‘I knew I would definitely have to saddle up’

When Kay Burley convinced her highflying friend Julia to leave work behind and come to Iceland, there was a price to pay

Horses scare me. I acknowledge that, as far back as the Bronze Age, equines have been worshipped as divine animals and are now etched deeply into the British psyche – and countryside. For me, though, they are enormous, overpowering beasts that can smell my fear and stare down at me with the sneering contempt that I undoubtedly deserve. It’s clear, then, that I certainly have no interest in getting on their backs.

However, in order to convince my friend Julia Simpson, an accomplished horsewoman, to take part in the latest “Kay Made Me Do It” adventure, I had to put my big girl pants on and agree to ride. I have to say I’m thrilled that I did.

Julia is a perfectly groomed businesswoman who can deal with international crises without breaking stride. She is always glued to her buzzing mobile phone and scrolling through emails with little to no time to herself. That level of pressure can take its toll and I continually tell her how important it is to build in down time.

So it was time for me to take charge and whisk my impossibly busy friend on a “no news no shoes” break. And where better than a former 18th-century sheep farm in the wild and snowy landscape of northern Iceland?

You have to really want to travel to Deplar Farm. It involves two flights (to Akureyri, Iceland’s second city, via Reykjavik) and two car journeys (including a dash between airports in Reykjavik) and finally a two-hour drive along the Troll Peninsula, passable only in a four-wheel drive vehicle with studded tyres via tunnels blasted through obstructive mountains. The journey lasted most of the day and it was almost dark when, exhausted, we turned off the icy lakeside road, up the freshly snow-cleared driveway past the snowmobiles and into the cosy entrance hall of Deplar Farm.

I’ll let Julia wax lyrical about the luxury that greeted us. Like the owner of the farm, US private equity guru Chad Pike, I was more excited by what activities the spectacular landscape has to offer, from salmon fishing to whale watching and winter sports.

Deplar Farm nestles in a horseshoe valley surrounded by Tobleroneshaped mountains – not particularly high compared to their older, European cousins and perfect for heliskiing from the top right down to the very edge of the frozen lakes below.

“Fancy a bit of jumping out of a helicopter with skis strapped to your size fours?” I teased Julia as we settled into a couple of cocktails at the swish games room where table football, ping pong, pool and an enormous game of Connect Four vied for position next to the collection of electric guitars and sundry other musical instruments.

My fearless travelling companion was sipping on a whisky sour while trying to hide the fact that her fingers were twitching anxiously next to the pocket I knew contained her phone.

“No, you promised me horses. I’ve brought my riding boots,” she laughed but with a determined tone which left me in no doubt that having brought her all this way I was definitely going to have to saddle up.

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

After enjoying some first-class cuisine featuring line-caught Atlantic cod with the appropriate wine matching, we retired early. A note by my bed reminded me of what was planned for the next day, including an hour-long yoga session featuring Peruvian Palo Santo holy wood, which offers healing benefits for stress, anxiety and calming the immune and nervous systems.

Julia, visibly relaxing by the hour, was keen and so, despite a hefty helping of cynicism, the following morning I was on all fours in the yoga studio trying to master the art of deep breathing and move from “shifting into feeling”.

If yoga is your thing then you’ll love it but thankfully for me, soon enough we were clambering back into our trusty all-terrain vehicle and heading down the icy valley towards Langhus Farm where the horses were waiting for us.

Icelandic horses will happily stay outside throughout the winter in temperatures well below -25C (-13F). They are specially bred and if they leave the island can never return for fear of spreading infection. Small, some might say pony-sized (but never say that out loud to an Icelander), they still looked enormous to me as I stood in the parade ring.

I looked over to Julia who had already effortlessly saddled up and was ready to head outside. “Want me to take your photo?’ I asked, but she had left her phone inside buzzing away on the office table – texts and emails that could wait for now. Progress indeed.

I was thrilled my friend was so relaxed and managed to clamber on to my trusty steed Summa with only the slightest of embarrassment. We began to ride towards the mountains.

After a few minutes of concentrating on trying not to fall off while whispering my reassurance to Summa that I would be no trouble, I did start to loosen my tightly clenched grip on the reins and could hear Julia on her horse, Askur, happily singing to herself.

Getting there British Airways (0344 493 0125; ba. com/reykjavik) flies from London Heathrow to Reykjavik from £94 return including all taxes and fees. Air Iceland Connect (airicelandconnect.com) connects Reykjavik with Akureyri.

Where to stay Rates at Deplar Farm during the summer and winter seasons (June 15-Oct 31 and Nov 1-March 14 respectively) start at £1,370 per person per night (based on double occupancy). The price includes customised adventure itineraries, all gear necessary for activities, pre-arrival planning with an experience manager, all in-house meals, house alcohol and non-alcoholic beverages, daily housekeeping and the airport transfers to/from Akureyri. Flights to Akureyri cost from £400 return per person with Icelandair. Book with Eleven Experience at elevenexperience.com

I really didn’t want to do it! I am busy. That kind of super stressed-out, breathingunevenly busy. The idea of two planes and a drive to an Arctic wilderness was not my idea of relaxing. What did I know of Iceland? A banking crash. An unpronounceable volcano. And thanks to a “thinks-he’s-amusing” friend, the world’s only penis museum. And then I landed.

The searing white and the silence wraps around you. Shall I look at WhatsApp and Insta? Work emails? I push my phone deeper in my pocket. I lift my eyes skyward. Deplar Farm in its valley surrounded by icing sugar pyramid mountains is certain. It knows who it is. Anchored, sure-footed. This is not a top luxury hotel that squelches class and sashaying corridors. It is a top-class luxury hotel that allows you to breathe. Breathe in the steaming outdoor pool filled with nature’s own hot water faucet. Breathe in bergamot essence in a yoga class where you fall asleep (at the end). Breathe the warm body odour of an Icelandic pony (sorry, horse) as it does what they have done since the days of the Vikings – guide you across icy fjords.

Deplar Farm is understated class. You will eat cod like you have never eaten it. Jumping off the plate, matched with unlikely wines and narrated by young, daredevil chefs and sommeliers talking like street poets. You pad around in your slippers. You don’t lock your room door. You do look out of your window for the Northern Lights seemingly calling you. A library of lovely knock-onwood and curly-coated sheepskins reveals old Icelandic tales of this courageous, courteous land. I found myself lying in one of those improbably shaped Skandi reclining chairs reading Icelandic poetry. And why not?

thought it was the old man of the sea who had shared the magic touch. I felt it was more likely the ship’s sonar had given the cod shoal away but I didn’t want to burst her romantic bubble.

Soon after it was time to head back to shore and warm up with a hearty fish soup at Gisli, Eirikur, Helgi – a local restaurant in Dalvik named after three brothers from a folk tale. It was so good we went back for seconds, promising each other the diet would start on Monday.

That evening, back at the farm, we relaxed in the outdoor geothermal hot tub sipping cocktails created especially for us by Rory, an Irishman with the gift of the gab and an encyclopedic knowledge of anything alcoholic. Surrounded by silence and steam from the hot tub, Julia, whisky sour in hand, gazed down the snow-covered valley towards the general direction of where the Northern Lights would be. We could make out a green hue in the form of an arch in the night sky. “That’ll do,” she said, as we drained our glasses and headed for the Viking sauna and even more perfumed pampering.

The next day, as we took our seats on our flight home to Heathrow, Julia leaned across to me, phone in hand for what I was sure was the first time in 72 hours. “The battery is almost dead, don’t care,” she said. “When are we coming back?”

Soon, very soon.