On a clear night at Kirkjufell, Iceland, you might get to witness the Northern Lights. Photo / Getty Images
When the time's right for you to explore Europe again, Iceland is the ideal destination for a scenic road trip, writes Julia Hammond.
There's an Icelandic proverb that goes like this: "Af goou upphafi vonast goour endir." I don't have a clue how to pronounce it but translated, it means, "A good beginning makes a good ending." If that's the case, I thought, as I swerved violently to avoid a stray sheep on the first day of my Icelandic road trip, I would need to pay closer attention to the road rather than allow myself to be distracted by what was going on beside it.
But that's not easy in a country that boasts such extraordinary scenery. Driving Iceland's ring road is one of the world's great bucket list travel experiences. Visitors are treated to views of majestic glaciers calving into iceberg-strewn lagoons, endless expanses of moss-topped lava and the dichotomy of tranquil inlets and tumbling waterfalls.
Here and there, steam rises from the ground, a reminder that this country is still under construction and nature's not finished putting it together quite yet. Around 1.2 million international visitors are expected to visit Iceland in 2022, just over half of the 2018 peak, so you're not too late if you want to see the country before the crowds return.
If you're thinking that its geysers and glaciers make it a bit of a busman's holiday, having visited both Iceland and New Zealand, I can say with confidence that they are sufficiently different to make this a destination worth travelling halfway around the world to see.
For me, Iceland was the ideal post-pandemic destination, a comfort-zone choice that would scratch the itch to explore. After picking up the keys to my hire car, I set my sights on the village of Vik i Myrdal on Iceland's south shore.
I called in at Reynisfjara, a splendid strip of pebbles backed by basalt columns that frame Halsanefshellir, a magnificent cave. But on this particular beach, it pays not to turn your back on the ocean. This part of the coast is notorious for its sneaker waves, powerful breakers that crash on to the beach without warning, occasionally with deadly consequences.
Less than 24 hours later, I found myself in the saddle, swapping four wheels for a handsome bay mare named Fluga. Spirited yet gentle, she forded small streams with ease and led me through a birch thicket against a backdrop of Svinafellsjokull glacier. It was so peaceful it was hard to believe we were barely any distance from Iceland's most important road. I'd have ambled along for hours, but Sophia, my guide, was keen to get us moving: "Would you like to try a tolt, Julia?" she asked.
Icelandic horses have what's known as a fifth gait. It's fast but not at all bouncy, a fluid movement that's quicker than a canter but said to be smooth enough that you can hold a full glass of beer while on the move without spilling a drop. The only gait faster was something called "flying pace".
That didn't sound like such a good idea for a novice, but I hoped the tolt might be something I could master. Given Iceland's strict drink driving laws, I thought it would be unwise to ask for a beer, but am pleased to report that a tolt is much comfier than a trot.
The following day, I continued east to Jokulsarlon. This striking glacial lagoon is where the Breioamerkurjokull glacier creaks down the hillside, breaking into pieces as it reaches the water. These icebergs float silently out to sea, only to be washed up by Atlantic rollers onto the grainy charcoal-coloured sand of Diamond Beach.
It's the kind of place that you never tire of, no matter how bad the weather is. Nevertheless, I was relieved that the rain looked like it would hold off as I donned overalls and boarded a Zodiac which would take me out to the farthest reaches of the lagoon.
Cruising along, we admired chunks of ice that were as impressive for their myriad colours as they were their size: some a translucent blue, others opaque white layered with gritty volcanic ash. A grey seal had hauled itself up on to one frigid platform and watched nonchalantly as we puttered past. Later, from the shore, I watched a small group playfully weaving in and out of the icebergs while I fuelled up on fish and chips.
Time-poor tourists turn back at Jokulsarlon and return to Reykjavik. I continued on, my sights set on East Iceland and in particular, Stuolagil Canyon, which required a short detour off the ring road down a gravel track. Until the construction of a hydroelectric power station upstream just over a decade ago, it was almost completely concealed beneath the Jokulsa a Bru River. The term hidden gem is often bandied about by travel writers, but this literally was.
There's an easily accessible viewing platform on the north bank of the river, but I'd read somewhere you could get a closer look on the other side of the bridge. It required a 5km hike across grassy meadows followed by a scramble over boulders to get to the water's edge. But it was worth the effort to touch Stuolagil's sculpted and weathered hexagonal basalt columns. They framed a river that was the brightest shade of turquoise I'd ever seen.
Reluctantly I dragged myself away, as I'd made a booking for one of Iceland's many geothermal baths. This one overlooked serene Lake Myvatn. When I got out of the car, a cloud of midges swarmed my head. I cursed as they took advantage of my open mouth and simultaneously flew up my nostrils.
Bizarrely, the pool itself wasn't plagued by these infuriating insects, though quite a few decided to hitch a ride north with me and I was still splatting them on the inside of the windscreen when I reached Husavik an hour later.
Husavik is Iceland's whale-watching capital, a charmer of a town situated about 50km north of the ring road. While I waited for my tour, I called in at the Whale Museum; among its exhibits is the skeleton of a 25m long blue whale that washed up on a beach further west.
Humpbacks, which typically grow to half that size, are more commonly sighted in Skjalfandi Bay where I was headed. Fortunately, the wind was calm as we nosed out of Husavik's harbour in a traditional oak-hulled fishing boat. We didn't have to wait long until we saw the first whale breach. With a flip of a tail, it dived again, but was soon followed by another, and then another.
Iceland has thousands of waterfalls, but Gooafoss must surely be one of the prettiest. Its name even translates as "Waterfall of the Gods", though with typically Icelandic humour it refers to a time when statues of Norse gods were thrown into the water rather than a compliment about its appearance. As with Skogafoss and Seljalandsfoss on the opposite side of the country, it's right on the ring road and too impressive to pass up, even if it's just for a quick look.
I wanted to press on, though, abandoning the ring road in favour of the winding road that hugged the coast to Siglufjorour at the northern tip of the Trollaskagi peninsula. To get there – from either direction – requires drivers to navigate a single-lane tunnel.
Although there were several passing places, it was nerve-wracking to watch headlights approach at speed and then suddenly dive off to the side. As I emerged from the Mulagong tunnel after two torturous miles, I glanced down at my white knuckles and muttered a prayer of thanks that there'd been no head-on collision.
During its 1950s heyday, Siglufjorour was very different to the sleepy port I saw before me. Its wharves would have buzzed with activity. Thousands descended on the place to process herring, lured by the chance to make easy money, if not in the most salubrious conditions. Then one day, the fish simply upped and left.
The now unemployed soon followed, leaving behind decaying jetties and derelict warehouses. Today, fully renovated and painted in bright colours, the village's redundant industrial buildings house a fascinating museum where you can step aboard fishing boats and visit the dormitories that were the migrant workers' temporary home.
Before I drove the final stretch of the ring road to Reykjavik, there was one last detour I wanted to make. The highlight of the Snæfellsnes peninsula is a mountain called Kirkjufell. This distinctive landmark is Iceland's most photographed peak, and it's not hard to see why.
Two small but delightful waterfalls make this a lovely view whether you visit, as I did, under a cloudless summer sky or wait until it's covered with a dusting of winter snow. Come on a dark night and if you're really lucky, you might even get to see the Northern Lights dance overhead.
Iceland's ring road allows you to follow a route that encompasses the drama and variety of the country's landscapes all bundled up into one holiday-sized package. When you're ready to travel beyond New Zealand's shores, I can think of no better place to go.
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To loop Iceland's ring road, also called Route 1, you'll need to allow between 10 and 14 days. It's a year-round drive, but best from June to August when the weather's likely to be better and there's more daylight. For maximum flexibility, it's best to hire a 4x4, though not essential. More details can be found at visiticeland.com