THE STAR TURN
at Iceland’s new Lava Centre (lavacentre.is) is a short film documenting the most dreadful volcanic eruptions of the past century. It’s 12 minutes of blistering hell wreaked by mountains with names that sound like vengeful demons: Hekla, Grímsvötn and Katla. Terrific entertainment if you ignore the fact they’re lurking just a few kilometres away. Outside the cinema, seismometers monitor seven of Iceland’s 30 active volcanic systems to show visitors how often earthquakes rock the land. The most recent rumbles were yesterday when Hekla, the “Gateway to Hell”, had a hissy fit and Hengill, which smoulders less than 40 kilometres from the capital Reykjavík, registered 4.4 on the Richter scale. Yesterday! The only possible conclusion to draw from this evidence is that we are all going to die. Possibly quite soon. “Certainly not today,” says our grinning guide Halldór Atlason during a tour of Hellisheiði, a geothermal plant that taps into Hengill’s seething heart to power southern Iceland. Tapping the earth’s core seems a foolish thing to do – like poking a sleeping giant or literally playing with fire – but Atlason reassures me that Hengill has only erupted four times in 10,000 years. In the same breath he casually mentions a quarter of the country is an active volcanic zone. I’ve never felt so vulnerable. In Iceland, there’s no need to go looking for excitement. With its potential for natural calamity, simply being here qualifies as an extreme sport. To be fair, it seems that no Icelander has died from volcanic eruption, earthquake or flood within living memory. Besides volcanoes and earthquakes – “trolls making love”, goes the quaint old saying – this volatile North Atlantic island has hot springs that can reduce humans to soup, is prone to devastating avalanches and post-eruption floods, has treacherous roads, savage winds and the constant threat of exposure to the elements. Coming here in midwinter, when wild weather adds a further frisson of risk to proceedings, requires a special degree of pluck. So I’m grateful to be travelling in the comfort and relative safety of an escorted group excursion with Insight Vacations (insightvacations.com). During a week-long odyssey, we travel from Reykjavík by coach – a deluxe affair of reclining seats, USB chargers and onboard loo – to discover Iceland. In the following days, we witness extravagant waterfalls and spouting geysers. We pass by glaciers, brooding volcanoes and 4000-year-old lava fields and we learn, courtesy of tour director Robert Lintott (along with a host of local guides like Atlason), about the culture, cuisine and history of this remarkable country on the edge of the Arctic Circle. The experience is more than just a simple tick-the-boxes tour. Our 40-strong group – a mix of Americans, Australians and South Africans – includes 12 from Miami whose ranks include two Jesuses and a Mercy. It’s
a consolation to know that if anything does go wrong, we have a spare Jesus up our sleeve. Lintott reminds us constantly of lurking dangers, whether it’s the perilous road conditions (we must always wear seatbelts and never, ever leave our seats) or the possibility – admittedly faint but still titillating – of straying into a hot spring and boiling alive. That may sound hyperbolic but the dangers are real. So much so, the Icelandic government has created a website (safetravel.is) to give arriving travellers a fighting chance of survival. After the geothermal plant and Lava Centre, we continue east past frosted volcanoes, steaming fens (wetlands) and quicksilver streams that slice through golden plains. Low, flattering earlyafternoon light gilds epic landscapes as we approach Seljalandsfoss, an impressive and normally elegant cascade whipped into a deranged torrent by icy gales. There’s a path around the falls, but Lintott cautions it will be dicey in these conditions. We all steer clear. The weather is a constant concern. Lintott forewarns us of gale-force winds, heavy rain or snow and plans our days accordingly, always with an eye on our wellbeing but also alert for opportunities. After we’ve marvelled at Seljalandsfoss and its neighbouring waterfall, Skógafoss, there is still sufficient light and clear skies for a surprise stop at the black-sand beach of Reynisfjara, about 180 kilometres east of Reykjavík. This impromptu detour turns out to be a highlight of the trip; standing on a desolate beach fringed by sculptural basalt stacks – home to nesting puffins in summer – the shore pounded by powerful Atlantic rollers. So potent that “sneaker” waves have been known to stun hapless swimmers and drag them to a watery grave. Yet another of Iceland’s potentially fatal attractions. At the end of each action-packed day, our group checks into boutique hotels, usually chic “Scandi” affairs of blond timber and cosy fabrics so well kept they feel brand-new. I look forward to each night’s lodgings not only to escape the sub-zero temperatures and fierce conditions but also because they tend to be appealingly Nordic and serve, for the most part, more sophisticated meals than I’d dared expect at the end of the earth. Certainly far better than you’d find in similar circumstances in Australia. Our nightly dinners in hotel restaurants are held at communal tables where the gang bonds over traditional fare such as lamb soup and baked salmon. In the mornings, generous breakfast buffets run the gamut of hot and cold, sweet and savoury, always with bowls of densely creamy skyr, the Icelandic yoghurt that becomes a diet staple. We also sample more outlandish local delicacies such as hákarl, gag-inducing fermented shark that reeks of ammonia. During a city tour of Reykjavík, Lintott serves it to us with chasers of Brennivín, a burning schnapps known as the “Black Death”. On the bright side, we also eat piping-hot cinnamon buns from the ovens at Brauð & Co, Iceland’s finest bakery. Our journey moves from off-road attractions to stops along the Golden Circle, the 300-kilometre ring-route from Reykjavík that takes in local icons such as Gullfoss, a vast tiered waterfall beneath a pink-tinted sky, and Geysir, to watch steam vents explode from the earth at regular visitor-friendly intervals.
On a bleak morning, there’s also an excursion to Þingvellir National Park, where Viking leaders gathered annually for the Alþingi, one of the world’s first parliaments dating to 930AD. We arrive at 10.30am in near darkness and steady drizzle to join the throngs navigating the cloven rock corridor called Almanwaternagjá, recently made famous as a backdrop in Game of Thrones. It’s all very sedate despite the fact we’re traversing the fault line where the Eurasian and North American tectonic plalktes are ever so slowly pulling apart. On the edge of North America, I gaze down a seven-kilometre rift valley to Europe. An indelible sight, even in freezing rain. After an exhilarating week I’m heading back to the airport with driver Guthmundr Orri Dan in the pitch dark of a winter’s morning. As gales buffet the car I make a joke about the dangerous weather. Orri Dan nods and smiles. “I have actually seen a man blown into a pillar outside a minimart and knocked unconscious,” he deadpans. “Iceland is as dangerous as it is beautiful.” Her beauty and her terror? Perhaps Iceland’s not so different from Australia after all.