid entry, we did not go in, but the surrounding landscape was fine enough to warrant stopping. Unfortunately the cloud was down, so we could not see the summit of Eyjafjallajökull, but the surrounding rock features from previous eruptions create bizarre landscapes, with my favourite being an enormous oddly shaped boulder in the middle of a plain walled off by a cirque of kinds. To top it off, there were some traditional Icelandic houses next to said rock, which made it quite the sight.

Just past the museum is Skógafoss, which has to be seen to be believed. Again, as it is one of the most iconic waterfalls in the country, one has a preconceived notion of what it will be, but Skógafoss just blew all of that away. It is such a satisfying feature: 60 metres high, 25 metres wide and well contained in its canyon. Like Seljalandsfoss, the fall was created when the sea levels dropped, leaving a distinct ridge separating the highlands from the lowlands. What makes Skógafoss special is that the Skógá watercourse comes from Fimmvörðuháls, the col between the glaciers on top of Eyjafjallajökull and Mýrdalsjökull. There is a lot of water coming down from a great height over a short distance, so the canyon carved by the Skógá is, in a word, violent.

At the falls, there is a campground, a restaurant and a few hotels. When we pulled in many of the primo spots were still available, so we set up our tent to claim the area we wanted and then set off on hike number 1. The trail is often completed as part of a multi-day hike to/from Þórsmörk via Fimmvörðuháls, with the southern section following the Skógá river. The walk begins with some pretty serious up, but after the initial section it was a relatively comfortable and consistent climb. The path to the top of Skógafoss was well worn, but past that, there were very few people. It is unfortunate that most people do not walk just a little upstream, as it would probably tempt them to go further. The river passes through wide, shallow sections which occasionally have some small cascades, and every now and then there is a loud rumbling in the distance, accompanied by a column of mist rising into the sky. The canyon narrows and becomes deeper and then another enormous waterfall will present itself. Our book had mentioned that the upper falls rivalled those lower down, so we figured they would be a good spot to have lunch. As we climbed and passed more and more waterfalls, we were debating whether we had reached the so-called upper falls; when we eventually reached a waterfall that was at least five times larger, we concluded (incorrectly, it turned out) that we had arrived. As we sat to prepare and enjoy our lunch, we discussed whether the falls were better than their downstream sibling, and we concluded they were not - while impressive, they simply did not have that “wow” factor.

Continuing up the track, I realised that I had dropped an eyepiece for my camera, which was annoying seeing as we had only been in Iceland for a few days and I would be without it for many more, but there was little I could do. Winding further up the canyon, we went through a particularly sketchy section with very loose soil and rock, a sheer drop into the canyon below and steep terrain to climb, but upon exiting, we were treated to what were actually the upper falls. Completely shielded until we were just in front of them, they definitely had that “wow” factor, but in a very different way. The falls disappeared deep into the canyon, obscured by the walls. The hike, which was easily one of the best day hikes I had been on up until that point, just jumped to the top of the list. It is hard to explain how the impossibly green mossy landscape, extremely craggy volcanic peaks and uncountable number of stunning waterfalls combine to form such a surreal and amazing environment.

Further up the path, the canyon started to get a little crazier, but the landscape around was flattening out with signs of recent lava flows having homogonised the surrounding area. There was one last major waterfall, or rather three waterfalls, which marked the top of the waterfall journey. This set sits just below the confluence of a few streams, so whilst the river continues up, there was much less water in the upper sections. By this time, we were not so far from Fimmvörðuháls hut, but we had to turn around and get back to camp. We had been hoping the weather would improve on our climb, but unfortunately it went the other way, with strong winds and sleet blowing in and much, much more cloud. We found a nice rock, enjoyed some sweet chili Doritos (which I had never had, but were delicious) before beginning the descent.

The only variation from the way up was at the really sketchy section, where we were able to navigate along the top of the canyon, rather than dropping into it and then climbing back out. From other footprints, it seemed like this was definitely the path of choice. I ensured that once we reached the spot where I had noticed my eyepiece was missing, we became extremely vigilant and in a stroke of good fortune, not too far from our lunch spot I found the 10 x 5 x 2 mm piece of black plastic, rendering me pretty happy!

Once we got back to the campsite, there were many more people and tents. We ditched our gear and had a deliciously warm shower before preparing dinner - which was a serious pain due to the strong winds wreaking havoc on the stove. Mia had noticed when we drove past the restaurant that they had hot potato chips and had been making a case for the duration of the hike that we should stop in after dinner, but by a cruel twist of fate, by the time we were there, they had just stopped making food. I admit to also being pretty disappointed as I had certainly warmed to the idea. But as we had walked over to the restaurant, we treated ourselves to a beer.

Before bed, and perhaps whilst the sun was setting - it was so grey you could not tell - I nipped off to take some photos of Skógafoss with fewer people around, and I had the place to myself. At one point I thought it would be a good idea to wander into what I am going to call the chamber (the eroded chute near the base) but that was a pretty serious error in judgement. There was a lot of air and water moving in that area, and I just got cold and wet - I would not recommend it at all. On the other hand, halfway up the falls on the track there is a rock which sticks out and can be used as a viewing platform, that I do recommend!

Sand black

Sleeping right next to such a powerful waterfall is difficult as it produces a lot of noise, but simultaneously it is thoroughly relaxing. Waking to much the same weather as the day before, we did not hang around before driving in the direction of Dyrhólaey, a peninsula famous for an impressive basalt arch. Apparently, it translates as “the hill-island with the door-hole” and was once a volcanic island which has since joined to the mainland. It is only 25 kilometres from Skógafoss with some pretty impressive scenery on the way. Most notably, there was a tidal lagoon, which was mirror flat on our passing, reflecting an impressive outcrop on its eastern side. Stupidly I thought that as we would have to pass by it again on our way back to the ring road, I would take a photo then. Obviously, on our return it was choppy and there were no reflections to be had.

Out on the peninsula, one can go to the end to reach Kirkjufjara beach, or go up to Dyrhólaeyjarviti, the lighthouse atop the arch. We went to the beach as we were more interested in seeing the arch rather than being on top of it. The carpark was both small and packed, partly from a number of minibuses full of teams of photographers. These people were seriously kitted out; mostly older folk with with 600 mm f/4 lenses complete with comflague. They were obviously photography tours, and we would come across them again, but the first time you see them it is all a little overwhelming. It took us a while to realise why there were all there: puffins! Unbeknownst to us, in summer the cliffs are overrun with the birds and this is why most people make the trek out to the peninsula.

The basalt outcrop is very craggy, and comes complete with a sea stack rising out of the black sand beach. Apparently at low tide it is completely exposed, but when we were there the tide was in and it was making a ruckus. We wandered along the cliff above where the puffins were nesting, but were constantly being outmuscled by people with big lenses, which made my 28-300mm seem vastly inferior. On the southern area of the outcrop, there were fewer people - as there were no puffins - but there were some amazing arches and blowholes, in addition to the the best view along the coast, all the way down to the hill-island with the door-hole.

We wanted to move over to the next headland, which is connected at low tide and a mere 2 kilometres away in a straight line, but closer to 20 kilometres by road. The beach and headland of Reynisfjara lie 7 kilometres off the main road, which presented us with a dilemma - head down there and risk running out of fuel, or drive on to the nearby town and get some first. We had been riding the no fuel light for some time, so we thought it better to play it safe. Five kilometres past the turnoff and down a pretty steep road lies the southernmost village in Iceland, Vík í Mýrdal, or more commonly Vík. I had previously heard of the town as it is one of the towns most at risk from Jökulhlaup, or flooding due to glacial melt. In this case, the danger is supplied by the Mýrdalsjökull glacier, which sits on top of Katla, an active volcano; Vík is between this and the ocean. The setting of the town is nothing short of stunning, and the town itself is quite pretty.

After filling up on fuel, we retraced our way up the hill and stopped to take in the view of the surrounding mountains and Mýrdalsjökull in the distance. We then continued back to the turnoff and eventually arrived at Reynisfjara. Apparently, if you believe the area’s self-promotion, the US journal Islands Magazine ranked this beach as one of the ten most beautiful non-tropical beaches on Earth in 1991. Quite the accolade! But such a prestigious award is not simply doled out, as the area would rate as one of the most impressive landscapes I have ever seen.

The weather was pretty miserable at this point, with squally winds and heavy showers, but this only added to the ambience. Rising high out of the black sand beach are the garðar: hexagonal basalt columns, but most impressive is the magnitude of the landscape. The columns rise out of the ground, twisting and turning, even forming a cave. Offshore are the sea stacks, Reynisdrangar, which according to legend are the masts of a sailing ship turned to stone when the trolls who were stealing it were frozen by the sunrise. In any case, they are remarkable.

The outcrop of basalt is part of the larger Reynisfjall, which we were going to climb. This was hike 6 in the guide book, which suggested it would take two and a half hours to complete the 7 kilometre trip. The walk started in the carpark of a small homestead on the road to the beach. As Reynisfjall is more-or-less a bluff, we had a pretty steep climb up, but on the top it was comfortable flat walking. The hike up was along a four-wheel drive track which was pretty munched up, but along the summit there was a relatively well marked path. Near the point there was an old building, and just beyond this we found ourselves atop Reynisfjara. Unexpectedly, as we approached the sea cliffs, there were puffins; puffins everywhere! Many birds were on the cliff face, but quite a few were above it, on the grass near the edge. They were pretty calm given our proximity, and it was a pretty cool experience - especially as we weren't expecting it, and unlike Kirkjufjara, we were the only people there!

The point was quite exposed, and given the already hairy conditions, it was not a place we were going to be hanging around for too long. The path continued around, forming a loop on the bluff, but the western side was definitely used much less regularly, with only traces of a path appearing every now and then. Making things a little more difficult, a thick fog rolled in reducing our visibility to 10 or 20 metres, which is not ideal when walking near very large sea cliffs. With a combination of following what little path there was and forging our own way, we aimed to intersect the four-wheel drive track which went over the the mountain and was our way back down. At one point, an absolutely horrifying sound overpowered the howling wind, and we could not for the life of us figure out what it was. It was clearly a vehicle, but it sounded like a tank rather than a passenger vehicle. We figured that this at least meant that we were getting close to the road, which was proving more difficult to find than expected. We eventually hit the road and returned to the car. We then ventured back to Vík, but now the weather was really miserable. In the end, it was good that we had already been into Vík, as the majestic view which surrounded the town was enshrouded in mist, and we would not have known it was there had we not seen it a few hours earlier.

In passing through town we decided that we wouldn’t mind having some beer for the evenings, so we went on a mission to find the bottle shop. We did a lap around the town and could not find anything, which was a little puzzling. We stopped in at Halldorskaffi, a restaurant/tourist information centre and they informed us it was just down the road. It turn out that the store, Vínbúðin, is a state-owned monopoly for off-premises consumption of alcohol. (We also learned what we had heard making that racket when we were on the Reynisfjall: an eight-wheeled military personel carrier which is used to drive tourists around, which explains why it sounded like a tank!) In the Vínbúðin, everything is a little bizarre, with only low-alcohol beers on display and full-strength beer kept behind the counter. We asked the guy working there and he was very helpful and nice, explaining how the system worked. Unfortunately, service like this comes at a cost - well, primarily due to the alcohol tax, but whatever - with a six pack of beers costing 2000 ISK. As we were leaving, a cohort of proper bikies arrived to stock up, and given how rough the weather was, I was astounded by how scantily clad they were and also the non-existent degree to which they cared.

In the middle of nowhere, cairns. Cairns, everywhere.

Our next destination was Skaftafell, which was 140 kilometers away, and on the other side of the volcanic desert surrounding the Vatnajökull National Park. The rain and wind were terrible when we left Vik, and only got worse, with torrential downpours forcing us to slow right down and even stop. At this point, we were not that keen to stop and play tourist, but rather to just get across the lowlands and into camp. The landscape was scarred by ever-shifting watercourses in the loose rock, and an uncountable number of bridges crossing said waterways. We pulled over into a rest stop, where there were small rock cairns separated by a metre or so disappearing into the fog, it was pretty cool. Such cairn settlements were littered along the highway, but this was the largest that we came across. After having driven for a while we were pretty over it and resolved to do something despite the weather, so once again we turned to our hike book, specifically hike number 5. This required a significant detour inland, but we were assured that it was two-wheel-drive accessible, so we set out up the valley of the Grafarkirkja river. Before long the good road disappeared and we were gaining a lot of altitude on a road of ever-degrading quality. There were a few sections that were definitely on the edge of what was a good idea, but we persisted. That is, until we didn’t. We were heading further inland and were not even halfway to the start of the walk and everything was a little sketchy, and given we could not see anything in any case, we simply pulled over, explored the immediate area and then turned tail. It is unfortunate the conditions were so poor, as the little spot that we did see was pretty impressive.

The only photo I have of Fjaðrárgljúfur; people for scale.

Continuing down the road, it seemed like the weather was starting to relent, albeit sporadically. We would get periods without rain, and even with a bit of visibility, only for the rain to return as quickly as it had left. This gave me some hope, as the only other thing we had marked on our map before the national park was Fjaðrárgljúfur, a canyon famed for being one of the prettiest in the country. It is only a short detour off the highway, but with the heavy rains, the road was once again pretty “fun” driving, right on the limit of what was achievable in our little beast. At the canyon, there is a set of toilets and space for ten or so cars. There was a woman under the shelter of the toilets who was cutting up some potatoes, clearly preparing for dinner. The rain was not particularly heavy, so we started off on the walking track. The canyon itself is stunning, with very peculiar formations along its length. Unfortunately for us, the rain returned with a vengeance, and whist we were in our waterproofs, it was pretty miserable. As an additional bummer, when we reached the climax of the walk, a lookout on a rock which is nearly entirely encircled by the Fjaðrá river, I got out my camera for a happy snap, but had run out of battery and left my spare in the car.

We once again did not hang around long and walked back to the car. Absolutely soaking, we passed by a couple, dry and enjoying some freshly cooked potatoes. In the time we were sorting ourselves out, they finished up their meal and embarked on the walk we had just suffered through, as the weather was now clearing, with little rain in sight. Needless to say we were a bit annoyed but more jealous of the potato couple. But there was not much we could do, so after attempting to dry off, we returned to the ring-road. As we approached the national park, we reached the black sand desert area which surrounds the volcanoes at the heart of the park. The sand was much coarser than that of the beaches and also had plants growing within, some green grasses and ferns which contrasted magnificently with the deep black. It was about this time that the clouds opened up enough for us to get a sight of Vatnajökull, the largest glacier in Europe which from this approach manifests as the confluence of two glaciers between the volcanoes Öræfajökull and Hvannadalshnjúkur. The overall effect of this is two mountains which are joined by a wall of ice, many hundreds of metres tall. It was about this time that we noticed a detour to visit the glacial lake, which lies in the next valley and was obscured by Öræfajökull. The road was marked as two-wheel-drive accessible, but this was simply not the case. The road was on the sand, which initially was well packed, however before long this ceased to be the case and we were awfully close to being those tourists that get bogged in a very silly place. In particular, once we had decided to turn around and edged a little too far from the road, it was not looking good. Luckily we got out of that, but I felt like quite a chump. Luckily, the drive into the national park was incredible enough to make that sentiment just melt away. The sparsity of the surrounds combined with a single looming feature on the horizon made for good viewing, particularly combined with the imminent sunset after the storm.

The campground in Skaftafell was 3200 ISK/night and pretty large, but more than that, it was pretty full. At least half of the guests were in large groups of 10-20 people camped together; most of these groups were near identical, with the same two-person four-season tents for sleeping and a single large communal canvas tent for eating. We found a nice little spot and set out to do some laundry, which was a mission due to the volume of people wanting to use the facilities and the fact that the dryer took about two hours to dry anything, but our perseverance paid off. We then hit the sack as the following day was going to be a long one.

Invisible signs

Up bright and early, we set out to climb Kristínartindar, walk 14 in our book. Coming in at 18.3 kilometres and with a lot of up and down, it was one of the more strenuous walks we would do, especially as we planned to combine it with the two other walks in that area of the park (numbers 12 and 13). Our morning getaway was quick as we had packed the night before, so after having breakfast we were straight on the trail. The weather was fine, except for the mountain tops being concealed by the clouds - but as we wouldn't reach them for some hours, that was not an issue. The weather will clear. It’ll clear.

There were quite a few other hiking groups, most of whom we passed in the first few minutes as everyone seemed to leave within a 30 minute window. The path started up through some thick shrubbery, however it did not take long before we were walking over some much larger boulders, gaining elevation and losing the trees. Before long we were treated to a view over the Vatnajökull glacier and a cloudy view of Hvannadalshnjúkur. At this point, the path changed direction and moved out on to the scree slops of Kristínartindar. Inherently unstable, scree makes for fun walking, especially when it is steep. In the national park documentation, they stated that only the start of the scree slope was a marked trail and the latter part was unmarked and for experienced hikers only. I am always suspicious of these types of warnings, but it was partly true, the lower part of the trail was indeed well marked, with rock cairns indicating the path every 10 to 15 metres. These continued all the way up to the lookout which marked the end of the "intermediate" hiking trail, Sjómarmípa. Coincidentally, this was also where the cloud began, so above this point the visibility was around 25 metres. The cairns, of which there had been a comical number when we did not need them, were in short supply: after the first two, we did not find any more for another half an hour. During this time, it was really not evident if there was a path, but we just kept on climbing up the spur figuring in the worst case we would hit the summit.

Once we found a path, we continued to follow it as it navigated its way around a knoll where a convenient break in the clouds provided us a view of Vatnajökull. By the time we reached the saddle immediately before the summit climb, we were about ready for some lunch. There were two other hikers already enjoying some food at the large rock cairn indicating the turn-off, and we all got chatting. They were conversing in a language that I could not recognise, which turned out to be Swiss-German, making me feel quite the fool seeing as I speak some German, but it did illustrate that Swiss-German is a long way from high German. They had rationalised that the chances of the summit being clear were too low so they were not going to bother, whereas we decided that we'd come so far that we might as well give it a go. They gave us a Mars bar and wished us good luck before taking off on the path down via Nyrðihnaukur and Fermrihnaukur, which we would later follow.

The climb to the summit was always going to be fun, as is normally the case with volcanoes, where the scree slopes are at their steepest and the smallest perturbation results in slippage. The path gains approximately 300 metres of altitude in about one kilometre of walking, but there is a lot of "one step forward, two steps back" not included in that kilometer. The climbing was not as bad as it appeared from the saddle, but it was quite a slog. About halfway up, the path ran along the ridge, which has a sheer, rather sketchy cliff face on one side to keep things exciting. Once we reached the summit, our gamble paid off and we were treated to a few minutes of views over the entire area. The wind was fairly strong, but not strong enough to dissuade us from having a cup of tea which had been lugged up in a thermos.

The view from the summit of Kristínartindar

The south face of Kristínartindar, with someone (possibly) on the summit

The way down was also precarious, but if one embraces the scree, descending can more closely resemble skiing than hiking! Back at the saddle, we followed our Swiss friends' path down the ridge line that defines half of Morsárdalur valley. Further up the valley sits the Morsárjökull glacier, but the weather had really come in and there was little chance of seeing anything. We walked on scree for a while before reaching fairly flat alpine meadows, which were absolutely saturated. The mist was thick and moving quickly and for some reason I was reminded of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Easily the most memorable moment came when the Morsárjökull glacier experienced a very large calving event - both the sound and the earth shaking alerted us to the galcier's proximity. By the time we reached Fermrihnaukur, the weather had started to clear up, to the point that we could see not only the summit of Kristínartindar, but almost every peak in the area. While we did briefly ponder "What if we had done this loop in reverse and been on the summit now?", it is not prudent to dwell on such things.

After some time descending through fields of wildflowers, we were zeroing in on Svartifoss, which had me giddy with excitement. I am a person that likes waterfalls, and this was the waterfall I had wanted to see in Iceland, one of the best countries for viewing waterfalls. As we approached, we could see the drop from above and all the tourists coming up from the visitors centre. Upon arriving at the viewing stations, it did not take long to be put off by all the people doing all the things that can detract from such an astonishingly pretty formation. But after making peace with this, I settled in and took a few happy snaps - some of which I took standing in the literally glacial water - before just really pausing to take the place in and get the feeling back in my feet. It is a really special place and I could not recommend it highly enough - just maybe go early or late, rather than at 1700!

It is only a short walk from Svartifoss to the campsite, and once we were back, we cleaned ourselves up with a nice hot shower, then ran into our Swiss friends. We sat down to have a meal together in a little food shanty - I distinctly remember the corrugated iron roofing chattering in the wind on the old wooden frame. We shared a good chat, along with some rum they had brought along; I must say I did feel vindicated when they said they regretted not climbing Kristínartindar. With full bellies, we headed off to bed, ready to tackle more of the big-ticket items the following day.

Öræfajökull and Hvannadalshnjúkur from the fields

Ice Ice baby

The weather had held overnight, and we awoke to beautifully clear skies and great views. Our final activity in the area was to check out the massive Skaftafellsjökull glacier. The information centre runs free tours regularly throughout the day, but we latched onto the early morning tour. It lasts for about 45 minutes and a knowledgeable guide - at least in our case - leads you from the visitors centre to the base of the glacier, explaining the history of the glacier and of settlement in the area. For me, the highlight was the wild Arctic beauty flowers - which are a deep purple - growing out of the dull moraine landscape.

During our time at the glacier, it was evident that the good weather was not going to last, as the wind started kicking up and masses of clouds were being generated by the surrounding peaks, it was clearly bucketing down off-shore, and the wind was carrying that weather our way. Our next destination was the famed glacial lagoon Jökulsárlón. The lake is part of the Vatnajökull National Park, and is a 45 minute drive from the Skaftafell visitors centre. The lake is located at the base of the Breiðamerkurjökull glacier and is famous for "a ghostly procession of luminous blue icebergs", both in the lagoon and also on the nearby black sand beach where, depending on the tides, icebergs can become stranded - making for a beautiful contrast.

When we arrived, the weather was abhorrent, pouring rain and thick cloud eliminating the visibility. We sat in the car, chowing down on our lunch and waiting for things to get better, but the improvement was marginal, so eventually we had to just suck it up and make a move. Our viewing was restricted to only the closest icebergs, which seemed to come in two distinct flavours, deep blue and cloudy white. They floated gently amongst each other and were often home to large groups of Arctic terns. There were also a few seals swimming through the lake, but one had to bring their A-game if they wanted to spot one. Mixed in with the stunning environment were amphibious vehicles carting tourists out on to the lake to presumably try and watch the glacier calving. How's the serenity.

Making our way to the coast, we found ourselves at one of the most photographed spots in Iceland: the black sand beach of Jökulsárlón, where icebergs come to die. It is certainly quite a spectacle, with large icebergs being continually hammered by the rough seas, violently flipped and smashed until they are small enough to be washed up on shore and melt away. The smaller blocks of ice are often crystal clear, which is why some people call this place "the diamond beach", whilst others call it the "tourist conveyor belt". In any case, it is spectacular.

Our next stop was civilisation, in the form of the township of Höfn, only an hour or so from the lagoon and where we would load up on supplies. In town there was a Nettó, which was very new and modern - an excellent place to get some scrolls and Doritos, both of which had become staples in our Icelandic diet. So far, it had been almost too easy to forget we were in another country, with all the local people with whom we had interacted possessing great English language skills and an innate desire to help us. But the smallest things can trigger a shock, and in this case it was the coca-cola marketing campaign: "share a coke with *insert name here*" with names unlike anything I had ever seen: Grindvíkingi, Vinkonunum and Fjarðarbyggð. It was neat to have such revelation, simply so I could appreciate that I was somewhere else and could enjoy any cultural differences that I came across.

Apart from shopping, Höfn did not hold our interest for long. My plan for the area was to see Stokksnes, a peninsula famed for the tidal lagoon which fills and reflects the surrounding mountains. As the weather was miserable, there was no point going there until the following day so we were just out to make camp. We didn't realise there was a campsite at the café near Stokksnes, and instead we were going to a campsite located somewhere near 64°26'48.8"N 14°57'08.7"W, or so our map told us. The turn-off was some 30 kilometres from Höfn, after passing through an impressive tunnel, Almannaskarðsgöng, 1300 metres in length in some pretty gnarly terrain. After the turn-off we started to get a little concerned, as the road was very minor and not in great shape. This sentiment only continued to worsen as we arrived at a very rickety bridge surrounded by locals giving us the "you are in the wrong place" look. Still, we powered on and continued to drive into inappropriate terrain for our little car, particularly the dry, pebbled riverbed. We were rewarded for our perseverance, eventually finding the campsite, which had little more than a plaque to say that it was a campsite with no facilities. Given the quality of the ite and its isolation - except for the crowd of sheep that had gathered - we decided that it was not the best place to stay. Swallowing our pride we drove back, and with changing weather I became concerned that we would not be able to get out. Luckily this was not the case, but the locals near the bridge did have a very smug look as we drove by.

The only nearby campsite we were aware of was in Höfn, so we drove back through the tunnel and into town. The campground was pretty nice and had some well drained soil, which was a welcome change. The cost was 1500 ISK per person per night, and surprisingly, the ground was rather busy. This was in contrast to the roads, where the number of other cars had dropped off dramatically once we had passed Jökulsárlón. Adding to the interest was the fact that everyone else appeared to be Icelandic - or at least they could speak it. We had found ourselves surrounded by locals, but unfortunately were too exhausted to engage with them, especially given the weather conditions. Perhaps next time.

A benefit of returning to Höfn was the amazing lighting

Time to reflect

The weather remained largely unchanged throughout the night, meaning my plan of a sunrise photo of Stokksnes was out. We were still resigned to exploring the peninsula as it was our last chance and we were just hoping for the weather to clear. Access to the peninsula is via a pretty shoddy road, some 10 kilometres outside of Höfn, just before the tunnel entrance. The road is about 5 kilometres long and leads to a little café. What we did not know what that the café was also a campsite and home to a viking village! Unfortunately it is not a real, well-preserved village but rather a set built in 2010 for a film that was never made. The village is on private land and a fee of 600 ISK is required for entry, or one can pay 1000 ISK for a campsite and get the village included. Had we known about this in advance we definitely would have stayed there instead of in Höfn. We handed over our kroners and headed over to the set.

The soil was soaked, and the path approximated a muddy riverbed, but the critical sections had some wooden logs strewn around to provide a safe passage over the bog. (Very conveniently, as we were making our way to the village, the skies parted and we were treated to a full frontal shot of the mountains of Stokksnes. It was not to last long, as the mountains were busy forming clouds in which they would hide for the rest of the morning.) From afar, the fake village really looked the part; constructed from timber and complete with a staked perimetre, it was exactly what we have been led to believe a viking village would look like. Upon closer inspection, the very thin veneer of polish was quickly washed away, as the town was only half-finished and, much like the path, it was an absolute bog. At least there was a much better flooring system to facilitate navigation. We had a decent look around, but we were looking at film set - something which by design is there to deceive you, so I don't know what we really expected.

We returned to the café, jumped in the car and drove out to the peninsula. Access here is a little strange as there is a NATO radar base which is obviously off-limits to the public, but also a magnificent black sand beach and a large seal colony meaning there are often visitors to the area. We could not find anything saying that we could not drive or park where we drove and parked, so I am going to assume that it was all fine. We stopped at a carpark which had good access to the sand dunes, and got out for a walk. The contrast that is provided by the grassy outcrops on the beach is similar to that contrast of the ice at Jökulsárlón, however the landscape in this area is just incredible. With timing, one can be there for high tide and have one of the most iconic "reflection" landscape views of Iceland, but we had low tide and a lot of wind. Every now and then a peak from the surrounding hills would reveal itself, but most of the time the hills were polluting the sky with thick cloud - it made for quite a dynamic scene. After exploring the dunes, we returned to the car and continued down the road to a rocky outcrop where there were a few more groups exploring. The main sight here is definitely the seal colony, but the wind was making the point - by its very nature the most exposed area - a pretty unpleasant place to be, so we moved on.

We returned to Þjóðvegur 1, passed through Almannaskarðsgöng once again and continued the 40 kilomtres to Hvalnes. There is not a whole lot at Hvalnes, except for a lighthouse and the picturesque mountains which surround it. Apparently it is a good place to spot whales, but we were there in the exact wrong season for that; luckily we had had our fill of whales when in Norway. The most notable mountain is Eystrahorni, another mountain which is known for providing visitors with a mirrored landscape in a nearby tidal lagoon - when it is still, that is. The weather had improved, but the wind was still pretty wild meaning that the water was anything but still, it did however create a pretty special landscape when Eystrahorni was overwhelming the surrounding mountains in cloud. It was here that Mia and I decided to establish a competitive element in our travelling: whoever could achieve the greatest rock skim (measured by the number of jumps) would get to relax at camp whilst the other person set up the tent and cooked dinner, which had previously been shared tasks. It was a fierce competition, but in the end I think I could only manage 3 or 4 skims compared to Mia's 10+, meaning she was destined for Rancho Relaxo whereas I was resigned to slaving away once we arrived at camp.

Our next stop was Djúpivogur: a small town to the north of Hvalnes and a 50 kilometre drive, although approximately half of that distance is spent navigating around Álftafjörður and Hamarsfjörður, two relatively small fjords. Although they are not the most impressive fjords in their own right, they were the first we had seen in Iceland. The meandering road, the fjords and the crystal blue waters of the Norwegian Sea created an impressive vista. It also made for some fun driving.

Before long, we arrived in Djúpivogur; the town itself sits between Hamarsfjörður and Berufjörður, and exists thanks to the amalgamation of three farming communities, Berunes, Buland, and Geithellur, on October 1, 1992 - which I thought was pretty neat. Other than the port, which is the town's lifeblood, the town was rather sleepy. Our first activity was to find a spot for lunch, which was easier said than done as the howling winds made boiling water a non-trivial task. Once we had finished up, we made our way to the point, where one is treated to a panorama of the town and surrounding fjords, dominated by the towering pyramid of Búlandstindur rising more than 1000 metres between two fjords.

After consulting with our guidebook, we were informed that the only other point of interest was the recent (well, 2009 - our book was old!) art installation of Eggin í Gleðivík, consisting of very large eggs: one egg for each of the thirty-four birds that nest in the area. At first I was unconvinced, but after a while I found it a pretty swell way to pay homage to the nature that is so important to the surrounding landscape.

Back on the Þjóðvegur 1, we were for the first time going to head inland. Up until Djúpivogur, the road follows the coastline stopping in at the big tourist destinations on the way. The far east (and far west) are seldom visited by tourists, which along with the much harsher landscape means that the roads do not deviate and simply connect the major destinations. The next large town was Egilsstaðir, which sits on the bank of Lagarfljót, a large glacial lake approximately 85 kilometres away. Much of the drive is spent climbing up and over one of the fjords, which is the least travelled part of the Þjóðvegur 1, and remains unsealed. The drive is simply spectacular as you are surrounded by sheer rock faces and there are waterfalls tumbling hundreds of metres every few kilometres. I did not realise that this drive was a once off; had I known that we would not climb over any more fjords, I would have stopped to admire the scenery, but instead I was in the zone taking us to our next destination: Hengifoss. Our first stop was Egilsstaðir, which overshoots the turn-off by 15 kilometres, however we had had to stop somewhere to grab fuel for our stove, which was proving difficult to find, as not all service stations carried it - many carried butane with an incompatible fitting. We then returned to Vallanes and along the shores of Lagarfljót, which is a fjord in all but name, meaning if you wish to cross it, you will be doing a lot of driving.

We had initially planned on doing walks 17 and 18 in our book, visiting Strútsfoss and Hengifoss respectively, but time was getting away from us so we only picked one, and as we were somewhat fatigued, we picked the shorter of the two. Arriving at the carpark, there were a few other cars, but it was considerably less busy than any other tourist destination we had been to - a testament to the lack of visitors to this region. The walk commences with many well made stairs and a very consistent climb and before we knew it, we had arrived at the lower falls. Much like other picturesque falls in Iceland, they are surrounded by hexagonal basalt columns, although in this particular situation there is a twist - quite literally. Further on the track, one can enter the canyon carved out by the river, which corresponds with a much sketchier path. There is a fairly natural spot to stop and admire the main falls, which are not ringed by columns but rather deep streaks of red where high iron content aggregate is sealed into the cliffs. After admiring the scene, we descended back to the car which only took thirty or so minutes; the next destination: camp.

Back over the other side of the lake is a small town, Hallormsstaður, which comprises a campsite, a hotel and a small corner store. Once again, the campsite seemed to be filled with many more locals - Icelandic people that is - than tourists. The main draw card for this particular campsite was that it was right on Lagarfljót, complete with a beach! There are two locations to choose from, Höfðavík and Atlavík, with the former having the facilities - and we were in the mood for a shower. The price for camping is 1400 ISK per person and a hot shower will set you back 500 ISK. As I was on tent and dinner duty, Mia went off to have a shower but returned only a few minutes later to inform me that we required 100 ISK coins for the shower. We did not have that many coins, but we reasoned that the camping ground attendant would have change. A short time later she appeared, and as she had just started her round she had not amassed any change and could not give us change for our campsite payment, let alone for the showers. She suggested that we try the nearby hotel, but it was a tall order as we needed to get at least 1300 ISK in 100 ISK coins, ideally 1800 ISK. This also contributed to a self-imposed time pressure, as the small shop attached to the town's service station made milkshakes, and we desperately wanted one for dessert. We had fantasised about being clean after a warm shower and then enjoying that sweet, sweet ice-cream goodness, however the shop was soon to close, and our plan was coming apart at the seams. But the desire for a shower trumped all, so we went to the hotel and explained our predicament. The receptionist was extraordinarily helpful, saying they did not have any change at the reception, but maybe there would be some in the bar/restaurant, and after disappearing for a while came back with a mountain of lumpfish-covered silver coins. Extremely grateful, we made our way to the ice creamery and placed an order for a vanilla thick-shake only 5 minutes before closing. The woman working behind the counter was not thrilled that we wanted something so messy to make, but also could not understand why we did not want to add various other lollies to the mix, which was clearly the modus operandi. In any case, we made our way back to camp, enjoying one of the best shakes I have ever had and also, later, one of the better showers I have had.

Highlander

We had not explicitly planned to have a rest-day, but waking up we spontaneously decided to take things pretty slowly. I think this was mainly because we did not have all that much planned other than a fair bit of driving. Part one of the driving was the 175 kilometres towards Dettifoss, or as most people know it, the waterfall from the opening sequence of Prometheus - although one would do well to try and forget the existence of said movie.

The mountains were getting further and further away

To begin, we made our way back to Egilsstaðir before continuing west and eventually following the Stuðlagil river upstream as the canyon became deeper and deeper. The road eventually climbed out of the relatively lush canyon and into the desolate plains of the highlands. My image of desolate landscape comes from the desertscapes of Australia, where it is always hot, dry and red, so it was quite a contrast to have a cold, wet and green equivalent. As we climbed, much like the day before, waterfalls were everywhere! And the sort of waterfalls that would be major tourist attractions in almost any other country, but here they barely warrant a second look. We did stop at one that was particularly impressive, but of course it was unnamed.

After an hour, once we really were on the high plains and with the mountains off in the distance, the landscape did start to become other-worldly, devoid of life save for a small amount of moss near the rivers. Water cut deep into the loose volcanic rock, forming deep and constantly changing canyons, and the hills in the area were painted with various ores. The expanse of the landscape was impressive, but before long, the weather had closed in, and any feeling of expansiveness was quashed, as visibility was limited to about 50 metres.

To get to Dettifoss there are two roads, one on either side of the canyon (682 and 684). We elected to take the eastern road (684) as we had plans after the waterfall-viewing; but from what we could tell the traffic was split pretty evenly. The drive was torturous; as we had already discovered during our time in Iceland, Europeans do not know how to drive on dirt roads. Add to this heavy rain and you have quite a situation on your hands. Not long before Dettifoss we came across one of the famed rauðhólar, or red hills, which litter the area. Our hiking book suggested we climb one, but the weather was not that agreeable and we were prioritising hiking in the Ásbyrgi canyon, so we elected to give it a miss.

A huge number of tour buses heralded our arrival at Dettifoss, which had a proper tourist attraction-sized carpark - on both sides of the river! But the waterfall was unlike anything I had seen previously. Dettifoss is the largest waterfall in Iceland with a flow rate of 200 cubic metres per second (Gullfoss is 140, although both are well shy of the Rhinefalls at 600). All this water comes from the Vatnajökull glacier, where the river Jökulsá á Fjöllum cuts through the highlands, making its way to the Greenland Sea. Not only is the flow rate impressive, the water is undeniably angry; the tumult was simply deafening. The water holds sediment from Vatnajökull which is a dull gray, giving the water a dirty appearence. The combination of everything produces a violent image, but in the most magical way. The waterfall is truly spectacular.

Following the Jökulsá á Fjöllum 30 kilometres to the north, one arrives at the delta, but with a small detour, one also unexpectedly finds a golf course. Whilst this was not what we were looking for, it was in the correct location, nestled in the 3.5 km long and 1.1 km wide Ásbyrgi canyon. The canyon is famed for its bizarre structure, formed by "catastrophic glacial flooding and volcanic activity", i.e. Jökulhlaup. This applies to the dry canyon of Ásbyrgi but also Jökulsárgljúfur canyon, which the waters passing over Dettifoss have carved out. The canyons were previously part of the Jökulsárgljúfur National Nark, but since 2008 they are part of the larger Vatnajökull National Park, which would have been good to know since our hiking book said that the walk departs from the Jökulsárgljúfur information centre, and we could not find it anywhere!

Before we set out on our hike, we prepared our lunch in the carpark. We have been preparing wraps for years, and we have a routine for getting everything just how we like it. Somehow, during the preparation, Mia, whilst slicing tomatoes, managed to slice her finger - quite badly. I just heard a noise and looked up and she was already in shock about what had happened. Luckily we had a medkit and had it bandaged it up quickly, but it took some time to come back from the experience!

The Klappir lookout — The *Klappir* lookout

The walk, number 26, follows one half of the horseshoe of Ásbyrgi canyon before cutting across to the Jökulsá canyon and following it (roughly) back to the information centre. The start of the walk was somewhat novel as it requires that one traverse the golf course. There was next to nobody around, as most people that come choose to climb Eyjan, also known as "the island", a rock which divides the canyon and a peculiar formation indeed. The canyon is a near-uniform cliff face along the length of the horseshoe, meaning at some point hikers have to climb it - but for convenience, there are fixed lines and ladders. From atop the canyon, we were treated to great views of the area. It was also when I noticed how many trees were in the area! I am not sure how or why they grow here and not on the rest of the island, but it was certainly noteworthy.

After an hour or so, we reached the Klappir lookout, at the head of the horseshoe overlooking the Botnstjörn lake, and stopped for a while to drink in the views. The entire time we were we could see the incessant flashes of tourists' cameras on the lake, which is apparently a big spot for the coach tours to stop. It is always satisfying to see a large number of people hustling for the best position, whilst we are alone, enjoying a much better view. From the lookout, the walk headed to the east, through what can only be described as a Mars-scape. The strange rock formations combined with a deep red dust-like soil had us expecting to see a rover appear at any moment. The path twisted its way through this other world before heading into a forest - which once again had me baffled about the presence of trees. But it was not long until the trees opened out and exposed the cliffs of the Jökulsá canyon, which is one of the largest in Iceland. The lookout at Kúahvammur was an excellent place to stop and enjoy some Icelandic lollies that we had stocked up on, which were just as delicious as I had hoped.

The walk back to the information centre initially followed the canyon, but soon veered off to the west and through the forest before opening up into grasslands. We did not see any other walkers, but were impressed by the number of mountain bike tracks imprinted in the mud, suggesting that people did come out there. The walk back took about 90 minutes, during which time the weather got much better, even providing the occasional blue skies! But by this point it was pretty late and we still had some distance to cover. We were planning on staying on Reykjahlíð, a small town on the shore of Lake Mývatn, some 100 kilometres away. Frustratingly the lack of rain had not improved anyone's unsealed road driving skills, so it took much longer than anticipated to cover the distance. By the time we were nearing Mývatn, it was dinner time, but ain't nobody got time for that.

The area to the east of Mývatn is Krafla, a caldera about 10 km in diameter with a 90 km long fissure zone. Consequently there is a lot to see and do: lava fields, fumeroles and hotsprings. We were drawn in by the geothermal power plant then followed the road up to what may one day be the Krafla National Park - if the signage is to be believed. We admired the blue mineral lake Viti before moving on to walk 34 in our book, which at 1h30 was longer than we wanted to do, but we were there and it looked interesting - at the time, the lava fields were some of the most recently created on the island. The walk passed over some old lava fields, before moving onto a boardwalk around the volcanic areas, which of course always provide a pleasant odour for an evening walk.

Once again we had the area to ourselves and it was something special. Walking through all the bizarre lava formations, while the ground was still steaming away, was fascinating; it was even possible to have a game of "the floor is lava". The walk wound its way to the two volcanoes in the area, both of which had seriously collapsed cones. I was loving the brightly coloured seams of ore amongst the basalt, which provided beautiful contrast, especially under the light of sunset. As we were wrapping up the walk, it once again started raining, which firmly ensured that we were headed for camp.

It was only 15 kilometres to Reykjahlíð, where we found the Hlíð camping, a massive campground and pretty full. The rain continued to fall so we were quick setting up the tent, and luckily - but also oddly - there was a big top under which we could cook and enjoy our dinner. Finally, and for the first in the dark in Iceland, we collapsed into bed.

Isolationist

The weather had cleared up dramatically the next day. Due to the volcanic nature of the region, there are many things to see in quite a small area; first up was a walk that left from the centre of town, a 5 kilometre trek to visit the Grjótagjá cave (number 32). The environment is a total lava desert, meaning only a few plants thrive, and the moss campion seems to be winning the battle (though very slowly). But as elsewhere, the black rocky soil forms a great contrast with the pink flowers. The path to the cave was a bit of a mess to follow - we were trying to do a loop rather than retrace our steps - but there were simply so many minor paths it was pretty difficult to stay on track. Crossing the lava fields there were fissures and interesting rock formations, but they were all pretty minor compared to Krafla. After 45 minutes or so we reached a rocky outcrop with a large fissure running through it, marking the entrance to the cave. The area was a well-know bathing site until eruptions in both the 70s and 80s saw the temperature rise to unsafe levels, so now there is just a pristine pool in a cave - save for the graffiti. It would have been an amazing place to have gone swimming, but now with a car park nearby there were many people trying to squeeze into the relatively small area, so we did not hang around all that long.

Once we were back in town we collected the car and drove to Borgarás, which is the parking area for the Dimmuborgir lava fields. The lava fields are well-known and attract a large number of visitors, especially on bus tours or excursions from cruise ships - and for good reason. The tourist infrastructure is good, there are many walks through the fields where there are uncountable bizarre but spectacular rock formations. We were keen to explore the fields, but not before having climbed the nearby volcano Hverfjall (walk 30). As suggested by our book, we should do the strenuous climbing first and then take our time to amble through the fields. The walk takes you briefly through the lava fields before exiting through a ridiculous lava arch and heading straight for the nearby volcano. The going is a bit rough as one is walking atop some old lava fields; there is many a trap waiting to twist some ankles.

After 45 minutes we reached the base of Hverfjall and were faced with a 200 metre climb up the scree slope. There was no path per se, but rather some poles to mark the area in which people should climb and descend. Humorously, as we started to climb, somebody came racing along on a bike eager to ride it up the volcano. I thought to myself "there is no way this will work" and indeed he got about 5 metres up the hill and gave up - but full credit to him for trying. The climb only took 10 or so minutes, but as is always the case with scree slopes, it was not much fun. Once on the rim of the volcano, one is treated to a view of the large caldera of the volcano, but also a sweeping vista over lake Mývatn and its many cone volcanoes. It is possible to circumnavigate the rim of Hverfjall, but this takes some time as the volcano is approximately 1 kilometre in diameter; instead we had our lunch.

Once we were back on the Dimmuborgir lava fields proper we followed the established walking tracks; while we chose the route with the highest level of 'difficulty', this is not saying much. We probably spent half an hour perusing the formations, finding all nature of things, including a throne. Once we had had our fill of the fields, we set out for the only place more touristy than Dimmuborgir, the nearby Mývatn Nature Baths. Five kilometres outside of town are the only hotsprings to rival the blue lagoon near Reykjavík. Still a bit miffed that we missed a bathing opportunity in Hengill, we were ready for a hot bath. It was only once we got there we realised how commercial it was, being much closer to a health spa than either of us wanted. In any case, we were going in, even for a cost of 4300 ISK per person. Immediately we were shuffled into some bathrooms to shower, before going out to the pool. The pool itself was pristine, a milky blue from all the delicious sulfates and you could immediately feel it reacting with the oils on your skin to leaving you silky smooth. But despite being full of many more locals than we had expected, it really was not our thing, so we were only there for half an hour before packing up. Whilst in the bathroom I had an absolute revelation: seeing a centrifuge for drying swimwear for the first time! Obviously, I had to use it and I can report that it worked extremely well.

By this point, it was already the late afternoon and we still had quite a bit of driving to do. We had no firm destination in mind, however we wanted to get as far to the west as possible. There were not many attractions marked on our map to the west, save for Goðafoss. The so-called waterfall of the gods is another of the major falls on the waterfall tour of Iceland, although due to its location (50 kilometres east of Reykjahlíð) it receives significantly fewer visitors than the other big-ticket falls. It is so named as apparently, when Christianity was named the official religion of Iceland, the lawspeaker (aka the boss) Þorgeir Ljósvetningagoði threw all of his statues of the Norse gods into the falls. The falls are part of the Skjálfandafljót water course and form a vague horseshoe shape some 30 metres wide. They are definitely impressive, but for me they simply were not in the same league as Skaftafell, Skógafoss, Dettifoss or Gullfoss. Still, if you are in the area, do pop in!

Back on the road, we were tacking the 50 kilometres west to Akureyri, which passed through some beautiful highland landscape. This area of Iceland is a localised patch of mountains and fjords, which creates some dramatic scenery - but as we were on a mission, we were only admiring as passers-by. Before long we arrived on the eastern bank of Eyjafjörður, a fjord with the town of Akureyri, the second largest town in Iceland, at the head.

Past Akureyri, we once again started to wind our way up into the mountains, with spectacular vistas all around. The 95 kilometre stretch of road to Varmahlíð is really worth a drive, especially the middle 50 kilometres deep in the glacial landscape. As we neared Varmahlíð, the landscape opened out into a delta-like area, with large moraine riverbeds and countless rivers crisscrossing. By this point we were famished and spotted a classic Icelandic church, Víðimýri, with a turfed roof and some picnic tables nearby which served as an ideal spot for dinner. We cooked up our noodles and set some beers to cool in a nearby stream. After dinner, feeling refreshed and relaxed, we only made it another 50 kilometres to the rather unremarkable town of Blönduós, where we set up camp.

Go west!

Our plan for the day was simple: go west. So far west that we would be at the most westerly point of Iceland. But there was a lot of country between where we were, Blönduós, and where we were going, Breiðavík. The particular region of Iceland we were in is often regarded as the boring bit of the island and is overlooked completely. The tourism site for the northwest is useful for both finding things to do as well as researching what you saw. Our first stop was Borgarvirki Fortress on the Vatnsnes Peninsula. The area is quite flat, poking out into the Húnaflói Bay, so Borgarvirki is the feature which dominates the landscape. It is a volcanic plug nearly 200 metres in height, meaning it has always been an important strategic location and has been home to many a fortress. It is certainly an impressive location.

Our next destination was an unknown. It was circled on our map, but we'd forgotten to include a description. It was only 20 kilometres to the north, so not a major detour, but there was some apprehension as to what it could be given how featureless the landscape was. As we followed the winding coastal road, however, we spotted what could only be one of the more iconic images of the Icelandic coast: Hvítserkur. The basalt outcrop is famed for its likeness to a dragon drinking, but what I would say is the most special aspect is the fact there is not another thing in sight, simply this bizarre quasi-2D rock. The tide was high so we could not go out and get a closer look - apparently it has been reinforced with concrete to slow its erosion, to which we were blissfully ignorant. The walk from the car park to the lookout was a lovely stroll through grassland, whereas the path from the lookout to the beach was positively sketchy.

Back on the road, we headed to Staðarskáli, a small town which is effectively a service station. We stopped in and grabbed some more Doritos, but foolishly did not fill up with petrol. My logic was poor: I wanted to fill up as late as we could when heading into the Vestfirðir (the west fjords) so we would have as much fuel as possible to ensure we got back, but completely ignored the fact that one can fill up a half-full tank. We were probably also attempting to minimise the number of credit card transactions to avoid fees. In any case, this decision ended up causing some stress and a detour. The roads in Vestfirðir are unlike the rest of the country, primarily as they must navigate fjords, but also as they are subject to pretty harsh weather and the landscape leaves them prone to mudslides, landslides and avalanches. Needless to say, enjoy anything that is sealed! Our map said the last fuel before we got too deep into the fjords was at Hólmavík, some 115 kilometres away. I am not sure that we saw one other car during the drive, which itself was somewhat "white-knuckled" as the fuel light had been on for quite some time and Hólmavík seemed forever away.

In the end there was no problem as we arrived just in time - you could have measured the amount of fuel left in the tank in millilitres! By this stage, it was time for lunch and to mix things up, we decided to eat out, an Icelandic first for us. We stopped in at Kaupfélagið, a supermarketesque establishment with a restaurant next door, where we treated ourselves to some burgers. It was an odd experience, eating such a common foodstuff in a seriously remote location, feeling isolated but also in the warm embrace of comfort food. Objectively, the burger was 4/10. Subjectively, it was 10/10.

With a full tank, and also a petrol-laden car, we set out to crossover from the northern side to the southern side of the fjords, a trip only possible on four particular roads, or just three if you considered the fact our car was only a two-wheel drive. We did not want to backtrack, so we were forced to take the 608 50 kilometres to join up with the 60, the main road in the fjords - the ain't no Þjóðvegur 1 here! The 608 climbs up to about 400 metres altitude and stays at this level before spectacularly dropping down to sea level to meet the 60. The highland was a barren wasteland, with little else other than rocks and a few small tarns. The road quality was commensurate with the landscape: rugged. The landscape as we dropped down was magical, and we were the only ones enjoying it - the exact reason we wanted to come out to the fjords.

Once on the 60, the real fjord driving began, with enormous detours required to navigate the bodies of water. One of the first headlands was skipped completely by climbing up and over a mountain pass, 300 metres above the sea. During the climb, the cloud came in thick and fast and the road (and view) quickly disappeared. At some point I think we passed a monument, but it was not clear. We were also playing a game of how many cars we would see in a fixed time interval, usually 15 minutes. For the record, the median number was zero. As we started to descend from the pass, we left the clouds and were once again treated to fantastic views and some spectacular driving, with the switchback road being carved directly into the hillside. It was during our traversal of the next fjord that we lost the tarmac and encountered heavy roadworks, which is a great combo.

After some 115 kilometres, we arrived at the only fuel stop in the area, Flókalundur, which also serves as the break-off point for the southern and northern fjords. Ultimately we were going to the south-west tip, however we had some business beforehand: Dynjandi. To reach these falls we would once again have to drive up and over, climbing to 500 metres for the 30 kilometre journey from Flókalundur. Once again, the landscape was desolate, but simultaneously much more violent. Much larger and sharper peaks loomed at every turn and the surrounding fjords were impossibly long. As we approached Dynjandi, we were surprised to have a full view of its 100 metre drop from above, and even more surprised when we drove right over the top of it and descended the other side of the fjord to gain access to the waterfall. In an unexpected contrast to the driving out in the fjordlands, there were a large number of people at the falls, although most seemed a little different to the big-ticket traveller.

We soon realised that it was possible to camp at the site, a fact our map had not indicated to us. Had we known it was possible, we would have restructured our day to stay there, as the area was simply magical. But it was not to be, and we set off to explore the falls. The walk up and back is featured in the book (number 40) but it needn't be, as anyone who comes here is going to walk to the base of the towering falls. There were many smaller cascades on the way up - impressive in their own right - but the pièce de résistance is the curtain of water tumbling down from the highlands. I would definitely rate this as one of the best falls of Iceland, especially given how different it is to all the other main falls. Unfortunately, due to a lack of communication, I though Mia had returned to the car so I wandered off back down the track, during which time she was looking over the cliffs and into the canyons to see if I had fallen in since I had disappeared. My bad.

The mad wheels dealing with the terrain like a champion

Once we had decided we were done with Dynjandi, it was a 115 kilometre drive to Breiðavík, or 85 from Flókalundur after the backtracking. Crossing over the highlands we were treated to an amazing view as the clouds were rolling in for sunset, although it made me realise that I did not much want to be driving on these roads after dark. As we headed both south and west, the weather deteriorated at quite a rate, the impact of which was exacerbated by the smaller and smaller roads we were driving on. We were also concerned that the camping area indicated on our map might not exist, as there was absolutely nothing in the area; given how miserable the conditions were, I could hardly expect any less. But sure enough, after some difficult navigating, we arrived at Breiðavík. The camping was much more expensive than usual at 2000 ISK per person, but this included the shower, wifi and a kitchen to cook in. We had not planned on such a luxury and it was fantastic; I will remember that shower for many years to come. As an additional bonus, the site was connected to a hotel, which in turn had a bar, so it was possible to get a beer - this went down an absolute treat!

On the edge

We rose to clear skies but an Arctic gale (literally), which was better than rain but not ideal for the morning's activity: clifftop walking. 13 kilometres to the south-west is the most westerly point of Iceland and indeed Europe (excluding the Azores), and whilst for some that may be an attraction in and of itself, we were there to see Látrabjarg, the largest bird cliff in Iceland and some of the tallest sea cliffs of the islands, coming in at 450 metres. Arriving at Bjargtangar, there was a car park, lighthouse and a path along the top of the cliffs. The landscape seemed reminiscent of the Cliffs of Moher, but given I have not been there I cannot say for sure; however the cliffs here are roughly three times larger. The walk description (number 41) mentions all the different species of bird one is likely to see, including puffins, razorbills, northern gannets and guillemots, and really emphasises how many birds are in the area. Apparently the number is approximately 40% of Iceland's sea birds, however by our estimation that number would be closer to 1%. Even though we were there at the appropriate time, both season and time of day, there were so few birds to be seen that each one was a big deal. Fortunately this did not sour the experience as the cliffs are spectacular in their own right, but given the sales pitch, I was expecting to be some kind of god amongst the birds. It is also worth highlighting that sections of the track, especially ones that wander to the edge, are pretty sketchy, and this is definitely no fall territory!

Out of the wind, we were next destined for Grundarfjörður on the Snæfellsnes peninsula, which is only some 100 kilometres south of the fjordland and extends nearly as far to the east as Bjargtangar, however to navigate via the roads it is approximately 425 kilometres. We did consider taking the ferry that connects Brjánslækur to Stykkishólmur, but due to timing and money we decided against it - which meant we had a lot of driving to do. And not only driving, but backtracking - the worst kind of driving. But we just sucked it up and headed for our first next: Hotel Edda Laugar, just over 260 kilometres to the east. Due to the windy roads, this took nearly four hours, giving the weather ample time to once again deteriorate.

The day's hike (number 46) began at Hotel Edda Laugar, an odd location, as it was a hotel but also the start of a number of hikes, most of which were on private land. There was also a weird "museum" with a hot spring that had been converted into (apparently) a bathroom, but this was off limits. Not really understanding what was going on, we had our lunch and set out on the trek, which was a back-country walk to a waterfall in a gorge. Now in principle I am fine with back-country hiking, but the map we had from the book was not in agreement with the landscape - in particular, the number of rivers did not line up - so when it came to following one up into a gorge which was ruthlessly steep, there was fun to be had. By this time, we already knew that something was up, but we did not much care, as we were out in some nice landscape, it just meant that we would not see the waterfall that we had been promised. Once the terrain became impassable, we turned around and returned much wetter to the car.

As we were still only a little over halfway to Grundarfjörður, we still had plenty of driving to do, although with no fjords the driving was much faster. With the weather as it was, there was not much to see - however I imagine that the view to the north over the fjordlands from the Snæfellsnes peninsula would be spectacular. There were a few things we could see which were pretty impressive, such as the Brokey archipelago, but the overall theme for the day was "keep on moving". As to not be complete saps, we had another hike planned, to climb Selvellir, a volcano near Selvallavatn. Once again, this was a walk from the book (47) and once again, it was a back-country walk.

With our confidence slightly damaged from our previous back-country walk and the hike book's suggestion that "navigation [is] only possible with good visibility", we were a little wary, however enticing the climb may have been. So being prudent, we decided not to climb the volcano, but rather walk around in the foothills amongst the strange rock formations and (yet another) beautiful waterfall. It was clearly a pretty wet part of the island as everything was a very deep shade of green and there were sheep grazing - I even spotted a mushroom!

It was the late afternoon by the time we had finished up at Selvallavatn, and we still had 75 kilometres to go. One may ask why we tortured ourselves with so much driving, and the answer is simple: Kirkjufell. The "church mountain" is one of the most iconic sights of Iceland and both Mia and I were determined to see it. Initially we had planned also to go on a journey to the centre of the Earth, aka Snaefellsjoekull National Park, but we simply ran out of time, so it would be just Kirkjufell. We found the camping in Grundarfjörður, which was 1100 ISK per person and was very basic, but suited our needs just fine. There were a few people around, including some in campers that they'd set up on the other side of town near Kirkjufellsfoss; not a great move as - apart from being prohibited - it spoils the view for everyone else!

Kirkjufellsfoss is only 2.5 kilometres out of town and as the day was winding up, we went over as I wanted to be there for sunset. As we arrived, another photographer and his partner arrived, and whilst I had a chat with him, Mia and his partner joked about each reading their books. As the bad weather was breaking, the sunset was absolutely spectacular, with the whole area being illuminated with a bright red light once the sun had dipped below the horizon - it was something incredible to behold.

Round and round

Initially we had intended to spend the day visiting Snæfellsjökull, which is only 50 kilometres from Grundarfjörður, but we decided that if we were not going to have much time there, it would not be worth it. The main reason we did not have much time was that we wanted to end up in Leirubakki, in the central south, that evening. This was to facilitate us getting to Landmannalaugar, which we had hastily decided to visit with our last full day, so once again we had a fair bit of driving to do. At least there was only one fjord for today.

Our first stop for the day was Barnafossar, a waterfall on the Hvítá river which is well known as it is one of the only large waterfalls flowing through a lava field. I knew the place well before we got anywhere near it because it features prominently on the "greatest hits" of Icelandic postcards, however it turned out to be much smaller than I had been led to believe. And perhaps it was the 159 kilometres I had just driven, but I was extra cranky that the parking required payment - so much so that I did not pay it. Apart from viewing the small-but-impressive falls, there is nothing else to do in the immediate area, so I did not feel bad for skipping out on the payment.

Five kilometres down the road is Bæjarfell, which is both an artist's workshop (Páll Guðmundsson) and a climb up a canyon littered with the artist's work (walk 50). The idea is novel and the execution is very well done; I would recommend it, although I think it best to not spoil any of the wonder of the pieces by attempting to describe them. As a bonus, Páll's workshop is pretty wild, but in a good way.

The tallest waterfall in Iceland (almost)

Keeping with sequential hike theme from the day before, our next destination was number 51, hiking to Glymur, the tallest waterfall in Iceland. Well, that is not technically correct, it is now the second tallest waterfall following the discover of a higher waterfall in 2011, but in any case, the waterfall is impressive at 198 metres. The Glymur carpark is basically at the head of the Hvalfjörður, a 110 kilometre trip from Bæjarfell, and upon arriving we were happy to find we might actually need to apply sunscreen; the sun was out with a vengeance.

The hike was marked as "hard", owing to the steep path, rock scrambling and a suspect crossing of the river Botnsá. It followed the river then some rock beds, before coming to one of the most interesting obstacles I have seen: a string of ropes used to cross the Botnsá. There was no real danger of hurting oneself, but there was definitely a danger of embarrassment, in addition to getting very wet. Do to the slightly non-trivial crossing, a crowd of people had developed on both sides (as many people return along the same path) which was not a problem per se, but it definitely increased the judgement of technique. Making matters a little worse was the fact nobody wanted to cross while anyone else was still on the ropes for fear of setting them off balance. Between travelling groups however the opposite was true, with a French man trying to topple his partner. Upon completion of the crossing, one is rewarded with the beginning of the climb, and it is indeed steep - and pretty sketchy in parts. The great thing about the walk is that at all times you can see Glymur at the end of the canyon - in addition to hearing its roar. About halfway up, there is a small lookout, which actually provides the best view over the waterfall, but I was not to know this at the time and assumed that it was only up from there. After about 40 minutes of climbing, we arrived at the the viewpoint over the main drop of the fall, which is quite staggering, and not a place for people who do not like heights.

Our next challenge was to ford the river, which the book is particularly coy about, simply saying to "cross the river upstream of the falls". The shallowest bit (complete with stepping stones) is in fact right where the water leaps nearly 200 metres over the edge, so that was not happening, but then behind the fall it was quite deep. And so began our walk upstream to try to figure out where to cross, weighing up depth, flow and how far upstream we could be bothered to walk. There were a few other adventurous people doing a similar thing, but most returned the way that they had come up. We cracked before our compatriots - the guys we were following hoping they would find a good spot to cross - and decided just to suck it up. We waded through the literal glacial water, step by step, losing feeling in our feet almost immediately and having to go in up to our waists. Of course, we did not want wet boots or socks, so we looked ridiculous: holding everything high above the water making our way across, slowly and steadily. But it all went off without a hitch, and before we knew it, we were peering over the back of the waterfall and descending down the path without another person in sight. Unfortunately, the path became almost unpassably overgrown at points, and towards the end we were shuffling along in what was essentially a forest, and whilst it was not lost on me how cool Icelandic forests are, it certainly was not "cool" for my back.

Once we returned to the car we started for Leirubakki, approximately 170 kilometres away, although much of the route would not be new as we were about to complete our circumnavigation of Iceland. Leaving Glymur, we were already on the southern side of Hvalfjörður, meaning that we would miss Hvalfjarðargöng, a six km-long tunnel under the fjord; a shame seeing as I like tunnels. Within 60 kilometres it was all done and dusted, our trip around Þjóðvegur was complete, but given that we still had a ways to go, we did not stop to celebrate. It was nice to see some of the areas that we passed on the first day, such as Hveragerði, under much more favourable weather conditions. Once we arrived at Leirubakki, we settled into the campsite (1100 ISK per person) and enjoyed a beautiful sunset over what I can only describe as the Uluṟu of Iceland.

The hills are alive

One might ask why, having hired a car, we would be taking a bus trip. The answer to that is both simple and complicated. The simple answer is that our car was only a two-wheel drive and to reach Landmannalaugar, one requires a four-wheel drive. The longer answer is because I was not well enough researched. Some time back I read of a 3-day hike which connected Landmannalaugar to Þórsmörk and ended at Skógafoss (the Laugavegur trail), which sounds like a real winner, but I could not find information on the practicalities of the walk, namely access before and afterwards. It turns out that there is a bus, and had I known this earlier, we would definitely have done the hike. But as we were both keen to see Landmannalaugar, we figured that we would blow some cash, catch a bus and stay overnight at the campsite.

Landmannalaugar is the region of painted hills that hide in amongst any photo collection of Iceland. Situated in the southern highlands, the area is well know for the bizarre colourings of the hills and surrounding lava fields in addition to the many hot springs littering the area. Access is via a bus, or rather an absolute monster of a transport, which left Leirubakki at 0840 and arrived in Landmannalaugar at 1030. The drive is far from rapid or comfortable so handing over 4900 ISK per person (each way) is a bit rough, but there is no other way to access the area.

By the time we arrived the weather had once again turned miserable, so we set up our tent - which was free as the area is part of the Fjallabak Nature Reserve - and just waited it out. After some time, it was evident that the weather could wait long than us, so we crammed into the cooking area to prepare our noodles; jealousy from the surrounding parties was immediately apparent, as often happened when were cooking noodles. After lunch we decided to just suck it up, head out into the wild weather and do what we had come to do: hike. We followed an amalgamation of walks 7 and 8, climbing both Bláhnúkur and Brennisteinsalda which are the tallest and most colourful of the mountains in the immediate area. This started with a climb up the scree spur of Bláhnúkur, which when wet is not all that fun. The climb is steep, gaining over 300 metres in a kilometre or so, meaning that progress was pretty slow - especially as I was stopping regularly to take photos. During the ascent, the weather slowly started to clear, but it was still raining when we arrived on the summit, where we treated ourselves to some warm juice and biscuits.

Descending down the other side of the mountain was much more interesting as the weather was starting to improve, but also we were heading towards the intricately-coloured Brennisteinsalda, which provided no shortage of things to admire. Even a simple rock may be almost psychedelic in this arena, once again meaning that walking can be pretty slow. There were many more people around, close to the main trail in the area that follows the river in the valley around the lava field to some coloured lakes and fumaroles. The number of people quickly diminished near the fumarole thanks to the delightful smell, and once we started the climb up Brennisteinsalda we were yet again virtually alone, except for one other couple. This climb was much more forgiving, in both grade and overall height to climb, which was welcome, given that we had just climbed up and down 300m!

After polishing off some more biscuits on the summit, we started the decent which was again more relaxed. Having lost altitude, we found ourselves amongst the lava fields, which were old enough to have a good growth of moss over most of the formations. There was little else between there and our return to camp, where we sat down to enjoy our last supper and final night in Iceland.

... oh there goes gravity

The earliest bus out of Landmannalaugar leaves at 1120, meaning that we had the morning to relax. The weather had held up overnight and, following breakfast, it was time to swim in the hot springs. Just next to the campsite is a glacial river which has two hot springs underneath to warm it up; much like Hengill from day one, only this time we had our swimming gear.

The water was definitely refreshing upon entry, but once you followed the warmth, it was delicious, especially as one can fine tune the temperature by simply swimming up or downstream. An additional aspect was the dynamism of the hot spots, whose locations were very fluid, ensuring that you paid at least some attention whilst floating around. It is definitely something I would recommend.

Due to there being no bus reservation system, as the hour of the bus approached, there was a bit of a rush to the bus area, which was annoying seeing as we had intentionally gotten there early. Fortunately we still got a seat and so were able to relax for the journey back to Leirubakki, arriving at 1300. We hopped off, put our gear in the car and then shot off, overtaking the bus in a matter of minutes.

Our only destination for the afternoon was the famed "blue lagoon", which is conveniently near the airport, but (less conveniently) 149 kilometres from Leirubakki. Once there, we had no intention of going into the commercial spa, having had our fill of that kind of thing at the Mývatn Nature Baths, not to mention we had just been in natural hot springs that morning. Instead we went to the area to check out the lagoon, which is impressive, not to mention the massive geothermal power plant which is a pretty snazzy piece of engineering and design.

Continuing around the Reykjanesskagi penisula, the next stop was the the Reykjanesviti lighthouse. It is the oldest lighthouse on the island and is situated next to an enormous fumarole, which depending on which way the wind is blowing can make it a pretty unpleasant place to be.

A little further around the peninsula, one can once again observe the tectonic plate rift between the American and Eurasian plates. At one of the deeper points of the Álfagjá rift valley is a bridge spanning between the two continents (Miðlína), built to commemorate Leif Eriksson - the first European known to have discovered North America. And it would be in the car park that we cooked our final meal, repacked our bags and got sorted for our flight home.

Adventures