Awake and away at 0630. 2330 worn out back home. 17 hours travel, 2.1 hours sunlight, 480 km driving. That counts as a day by any standards.

The break to foreign holiday shores looms upon me, with it comes one last Icelandic venture circa 2009. Originally planned, a two-day whirl around the island, abridged to a rubber band excursion. To go as far as one day will stretch.

To Húsavík and back, northeast Iceland: here we come!

Morning dark is absolute, through Mosfellsbaer to Borganes, the only light is underground, 165m, undersea in the Hvalfjördur tunnel. 5.7 km dim and claustrophobic. Hvalfjördur itself, 30 km long with winding roads exponentially more, its a shame to skip, but for the day’s pace sake we must do as we do.

The lightning trip sounds like the fast food version, but it’s just a different beauty. No better, no worse.

The change in scenery so rapid it confounds, too fast to grip, it gives a real sense of just how much variety is. A country defined by vast wilderness, to rush through it all just affords another persepctive. Not lost in space, just bewildered.

From Borganes Route 1 cuts inwards. 30 km and passing Bifröst. Not the rainbow bridge but a business school, mid-nowheresville. The basalt columned avenue more than rivals England’s best. New or old.

Then up into our first highlands. Its colder for sure, but just as dark. The sun won’t to rise for some hours more.

The sign to West Fjords is bright enough, but we resist its lure and fly on past, to make our first stop. This one’s for gas.

At 0930 the town of Hvammstangi is all asleep, all 580. Included with them—I’m jealous on all accounts—the seals for which this place is famous.

Not much happens from then till later, the sun comes up a little peek, enough to see the shape of scenery at least.

This part of Iceland is much like my own: going clockwise the sea is on the left, some way in right are the mountain sides.

But there is a difference, something subtle. The grass is tougher, the land more rugged. More northerly, in some inephermable manner.

Gas stop mk 2. Saudákrókur, 2600 or there abouts, north Iceland’s second town.

And on we go.

Up into the highlands again, this time for real, not to mention fully lit. It’s like Lord of the Rings. But you know, in a car.

Akureyri, been here before, didn’t much care for what I saw. This time round though I kind of like the place. We stop for lunch in a family eating joint. On Sunday it’s packed, so un-Reykjavík it’s real. We watch an old couple on a date.

They duel with their burgers, its positvely life-affirming, knife and fork at 10 cm.

With time to spare on our busy schedule, we decide to stick by Route 1 and head south a little. Take in some sights, even stretch the legs.

The first detour is Godafoss waterfall, icy rocks and snow-drifts ahoy. I skip from stone to stone to stand at the water’s edge, not quite feeling brave enough to go for the middle. Still the heartbeat doubles and oxygen is good, flow to flow, I take a piddle.

The next is around Mývatn’s shore, now we are racing the light. Glistening, frozen, the lake is astounding, nothing like the flat dull blur I remember from the time I last came by.

Hair on end, plugged in the mini-bus seat, tire blown off and driver on a mission—but that’s another story.

We have time for one last stop. We elect for Dimmuborgir lava field—quite the surprise. Traffic jams on the road and the ground, something Christmassy is going down.

Sadly the paths are too icey and we don’t get the full experience, we have to watch our footing, and call a raincheck on the best formations further in. 

But in amidst the lava our encounter is just as surreal. A sinister take on Santa’s grotto, a Yuletide Lad has made his grubby den.

Club in hand, an open fire and above all else a stinking, bad, bad attitude—it’s hardly a wonder the legion of kids are so impressed.

Then that’s it, nothing more to do but head to Húsavík. It’s dark again, the road has turned to gravel, but before too long we’ve reached the target of all our travel.

The view is astounding, the town is a gem. We stay just long enough to dream of moving here. Then turn around and drive back again.

Simon Barker – frigno@gmail.com