Renee Abberton

Always choose the road less travelled.

The Land of Ice and Fire

6.14.2024

We landed on Iceland at 9:45 am, small pockets of sleep on the flight from JFK propelling us forward.  Against my better judgement and lessons learned in Germany, we rented a car, navigating the hour long trek into Reykjavik with bleary eyed enthusiasm.

The landscape splayed out in all directions – rolling fields of lava rock coated in a hairy bristle of moss, spattered with patches of hearty lupine and dandelions.  Huge volcanic mountains sprang up seemingly from nowhere, a dramatic contrast of reddish grey and a strikingly bright green, make me think of Kauai.

We pulled into the harbor district too early for hotel check in and found a place to park, dug our coats from our bags and began exploring on foot, an easy feat for such a compact downtown area.  Nearly instantly we stumbled upon Rainbow street, drawing our eyes to the Hallgrimskirkja church, the most prominent site in town.  As we strolled and window shopped, I got my bearings quickly before we retreated to the seated warmth of quirky little Babalu Café for coffee and a crepe.

Temporarily revived, we strolled a longer than intended loop around the harbor, killing just enough time before checking in to our hotel, Exeter, a modern boutique hotel with an industrial vibe; our efficient little room sporting a tiny balcony with a view to the bay.  The first floor bar had good beer on tap and a great playlist which more than made up for the sweet fried pickles.  In need of real sustenance we ventured out, landing at Mat Bar, a tiny spot with fresh, inventive tapas-style small plates.  Burned carrot dip with zatar dusted flatbread and grilled zucchini with lemon zest were two of my favorites. 

The fatigue we’d been plagued with since landing seemed no match for the endless sunlight; well nourished we forged ahead to Hus Mals og Menninger, a bar inside a bookstore with a great band and Prince Harry’s doppelgänger.  Around 11 we decided to head out, stopping for a snack on our way home.  Despite the light of early dusk, we were unsuccessful in our mission, finally finding our way to bed in preparation for the early morning and endless days to come.

6.15

We were on the road before 8, stocked with coffee, bagels, and a chocolate sea salt donut from the bakery in the hotel.  Our first stop: Pingvellir National Park.  Upon arriving at the visitor’s center we learned there would be celebrations – parades, festivals, live music, etc across the country all weekend in observation of June 18, Iceland’s 80^th Independence Day.  The good news: parking was free, and we arrived before the crush of bus tours.  The bad news: we’d be long gone before the park’s celebrations kicked off.  We hiked through a gorge created by a shift between the North American and European tectonic plates to the Oxarafoss Waterfall, then looped around to an old church, and finally, to a path along Pingvallarath, the largest lake in Iceland.  We finished our hike just in time as the parking lot was filling up, and proceeded on to our next stop: Geysir, the place that gave a name to all the other geothermal spouts of water.  We walked along the path connecting the parking lot to the circle of people around a bubbling field of colorful muck, small spouts of steam popping up here and there.  Just as we reached a break in the human circle, Geysir erupted with spectacular force, creating a sound so all consuming it made me jump out of my skin.

After a few seconds of continuous bursts, Geysir again fell silent, leaving us in sheer awe.

Next stop: Gullfoss, an unbelievable cascade of such violent volume, the spray misting up our glasses from the high perch of the overlook. 

As the mornings carb load wore thin, we turned south toward the Fridheimar tomato farm, a restaurant set amid the vines, heated by geothermal energy. All ingredients grown on the premises, we feasted on tomato soup, still-warm bread, the freshest salad of mixed greens, peppers, cucumbers, sunflower seeds, in a basil vinaigrette, and burrata with heirloom tomatoes.  Our table came with a potted basil plant and a small pair of scissors to encourage self-service snip and season.  For desert, green tomato ice cream with a red tomato strawberry sauce.  Fat and happy, we sauntered the grounds, happened upon the library wine bar toward the rear of the property.  It was a beautiful day, with more people congregating at the outside tables than in, enjoying the sunshine and sangria on the grass.

Back on the road, we stopped at Kerid Crater, a volcanic crater housing a small but vibrantly hued lake.  In a frighteningly fierce wind, we hiked the perimeter as if temping the Norse wind gods to blow us in as sacrifice. 

Finally, to Hveragerdi, geothermal capital in a geothermal country.  We stayed at the Greenhouse Hotel, a nod to the chief industry of the area, and another adorable boutique hotel housing a food hall and bar enclosed in glass.  After dinner at Olverk, a geothermal fed pizzeria and brewery, we grabbed our books and posted up at the small bar at our hotel, bolstered once again by the unending daylight.  Official sunset occurred at 11:30, sunrise at 2:30, and we accidentally stayed up late enough to witness the sky transition to a deep dusk before lightening again toward daylight.

6.16

We woke 20  minutes before checkout, scrambled to shove the previous day’s clothes back in our still packed bags.  We grabbed a coffee from the lobby café, then headed north through town toward the trailhead for the Reykjadalur Valley.  Carved by the river, the valley surprised us at every turn with steam spouts rising from mud pots, waterfalls tumbling down sandy cliffs, smatterings of fragile grasses, mosses, and wildflowers leading to thermal bathing pools connected by a winding wooden foot bridge, occasional platforms with half-exposed changing stations.  The water was nearly scalding in spots, cool in others, steaming hot water mixing with ice cold glacial run off to create pockets of a perfect blend for soaking my tired legs. 

Back at the trailhead, we picnicked on grapes, Icelandic gouda, the trail mix I brought from home, then headed out for the next leg of the adventure.

Seljalandsfoss is an impressive waterfall with a mossy cave cut into the cliffside behind it, allowing circumnavigation of the falls.  As we approached, the refraction of the sunlight on the mist created a rainbow that shifted as we moved, from partial to full to double and, finally, to a full circle rainbow.  We walked behind the thundering fall, careful not to slip on the mossy rocks as the spray soaked us head to toe.  It was impossible not to laugh at the wonder of it.  We followed the trail beyond, lesser falls tumbling down the cliff to our right, an open grassy meadow to our left dotted with tiny yellow poppy-like flowers with waxy petals, even tinier pink moss blooms, cottony white puffs reminiscent of pussy willow without the stem, and spindly grass legs supporting miniscule periwinkle blossoms.

At the trail’s end was a narrow crevice in the cliff face, soaked people emerging with expressions of exhilaration.  A creek ran from beyond the crevice; we hopped stone to stone until we reached the main attraction: a mighty waterfall cascading down the back wall of a tall cave, the bright green moss glowing from the sunlight above, giving the whole scene an ethereal vibe.

We continued east to Skogafoss, the next in a continuing parade of uniquely beautiful waterfalls, this one visible from the road well before we reached its turn off.  The approach was along a deep black sand beach, the might of it’s spray creating a double rainbow, the contrast against the black sand beach striking.  Finally, after a long day of hiking, driving, waterfall chasing, we pulled into the town of Vik and our hotel Vik I Myrdal.  The beautiful, modern scandi building tucked against the cliff would be our home for the next two nights.

We walked across the street for a quick dinner, lentil soup and avocado beet burgers, which we devoured.  We just beat the 8:30 rush on a limited dinner scene that shuts down at 9.  After dinner, we strolled down to the black sand beach on a path lined with lupine, basalt monoliths rising from the sea in the distance.  The wind increased its ferocity as we approached the beach, black sand extending beyond our view as it pelted our backs. 

We turned back toward town, the iconic white walls and red roof of the church perched atop a lupine covered hill presiding over all.  With another long day and an early start ahead, we turned around 10, a difficult feat in the land of the midnight sun.

6.17

We embarked at 6 am on our 2.5 hour drive to Jokulsarlon, a glacial lagoon full of icebergs that calved off from the Vatnajokull glacier, the largest ice cap on the island.  The scenery varied, from rolling fields to vast lava deserts, the road intermittently changing from pavement to gravel and back again without warning.  The narrow, shoulderless stretch would condense from one lane each way to a single lane at water crossings, of which there were many.  The fields were dotted with fat little sheep, no doubt the source of the $175 wool sweaters on offer in the souvenir shops, and small Icelandic horses with their long flowing manes.  The farmhouses were sparse, often built into a hillside so that only the front face was exposed.  As we progressed, the glacier came into sight, looming large in the distance.  Nearly every cliff face was adorned with falls, a stunning backdrop for the farm houses in the foreground.  The clouds thickened, then descended.  Finally, as the glacial tongues came into view, the sky began to clear.  The shocking sight of an iceberg perched in a clear blue lagoon appeared suddenly.  We’d arrived.

We were greeted by a beautiful man with flowing fiery locks whose image evoked the phrase ‘sexy Viking’.  His name was Saemundur, and he helped us into giant red buoyancy suits.  As he deftly navigated our 10-person zodiac among the massive flotillas of ice, he educated us on the ever changing force of nature, pointing out icebergs that had arrived in the lagoon just two days prior, those that had flipped upside down a week before, the way sunlight cause the deep blue hue and centuries-old volcanic ash the grey-black striations.  He called our attention to harbor seals and grey seals lounging on floating ice beds, like tourists on a poolside chaise.  Arctic terns he called assholes, noting  how they bullied the nesting gulls in hopes they’d abandon their eggs on which the terns would feast, shared he’d been pecked on the head and shit upon by them too many times to count.  Terns spend ½ their lives in flight, migrating twice a year between Iceland and Antarctica, a journey that follows the sun over three long months. 

“I’ve spent my whole life on this God forsaken island.”

He ferried us to the source of the lagoon, the Breidamerkurjokull section of the Vatnajokull glacier, which spans 3127 square miles, tops 3000 feet thick in places, contains the tallest mountain in Iceland, covers several of the most active volcanoes in the country and 8% of the landmass.  It’s also a National Park, the second largest in Europe, and one of three UNESCO World Heritage sites in Iceland.  It was both terrifying and awe inspiring to be in a place where your insignificance is laid so bare, while seeing in real time the effects of human caused climate change.  It also raised the existential question of our irresponsibility, culpability in visiting such a place, thereby contributing to its demise. 

After bidding our sexy viking captain farewell, we visited the site where the lagoon emptied into the North Atlantic Ocean, a black sand beach dotted with the remnants of icebergs making their pilgrimage to sea nicknamed “Diamond Beach”.   Headed back toward Vik, we stopped at a smaller lagoon, walked down to its shore before breaking for a lunch of grapes, nuts, and granola bars, before making our way to the Skaftafel section of the Vatnajokull National Park just as the rain started in earnest.

We embarked on the Svartifoss loop, a meandering trail passing several small falls, views opening wide as we climbed.  The main attraction, a waterfall cascading down a geometrically stunning cliff, hexagonal basalt columns staggering along its descent.  As we approached, the rain intensified, altering our route and testing the water resistance of our gear.

Back on the road, the steady rain against the backdrop of lava desert began to make my eyes weary.  With 45 minutes left to reach Vik, I stopped for gas and asked Aarti to drive the rest of the way.

Once safely parked, we walked to Black Crust Pizza, hungry enough to nearly finish two whole pies.  Feeling revived and glad to be back on foot, we resolved to explore the most prominent viewpoint in town, the Reynisfjall mountain, via a 4.5 mile hike ascending 1400 feet to an overlook above the black sand beach, the sea arch at Dyrholaey, and the basalt cliffs of Reynisfjara where puffins nest.  The strength of the wind was terrifying, juxtaposed by the lush green meadow dotted with wildflower in which we stood.  The town of Vik was so small from that vantage point, the solitude of the church more stark.

Back at sea level, we happened upon a Brugghus we’d somehow failed to notice, stopped in to enjoy a couple brewhas.  Sufficiently refreshed, we retreated to the comfy confines of our hotel lobby bar for a glass of wine and what was left of our pizza, earning hangry stares from an adjacent foursome who’d just arrived to find the sidewalks rolled up despite the remaining daylight.  Been there.  When they asked about our pizza, we directed them to the Brugghus, open until 10, later than any other place in town despite being inconspicuously set back from the main drag.  It was 9:48, so they hurried out, presumably successful given we never saw them again.

6.18

We planned a late start, enjoyed sleeping in and lingering over breakfast with a book before packing up.  At 10:30, we departed for our glacier and ice cave tour.  We drove to the edge of the Myrdalsjokull glacier atop the Katla volcano in a large passenger van built atop a an off road equipped chasse on massive tires that self-inflated and deflated, depending on the terrain.  As we disembarked in a vast lava field, an arctic fox lingered nearby in hopes of discarded snacks.  The scenery was like nothing I’d seen before.  An endless sea of black with scattered patches of green that thickened on their way up the surrounding peaks.  As we marched across the black sand basin the layer of sand began to thin, exposing the ice below.  We stopped to pull crampons over our boots, a first for me.  They were not the huge knife’s edge spikes I’d imagined, but more like tire chains in a size 7.  We trudged onward, the crunch of our footfalls on the ice unnerving at first until we gained confidence in the security of the crampons.  Slowly we climbed, following a guide rope atop rebar drilled into the ice, the occasional 2’x4’ footbridge leading us across rifts and streams.  The deep blue of the ice cave stood in stark contrast to the vast landscape of alternating black and wite.  The ever changing shape and size of the ice cave and the flows of runoff and visual evidence of recent collapse further reminders of the impermanence of mother nature. 

After the tour, we said goodbye to Vik and headed back toward Reykjavik, looking forward to getting out of the car, off the road, and settle into one location for a few days.  As we drove, it began to rain.  We stopped in Selfoss for lunch at Kaffi Krus, after which Aarti drove as the rain steadily increased, culminating in a dense fog.  Throughout the trip, we’d been astonished by the bicyclers we’d passed on the narrow, shoulderless roads, carrying multi-day packs on narrow carbon fiber frames in winds strong enough to nudge the car out of our lane, but this was a whole new level.

We found our apartment in the city, dropped our bags, then found the small regional airport at which we’d relieve ourselves of Suzy Q the Red Suzuki.  We just made it, rolling into the lot 10 minutes before they closed, and walked the mile back to our apartment on the other side of the small downtown from where we’d stayed the first night but right in the heart of the action.  Our several long and active days had finally caught up with us, so we spent the evening rotating loads of laundry while reading and slowly nursing glasses of wine at Eriksson Brasserie, the restaurant with a window-front bar kitty-corner to our apartment.  Once we were in for the night, Aarti found a Netflix show that was recommended by our glacier hike guide called Katla, which was filmed in Vik.  I lasted one episode before pulling the blackout blinds shut against the still-lit sky and calling it a night.

6.19

In the morning, with several hours free, I stayed in bed reading until late in the morning, finally rising when I heard Aarti up and about.  We walked a couple blocks to Braud & Co for coffee and pastry – me a much blogged about and somewhat overhyped cinnamon roll, her a croissant – en route to the harbor, where we embarked on a whale watching tour, Aarti’s first.  It was cold and rainy, so we were grateful for the red waterproof jumpsuits that reminded us of our Viking friend and enabled us to sit outside, the better option both for whale sighting and Aarti’s seasickness.

For  nearly an hour, we headed straight out toward the mouth of the bay, into a driving wind, cold rain pelting the side of my face, water growing choppier by the minute, the only sightings birds – gulls, the elusive puffins, northern gannets with a 3-meter wing span and the ability to dislocate their shoulders when diving, creating an aerodynamic entry allowing a deeper dive below the ocean’s surface.  Finally, the Irish marine biologist who was our guide began spotting puffs of water on the horizon, the telltale signs of blowholes in action.  “Minke at 3 o’clock.”  I turn to see nothing.  “Humpback 11:30.”  Too late again.  Then, all of a sudden, a huge humpback, right in front of us, rolling and waving pectoral fins in the air, putting on the show of a beauty queen in a parade.  It was spectacular.  And on it went, for the next two hours, our guide giddy over the loud speaker over the quantity and proximity of encounters.  All in, I saw at least: 5 humpbacks, 3 minkes, a ton of white-beaked dolphins, several harbor porpoises, and more puffins than I could count.  Not bad for Aarti’s first whale watching, and puke free to boot!

Back on solid ground, we stopped in the Posthus food hall for a snack, edamame, and vegan sushi.  It was such a vibe – hip, modern, half-a-dozen eateries and a couple bars, tons of different seating options and pretty reasonable prices for a place known to break the bank.  We walked and shopped, making our way back to the apartment to dry off and take hot, steamy showers, followed by a mid-day nap. 

The only dinner reservations we’d made the whole trip: Austur India – a meal we’d been looking forward to since we’d landed.  The six-course vegetarian tasting menu did not disappoint; we were even unfazed by the judgment of our waiter who commented on our lack of use for to-go boxes.  Too full to go home, we strolled a bit before deciding on a replay.  Books in hand, we walked into the wine bar across from our apartment, chose the same street-facing barstools, and were greeted by the same waitress with “same as last night?”  She was on to us, and it felt good.  There’s something so comforting about falling into a routine, especially abroad, if only for a few days.

Back home for the night, we watched another episode of Katla, tried for #3 but quickly fell asleep in the familiar embrace of the Airbnb IKEA sectional.

6.20

Once again, I lingered in bed reading late into the morning, enjoying the slower pace of the 2^nd half of our trip.  We passed Braud & Co, coffee and amazing raspberry croissant, along the now-familiar path to the harbor district.  The day’s first stop – the world’s finest (only?) Phallological museum, a tribute to members, rods, johnsons, shafts, third-legs, tips, baby arms, girths, dongs, nobs, lengths, one-eyed monsters and wienies of all shapes and sizes.  At turns interesting, educational, and downright creepy.  But hey, YOLO.  Next up, the Saga museum, part history, part folklore, all wax figure aided telling of the Norsemen who first landed on and later founded the settlements on Iceland, Greenland, and Newfoundland, which was originally called ‘Vinland’.  Note to self: look up winetasting

From there, Posthaus again for a pre-race carbo-load in the form of pizza and salad, much of the pizza saved for a late night snack.  The big event: the Midnight Sun Run, a half-marathon through Reykjavik held on (or about) the summer solstice, starting around 9 pm, followed by a post-race party at a large thermal pool that lasted until just past midnight.  Given the trouble we’d faced finding dinner after 9 pm and knowing I’d be famished after the run, I was planning ahead.

After lunch, we ventured on to the iconic Hallgrimskirkja church, the exterior a striking architectural ode to the geometric structure of the ballast columns we’d seen earlier in the trip, the interior monochromatic Scandinavian minimalism, housing an impressive organ – not the phallological kind.

We shopped a bit on the way back to our apartment before striking out to pick up our race packets.  The 30-minute walk turned from unpleasant to worse as the wind and rain picked up; it was clear we’d need another solution to get back for the race.  I found the best bus route, downloaded the app, bought tickets, and stood at the bus stop 6 minutes before the #15 was scheduled, which would take us within 2 blocks of our apartment.  Right on time, the driver made eye contact as he drove past, leaving us standing in a hard, cold, driving rain.  “Fuck this” I declared before crossing the street to a large Hilton, where I asked the receptionist to call us a cab.  The cab driver gave me a business card; the card listed an app I could download to schedule a ride for later.  Problem solved.

We had a few hours to burn before the race; only accustomed to morning races I decided to take a good long nap, hoping I’d wake feeling refreshed and ready to conquer the world.  Or at least the rolling hills of outer Reykjavik. 

Our driver arrived right on time, and we stuffed our overly layered selves into the backseat, with full knowledge we were over dressed but in fear of starting out cold and wet and remaining so for 13.1 miles.  Within 2 miles of the gun, I’d stripped off my puffer jacket and tied it awkwardly around my waist, the swish-swish of the synthetic material adding to the rhythm of my foot falls, a subtle symphony that helped pace my breath.  I stuffed my beanie in a pocket, hoped it would make it across the finish line with me.  It was still raining, but now more a drizzle, and still cold, but the heat of my body counterbalanced the muted breeze.  I was afraid this run would be miserable; cold, dreary, 150-ish minutes of praying for it to be over soon, but I was pleasantly surprised.  The outlying areas of Reykjavik were stunning, the route following streams with small falls, crossing meadows full of wildflowers, rounding picturesque lakes with mountain backdrops, and winding through the most uniquely wild and beautiful golf course I’d ever seen.  I was surprised to see golfers out after 10 pm, but it was still light out, and I guessed late night tee times were cheaper.  The race was gorgeous, my body felt mostly good, but my pace was slow, between the intermittent photo breaks and the aerodynamic drag of my puffer jacket serving as a waist-cape, and the fact that I hadn’t run a block in over a week. 

At the finish line, I longed for the comfort of dry clothes, but I was not about to miss the thermal-pool after party.  Soaking in the warm mineral waters, I no longer yearned for the post-race beer tent I’d become accustomed to in the states.  “All races should end like this” I told Aarti, as I tried half-heartedly to keep my hair above the surface. 

Our scheduled cab ride home arrived on time, and the left over pizza I’d fixated on since mile 11 was everything I needed and more.  We showered, threw our race clothes in the laundry, and tucked in for our last sleep in the apartment.

6.21

I rose early, let Aarti sleep in as I went ventured out for coffee.  Twenty minutes later, two Americanos in hand, I started packing.  In less than an hour, we’d board the shuttle bound for the Blue Lagoon.  At $800-ish a night, the Silica hotel was the biggest splurge we’d ever taken, which we rationalized easily.  It was only one night, a post-race treat with direct access to the guests-only silica lagoon, and came with entrance for two to the main attraction, the Blue Lagoon, which ran $100 per person.  Plus we’d used our Chase Reserve travel points for every other hotel, only shelling out for the 3 night Air BnB. 

The drive to the Lagoon took three times longer than normal due to lava flow from the active volcano covering the road along the direct route.  Even the detour was an eerie glimpse into a magma-filled underworld: the road cleared via bulldozer, the still-soft looking black tar-like substance on either side of the road still steaming. 

We checked in around 11 am, shocked to learn our room was ready.  Nonetheless, we opted to lounge in the lounge, overlooking the lagoon, enjoying our welcome champagne and preparing for 30-ish hours of rest and relaxation.  We’d scoffed at the concierge’s recommendation of a dinner reservation at the Lava Restaurant; I’d perused the menu and been offended by the $24 bowl of mushroom soup, resolving to stick to the small grab and go café in hour hotel lounge.  However, the vegetarian pickings looked slim at the café, and we were already growing very hungry.  We resorted to snacking on the nuts and dried fruit that we’d brought along the whole trip, if only to keep the champagne from going to our heads too quickly.  If we were going to shell out $24 for a bowl of mushroom soup, we’d make sure we were hungry enough to lick the bowls clean.

We put on our nicest clothes, dark hiking pants and a pullover sweater for me, leggings and a sweater for Aarti, and followed the wooden plank walkway the ¾ mile from our hotel to the main lagoon, arriving a few minutes early for our 5:30 dinner reservation.  We inquired about checking our bags with our swim suits into a locker, were advised it was best to keep them on us for now, just in case of an evacuation.  A bit unnerved, we headed to dinner, resolved to forget about the price and just enjoy ourselves.  And boy did we.  The mushroom soup was worth every single penny; it was hands down the best soup I’d ever tasted in my life.  We each got a bowl, scraped them clean with the basket of fresh baked bread slathered with the Icelandic butter that was good enough to eat with a spoon.  We shared a salad, gem lettuce so crisp and flavorful it must’ve been grown by angels, and a bottle of wine that was surprisingly well-priced for it’s quality.  The only disappointment of the meal was that we hadn’t saved room for dessert. 

The Blue Lagoon was celebrating the solstice, staying open until 1 am with special events like story tellers and sound healers, so we had chosen a fortuitous night to visit.  We crammed our full bellies into our bathing suits, slathered our hair with globs of conditioner, and eased into the deep blue warmth, where we’d meander slowly from one corner to another for the next 6 hours.  We indulged in several rounds of clay face masks, free drinks from the swim up bar, and squished our toes in the muddy deposits lining the lagoon floor.

We found a quiet spot, a smaller pool off the main lagoon, where the water was the perfect temperature and the crowd thinned significantly.  As a cold, gentle rain began to fall, my eyes focused in on the orange glow in the distance.  The lingering clouds made this the darkest night we’d experienced, ironically falling on the longest day of the year.  Just beyond the lights of our hotel, the glow of flowing lava was visible. 

After a long, incredible night, we nearly floated along the walkway back to our room, and one of the deepest sleeps I’ve ever had.

6.22

I woke to the distinct scent of sulfur, my first thought of the day related to evacuation protocol.  I didn’t want to wake Aarti and alarm her, but I felt the need to survey the situation beyond our room, so I brushed my teeth, washed my face, pulled on some sweats, and went to feel out the vibe in the lounge.  Breakfast was just getting set up and no one seemed alarmed, so I made myself a cappuccino and found a seat facing the lagoon, glad to have brought my book.  The breakfast buffet was divine, and as I filled and refilled my plate with fresh berries and soft cheeses and flaky croissants again and again, I was grateful for Aarti’s ability to sleep in, allowing me to linger over breakfast for what felt like ages before she finally joined. 

We didn’t have to check out until noon, but decided to pack up anyway, giving ourselves all day to lounge in the Silica lagoon.  And lounge we did, having the lagoon mostly to ourselves, emerging only to order an Aperol Spritz from the lounge bar or slather more conditioner on our hair.  We had a shuttle scheduled to pick us up at 4 pm, to take us to our final destination: Keflavik, the small harbor town next to the international airport, from which we’d fly home in the morning. 

Hotel Berg was perched on a  hill above the small harbor, a small but clean place perfect for one night.  We strolled through town, surprised at its sleepiness, and found a library bar attached to a hotel.  We enjoyed a slow, light dinner and a final drink before strolling along the harbor, back to our room to pack one last time, bidding farewell to the land of ice and fire.