The Best of South Iceland

Nervously I grip my ice axes tightly, kicking the ice as hard as I can until the spikes on my boot finally pierce the wall. I do the same with my other foot, but it skims the surface and I lose my balance, dangling ungracefully from my rope. “What on Earth am I doing here?” I muse, before righting myself and trying again.

Despite my bewilderment, I am somewhat prepared for this dalliance. We’ve travelled two hours from Reykjavík to Sólheimajökull, an outlet of Iceland’s fourth biggest glacier, Mýrdalsjökull, to take in the views before trying our hand at ice climbing. With unseasonably good weather, we drive through Iceland’s stunning scenery bathed in rare autumn sunshine. Sheer rocky cliffs are decorated with waterfalls that cast spray up into the air. Grassy fields dotted with snoozing horses and grazing sheep morph seamlessly into stretches of lava field edged with towering volcanoes.

“This is better than doing it in the rain,” grins our guide, a quietly confident 30-year-old Spanish guy named Hodei, who says he has only experienced such clear skies around four times throughout his year-and-a-half long stay in Iceland. He points assuredly to the gleaming top of Mýrdalsjökull against the horizon. “That’s where we’re going,” he says. I’m nervous; this is too far from my comfort zone. Hodei laughs and tells me I’ll be fine. I hope he’s right.

#### The black volcanic ice

Once on the glacier, my worries melt away as I take in its sheer natural beauty. We crunch past trickling meltwater streams, frosty blue crevasses and ‘moulins’ (French for “well”), which are rounded shafts that spiral down into the depths below. The cracks in the ice are impressively deep, but are apparently relatively small—some can grow up to 10 metres in width. In the distance, the enduring presence of the surrounding volcanoes contrasts with the transience of the ice.

In my mind glaciers are supposed to be white. A serene image from the BBC accompanied by the soothing voice of David Attenborough. But Sólheimajökull is covered by a blanket of black ash. Leftovers from a volcanic eruptions sometime in the past. It’s (dare I cliché?) haunting, a testament to the violent power the land’s nature can conjure. A place unlike any other, unlike anything I’ve experienced before.

#### A glacier disappearing

But the glacier is receding, every year it retreats around 100 years further inland. Everything we walk over today will be gone in the not too distant future. It is being devoured by warming global temperatures. To enjoy its grand beauty means not waiting too long.

Finally, we reach the crevasse we’re going to climb and Hodei shows us how to ascend, advising us to keep our legs wide and our arms narrow. It’s easier said than done, but spurred on by the effortless performances of my fellow tourists as they spider up the surface, I take a deep breath and get a firm grip. Fragments of ice rain down on my helmet as I swing my axes into the glacier and wrench myself upwards, a couple of inches at a time.

To my utter disbelief, I soon find myself peeking over the ridge of the crevasse, grinning. “My favourite thing about this job is seeing the sense of accomplishment in people’s faces after they’ve reached the top,” says Hodei, noting how impressed he is that all of us managed it. My arms and legs ache, but I do feel a sense of pride.

#### Taking the plunge

On the drive home, we stop at Skógafoss, a majestic 200 foot waterfall and one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. “A guy on a tour once jumped in a puddle formed in a hole in the ice,” says Hodei. “He wanted to see how deep it was. It came up to the top of his shoulders.”

“Did he carry on with the tour?” I ask. “Oh yes,” says Hodei. “He did the whole hike soaking wet.” I laugh incredulously, but as I stare up at the mammoth column of water descending from Skógafoss and reflect upon my day, I decide that life is better when you occasionally push yourself out of your comfort zone.

I arrived in Iceland only recently and have yet to have the chance to enjoy the country’s many stunning sights. But in one day, just hours away from Reykjavík I’ve seen nature incomparable to anything in my native England. A world apart from my big city live, or bountiful fields and farms. I have witnessed the sublime, a spectacle unlike anything my eyes have gazed upon before–and now I’m hooked.

Over The Black Glacier: Trekking Sólheimajökull

Going for a hike is a must-do activity in Iceland. The beautiful scenery comes in a package with fresh air, pleasant physical activity and—if you choose right—a dip in some [natural hot springs](http://grapevine.is/travel/traveling-on-your-own/2014/12/29/listicle-thermal-pools-in-the-south-of-iceland/) at the end.

The Reykjadalur hiking and hot springs day tour is one of the most popular adventures of its kind. Located just 40 minutes south of Reykjavík, [Reykjadalur](https://goo.gl/maps/k6BL3oYjCxS2) is an easy hike that nonetheless shows off many of the Icelandic landscape’s unique characteristics.

Reykjadalur (“smoky valley”, in English) is located near [Hveragerði](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hverager%C3%B0i), Europe’s capital of hot springs. As we approach the town over the Hellisheiði mountain pass, the surrounding mountains and fields are decorated with telltale columns of white steam. It’s a beautiful day—the sky is clear, the sun is rising, and the snowy mountains shine with pink sunlight in the freezing morning air.

The path leads up into the mountains, winding around the sides of a long valley. The hike is very nice, with picturesque views, but it’s a little scary at times—a few steps in the wrong direction could mean rolling down a long, steep mountainside. The trail isn’t difficult, but in winter conditions, it pays to take extra care.   
  
At the end, you're rewarded with a well-deserved 40-minute soak in a natural hot spring. For nature lovers who find it difficult to stand still in museums, and those who simply love to have rosy cheeks, this tour is a perfect fit.

Hiking to the Reykjadalur hot springs

I always imagined that my first time snorkelling would take place in warm water off the coast of some Caribbean paradise—probably listening to Sean Paul, preferably with Sean Paul. Surely not in 2°C water in Iceland with a company called Arctic Adventures, in weather that can best be described as ‘Icelandic’. I would look for turtles and fear losing a leg to a shark attack, but how fortunate that instead I got to do it in Silfra in Þingvellir.

Silfra is one of Iceland’s most remarkable spots. The water in the river is so transpicuous that you almost forget that it’s there. I will probably never go into space (unless the world continues its descend into madness and we all need to leave Earth) and, therefore, will not get to fly around in zero gravity, so letting Silfra’s gentle stream float me on is without a doubt the closest I will get.

With depths of up to 18 metres and perfect visibility, my fear of heights kicked in as I entered the water. The river is a haunting blue and alien like green algae covers the underwater banks, with occasional strips breaking off and dancing away in front of your eyes.

I am much to anxious to meditate—I’d fear that clearing my mind would cause me to lose it—but snorkelling in Silfra is like a brutalist form of meditation. If Goethe had written a book on mindefulness it would be something a kin to the experience. Harsh, bare rocks and boulders cover the bottom and the only noise is the sound of your breathing.

The water is so cold that if it wasn’t for my double layered suit, it would take just minutes to turn my unreal experience into a Leonardo DiCaprioesque catastrophe. But what also makes Silfra unique is that it is the divergent tectonic boundary between North America and Europe. Every year it expands by 2 cm, as the Old and the New World drift a part—only Trump causes a bigger divide between the two continents.

### Descent into complete darkness.

The second part of the tour of Þingvellir took me underground into the Gjábakkahellir cave, which was formed by a volcanic eruption that took place around the time humans domesticated the cow. The 9000 years old lava tube is filled with brutalist rock and ice formations, and the walls are dotted with strangely coloured formations that could easily be mistaken for shiny silver, but are in fact ancient bacteria that live off water that drips through small cracks in the lava rock.

The high point of the subterranean trip (or low point in this case) was experiencing total and utter darkness. We sat down, turned off our lanterns and all light left our world. As you would say in Icelandic: “ég sá ekki rassgat” (lit: I didn’t see an asshole). This was only the third time in my life that I have wanted to be a bat.

The tour was one of the better ones I’ve done in Iceland and I’ve recommended it to anyone who has been willing to listen (which in my case are not that many).

Þingvellir is one of only two Unesco World Heritage Sites in Iceland—the other being the island of Surtsey—and it was here where a group of Norwegians fleeing religious persecutions founded the world’s oldest uninterrupted parliament in 930\. And as it is only a 45 minute drive away from Reykjavík, you really don’t have any excuse.