We barrelled down a gravel road to a steep drop, descending in a terrifying corkscrew. We stepped on to the glacier, took pictures, and knew it would soon be gone.
I don’t feel I can say I know a country unless I have peered in to its geographical heart and seen what it is made of.
We were born of wood, adrift on pale and listless waters. We soon forgot.
I have been going to Iceland periodically for a decade now; it’s time I faced reality a bit.
We laid down the gauntlet to ourselves: over a series of holidays we would traverse the four corners, the quadrants, of Iceland. The first on the list was the south west: Suðurland and Reykjanes.
I wore my feet to blisters the first time I was there. I walked across the city in every direction I could, only to find that I should have taken the tram instead.
In the space of a few hours we’d traversed the whole of Swedish history, and wallowed in deep Swedish countryside, all in central Stockholm.