Preparation & Departure

Bank (Landsbanki!), Bonus supermarket for a food mountain (60 loaves of bread...), outdoor store for gas. Finally we’re away on our twelve-day tour, the route decided by the weather: it’s good in the south, so we start there on Road 1, the round-Iceland road. First glimpses of lava fields, then the green southern plain with lots of horses and unusually clear views of the iconic volcano Hekla and the Westman Islands. We stop for our first lunch at our first of nine waterfalls, Seljalandsfoss, a slim 60-metre one which we can walk behind. There’s nothing like this in Britain: eyes are being opened already. We leave the ring road for a rescue a bogged-down fellow bus. Above and ahead are huge ice-caps with glaciers tumbling down from them. The campsite is across a scarily major river, in the Thórsmörk area. Here we sort the food: dehydrated and chocolate things have come in rucksacks from home, fresh food from Bonus. The first supper is cooked, and surprisingly edible. There’s a small forest here (‘What do you do if you get lost in an Icelandic forest?’ ‘Stand up!’), and an evening walk across to the Thórsmörk valley and up a hill for some utterly spectacular views, and back down via the Song Cave. The party begins to show its inventiveness in entertaining itself: here this involves bare-footed excursions up a local rock pinnacle from the campsite’s small warm pool.

Fine again next day: poor Britain (whose weather is usually the opposite of Iceland’s)! We aim at 90 minutes from sleeping bag to away, and are sometimes close. The first stop gives alarming proof of climate change: a glacier drastically reduced in three years, but still a good backdrop for a party photograph.

Back at the ring road we stop at an even better waterfall: the archetypal Skógafoss, dazzling and rainbow-clad. Nearby we approach the glacier Solheimajökull tentatively, and nd it easy to walk onto and on: an alien world of ice and black dirt-cones. Eyes are being opened further. Then there is Dyrhólaey (Doorholeisland), its black beaches and vast sea arch. More subtly, we drive on across the various effects of monstrous eruptions — Katla’s outwash plain, Laki’s lava elds, Grímsvötn’s outwash plain with its long bridges. We will drive 2150 km in all, but the journey is always more than just travel for those with eyes to see — an always interesting movie. The next camp is at busy Skaftafell below Iceland’s highest peak. Time for an evening stroll through another miniature forest to a lofty view over the local glacier.

In the morning Tóti drives us on east to visit big glacier scenery: a series of them descending from Vatnajökull icecap (the world’s third biggest). We stop at two glacial lagoons with icebergs. The first is quiet and beautiful. The second, famous Jökulsárlón, is crowded with people and ice; dodging terns, we visit the seashore beyond it, a strange surreal place, a misty iceberg graveyard. Back at Skaftafell the forecast warns us that the remnant of Hurricane Berta will visit tomorrow, and cloud is already building. But it is dry for two walks: first to Svartifoss (‘foss’ means waterfall), which becomes the next EA adventure playground, to the bemusement of other visitors. The really adventurous walk further, up a hill and back through a knee-deep forest plus a visit to a farm museum. After supper we walk to the local glacier, which is also found to be retreating.

Now comes the Wet Day: Berta greets us as we drive back west and then north into the interior, and at Eldgja lunch is cancelled. At Landmannalaugar the tent-pitching is a test: wet, windy and grassless, rocks replacing pegs. But there is a reward: the famous pool, a generous and perfectly-designed gift of nature. Such is the delight of nding hot water to bask in that some can’t leave it and stay in for over twelve hours; two break the eighteen-hour non-stop record by twenty minutes (white wrinkled bodies soon recover). Others walk along Graenagil for some random exploration.

Next day the non-overnight-bathers walk through the local lava field (medieval obsidian) to the hill behind, steaming with sulphurous vents and some of the world’s most extraordinary scenery. A good number continue for several miles over the high plateau in Scottish conditions (wind and drizzle) to a hot spring valley: bubbly and steamy things of all shapes, sizes, colours, sounds. The only sheltered place for lunch is in a snow tunnel. On the way back the weather perks up and Landmannalaugar is revealed in all its unrealistic multi-colour; and the pool further helps recovery. The evening walk is up Bláhnúkur in an exhilarating gale for more unreal views and an exciting scree-run descent the other side. Or hide-and-seek in the lava field.

Now we are heading to the north-east, where good weather is promised (correctly). First, a small diversion to Ljótipollur (‘ugly puddle’), a huge misnamed explosion crater. Then the bus loses its back left wheel. Yes really. Crisis. It happens in a grey windy desert: the wheel’s bolts have sheared off. Tóti radios Reykjavik: repair men will come, and meanwhile they try to nd an empty bus at Landmannalaugar to take us to shelter. Other us. After two hours a bus turns up and takes us to a lonely service outpost further north: we take over the TV room, and chips and Coke are provided. Finally Tóti reappears and we are off, with new hubs. We drive the bleak Sprengisandur track, stopping briefly at Nýidalur in the very centre of Iceland to decide what Plan B is (Plan A, all the way to Mývatn, has been scuppered). The decision takes us to a small lonely campsite and hut in the middle of nowhere, Laugafell, just downwind of an icecap. But yes, ‘laug’ means hot pool, and there is one: a delightful one which somewhat delays the normal 11 p.m. bedtime (actually, we never really manage that). The small facilities hut is heated; toilets flushed with hot water are a first. The morning is wonderfully windy, but most tents are taken down undamaged; and on we go to the sunny north. We stop at Aldeyjarfoss, a narrow one set among amazing basalt formations; and at Goðafoss, a wide beautiful one. At last we pitch at the Mývatn campsite: it is a relief to nd no ‘mý’ (midges), so sanity will be preserved. Lunch, a shop visit, then over the hill to Krafla, site of a recent series of eruptions, for a walk all over the fresh 1984 lava: a thought-provoking place. We hold a small intercontinental birthday party for Donald, straddling the crack where America and Europe are splitting apart (2cm a year). After supper, we all go to Mývatn Naturebath, a smaller Blue Lagoon. A vigorous gladiatorial contest develops with a French party; they are beaten by our numbers (or is it skill?).

Glaciers and Ice

On to Jökulsárgljúfur (Icerivercanyon). The track is very corrugated — too much dry weather, it seems. By contrast, Dettifoss is very wet, impressively full of melted glacier and sediment. It is Europe’s most powerful waterfall, a terrifying 500-ton-a-second monster: even those who are becoming sated with sights are struck dumb. The campsite at Vesturdalur is green and lush with a little flowery stream and woods. From it we walk to Hljóðaklettar, the echoing rocks, to wonder at weird basalt formations and the huge Church cave; and on to the red hills of Rauðhólar. In the evening there is as usual a walk of exploration — or shing: but the combined ingenuities of the party fail to catch the one sh sighted in the stream.

Our furthest north point comes next morning, near the Arctic Ocean. We stop to look at Asbyrgi, the gigantic hoofprint made when Odin’s flying horse slipped. Then we head south for Askja. The track first bounces over corrugated gravel, then winds slowly through parts of the great Ódáðahraun lava field . We stop at Herðubreiðarlindir (Broadshoulderoasis) to pitch camp below Herðubreið, a huge table-mountain (subglacial) volcano. As we drive on from there, volcanoes of all sorts are in sight across the lava plains (shield, strato, ssure, caldera ...). We reach the moon and stop to see what it is like to walk on: this pumice and lava desert, totally without vegetation, was where Neil Armstrong practised.

Then the track winds up through red 1961 lava into the caldera of Askja, a vast volcano. For those with imagination this is a mind-boggling place. The big lake here is Iceland’s deepest — but has only existed since 1875 when the hole was left by a major eruption. Next to it is a much smaller lake in an explosion crater of the same vintage, Víti (‘hell’). The opaque water is warmed just enough for bathing and many of us do: the smell of sulphur stays with us for some time. Where else can you walk on the moon and bathe in hell on the same day? A high-level return over a crunchy pumice-covered hill finds the views hazy through airborne dust, but nishes with some good snow-sliding. Back at the oasis an evening stroll looks at lava, phalaropes and gushing cold springs. We haven’t completely escaped the ‘mý’: our green flowery paradise in the desert has this one blemish, a test of coolness under re during breakfast (but at least they don’t bite). We drive back to Mývatn, via a short cold bathing stop at a small waterfall. Three things to do at Mývatn: visit an area of bubbling burping boiling mud pools, shower and bathe in the village pool (water), and lunch at Dimmuborgir, a forest of lava towers. Our next camp is different: the municipal site in Húsavík (pop. 2500), a shing and whale-watching town. The Whaling Museum is good (the seniors also visit the equally famous phallological museum, of course), and some opt to pay for a whale-watching trip: success! — good sightings of six humpbacks and a beautiful summer’s evening cruise. Others play American football.

Now comes the journey back to Reykjavik. Back on the ring road we stop at Goðafoss again, to admire Geitafoss just downstream and two ostentatious German expedition trucks. At Akureyri, Iceland’s small second city, we stop for two hours; it is rather hot, but it has a pleasant town centre, a very surprising botanic garden, and a lot of jamboree scouts. A long drive then leads through greener hills before turning south for the Kjölur cross-country track. As we cross a hydro-electric dam, there is a loud bang. Another wheel gone? No, just a puncture; many hands make light work of replacing a lacerated back wheel.

The campsite is another oasis, but this time the springs are hot. It is an odd site for two reasons: there is no cold water on tap, and hot dogs are free. The latter is not normal — it’s a birthday celebration for one of the rescue team based there; our regular supper menu is less popular than usual. There is a great little bathing pool, and an area of bubbly and steamy things to wonder at. The evening walk takes us through a lava field to Eyvindar’s cave. The final drive. The Kjölur track is very slow and bumpy as it crosses the desert region between two big ice-caps, but at last we meet a road-scraping machine and the surface improves. We stop for lunch at Gullfoss, the Golden Falls. Here we are in serious tourist territory and the place is seething. The falls are spectacular, though perhaps too full of meltwater.

Just down the road is Geysir, after which they are all named. The Great Geysir is dormant, but smaller Strokkur is excitingly active every few minutes, and provides a free shower for those standing downwind. The last stop of all is at Thingvellir, the most historic site in Iceland; but it is too hot for history. More attractive is the waterfall and its river which again become a wet adventure; others scramble along the basalt edge of the mid-Atlantic ssure.

Finally, Reykjavik: city shock, but a chance to relax and reflect after the trip. Reykjavik is one of the world’s safest cities, and the party is let loose the next day. Each to his taste: museums and art galleries, the swimming pool, shopping, sleep, the harbour, Hallgrimskirkja, the Lake, some real food or else left-overs at the campsite ... We all meet safely back at 11 p.m. The temperature today has been a Reykjavik record, 26.2°C. In the morning a bus collects us and takes us to the Blue Lagoon where we have two hours to wallow and relax in the country’s biggest, most popular and perhaps oddest bathing pool, surrounded by lava. Then the bus takes us on to the airport. Scotland is much as expected: dark, wet and frantic. Iceland is a dream of sunshine and sanity.

J. J. C. Fenton