When night fell, the luminescent green of the Northern Lights swirled above me. This was surely the perfect prelude for my voyage around the Icelandic Circle.
I was behind the wheel early the next morning making my way through this low-rise city where the tallest building is the dramatic Hallgrímskirkja church. Stopping at traffic lights with quaint heart-shaped red lights, I turned onto One: the road opening to wilderness hemmed by dark, barren cloud-topped mountains. There were hardly any other cars around and not much sign of human life. I admit that at times I nervously scoured the horizon for rumbling volcanoes.
The road snaked through undulating landscape, sometimes a clutch of red-roofed cottages or a lone wooden church would appear after rounding a curve. Yet with so few people around, I wondered how these houses of prayer filled their pews.
Sheep, on the other hand, were plentiful. Sometimes they lounged nonchalantly on the roadside as if they were playing spot the car.
Horses were frequent too, mostly the smallish, playful Icelandic equine creatures trotting elegantly around grassy fields while their manes swayed in the breeze.
Within the nooks and crannies of the dark, rugged or moss-covered hills, strings of waterfalls cascaded, catching the light on their way down. Bizarre sculptures, such as a huge red chair or a giant man turned up randomly to add humour to the bleak vastness of the country’s landscape.
Maps at information points showed the established treks and off-road tracks which were ideal for 4x4s and camper vans also looping the country, but not suitable for my Mazda and me. Instead, I drove on through the small settlements with their petrol station, shop or two and handful of dwellings.
Akureyi, dubbed the capital of North Iceland, is different. With only 18,000 inhabitants, there is no big city vibe but plenty of visual charm and to me, had a hint of Monaco about it. Sitting at the head of Iceland’s longest fjord, colourful homes line the waterfront against a snow-capped backdrop.
There was a burst of sunshine so I stopped to take it in. A group of cows looked on as a red and white boat drifted through the water, birds flying overhead past the smudges of white cloud.
In the peace of this moment I could not imagine the force of movement that lay just 30 minutes away at Goðafoss double waterfall.
Goðafoss, just south of Húsavík, means “waterfall of the gods” and as I parked just steps away, I could not only hear but feel the thunderous pounding force as the water of the Skjálfandafljót river — the longest in the country — fell 12 metres across its 30-metre width. The reach of the spray was incredible.
By Mývatn, the landscape had become more volcanic and the fresh Icelandic air had a distinctly sulphuric aroma.
Following my nose I found myself in front of a geothermal area to see the fumeroles (steam springs) and boiling sulphurous mud pools. Around 1km deep, temperatures reach a whopping 200°C.
My eyes watering, I headed on to my bed for the night in the town of Eglisstadir, home to a Loch Ness- style monster living in the nearby Lagarfljot lake.
Leaving the next day, the road was different again, gravel crackling beneath my tyres as it meandered around a lake with mountains, mini waterfalls appearing within the dips of the land. At the top of a hill, thick mist settled until I was driving blind.
My heart thumping, I continued slowly. As I descended the mist dispersed — and the first thing I saw were a couple of errant sheep, one black, one white, just yards ahead of the bonnet looking on petulantly. I couldn’t help but laugh.
The calming silence around the lakes was the perfect antidote. Stopping to enjoy the stillness, I skimmed a stone onto the water which was deliciously satisfying, before heading through farmland until the air began to carry the faint scent of seaweed as I approached the coast once more.
By the time I neared Jökulsárlón, the chill was noticeable. This lagoon is brimful with icebergs, some so old and so compact they are deeply blue in colour. I would have loved to have detoured to see the puffins nesting in the cliffs but the road stretched on to an even more spectacular sight.
At Skaftárhraun, just west of Kirkjubæjarklaustur, I came upon the Skeiðarársandur plain, a thousand square kilometre area created by the gravel, silt and sand dumped by glacial runoff. Stretching out beneath dark mountains with their white glacier patches, it was haunting.
The contrast with the mossy lava plains on the Dyrhólaey peninsula, Iceland’s most southern point, could hardly be greater although the volcanic black sand by the coastal village of Vik was a reminder of this starkly dramatic landscape.
There was one last stop I couldn’t miss: the Skogafoss waterfall, a veritable rival to Goðafoss. Rectangular in shape it stretches for 25 metres, cascading 60 metres down. Stairs lead to the top but I had no desire to climb them, feeling minuscule in front of this natural phenomenon and gazing as a beautiful rainbow formed.
But the final 150 kilometres still lay ahead. As the sun set brightly. It was time to return to Reijkavik. The circle was complete.
