19th August 2021 Waterfalls, fumaroles, lava fields and craters.

The Bolearis slid into her mooring alongside the quay in Akureyri at around 6.00 am.

We had arrived in Akureyri, nicknamed the ‘Capital of the North’ and known as an important port and fishing centre. As we vacated our cabin for breakfast at 7.00 am, the grey cloud hanging over the surrounding mountains appeared to be lifting, and visibility was good,  an essential factor for a day of sightseeing. The port is considered one of the best places in the world for whale watching. However, having already seen plenty of whales, we were more interested in what the land had to offer. We had signed up for an eight-hour expedition to explore the highlights of the region.

By 10.00 am, with Akureyri behind us, our coach was climbing the mountain on the opposite side of the fjord from the ship. On this island, every journey seems to involve a steep ascent, a precipitous descent, or a tunnel; there’s very little flat terrain. Depending on the road’s position, the view from our chosen window seat alternated between breathtaking vistas, sheer walls of grey rock, and the occasional mossy bank to hold our attention.

Our first stop of the day was to be the ‘Waterfall of the Gods’, Goðafoss. We approached this mighty cascade from high in the mountains, its spray visible from afar, floating high into the air and drifting on an invisible breeze. Set deep within the valley floor, Goðafoss only revealed its full splendour when we were almost upon it, a magnificent curtain of water plunging into its self-carved abyss.

Disembarking from the coach, we made our way along a busy, meandering cinder path to capture yet more photos of yet another impressive waterfall. However, this one is special; it holds a place in the story of Þorgeir Þorkelsson, as preserved in the Íslendingabók, written by Ari Þorgilsson in the early 12th century. When Christianity arrived in Iceland, it caused deep divisions between those embracing the new faith and those determined to continue venerating the old Norse gods. Suitably impressed, and with my SD card a little fuller, it was back on the coach and, as they say, “upwards and away!”

Up and over the next mountain we went, and on our descent, we caught sight of the placid, blue waters of Lake Mývatn, where we were to stop for lunch. Captivated by the lake’s mirror-like reflections of the surrounding mountains and its abundance of birdlife, we followed its southern shore for several miles before eventually rolling into the car park of a small hotel.

We had been forewarned by our guide that there would be flies; indeed, the lake’s nickname is ‘Midge Lake’, so things didn’t bode well. On exiting the coach, we were immediately engulfed by swarms of tiny, maddening insects. Thankfully, they didn’t bite, but they were incredibly persistent, whirling about our heads in apparent madness, colliding with ears, eyes, and noses, all the most irritating places! Waving them away was futile; there were simply too many. Only a head net would have provided relief, and, of course, we didn’t have one. After ten minutes of performing a crazed, arm-waving dance outside the restaurant, we were finally allowed in, where, for reasons unknown, the little blighters didn’t follow. Perhaps they knew they could bide their time and toy with us later.

Lunch was mushroom soup followed by fresh salmon from the lake,  and it was absolutely delicious. I couldn’t help but feel it was something of a shame that our group devoured large portions of such a noble creature, one that had undoubtedly feasted on countless of those pointless nuisances still lurking outside the door.

After a frantic dash back to the sanctuary of the coach, our next stop was the bubbling mud pools and egg-smelling fumaroles of Námaskarð. Exasperatingly, after crossing yet another mountain, the midges had beaten us there too!

Before us stretched a panorama of small, scattered mounds of vividly coloured earth, each exuding wisps of steam and the unmistakable stench of sulphur. It was a landscape so otherworldly that it could only be described as lunar. In fact, NASA brought their moon buggies here in the 1960s to test them on what they believed was a suitably moonlike terrain. Even the Perseverance Rover, now trundling across Mars, was trialled in Iceland.

With more photos and videos safely stored away on the memory card, it was time to move on once again.

Next on the itinerary were the mystical landscapes of Dimmuborgir. The origins of these peculiar rock formations are uncertain, but it is believed that a lava flow met either ice or water, resulting in explosive interactions that created the bizarre shapes scattered across the area. These otherworldly structures caught the attention of the producers of Game of Thrones, much of which was filmed here. Our guide pointed out several filming locations, though, having never watched the series ourselves, we were far more captivated by the naturally alien beauty of the place.

As a bonus, Dimmuborgir came with few, if any, midges!

The next leg of our saga took us back to the lakeside to visit the vivid green pseudocraters at Skútustaðir, and, unfortunately, to rejoin yet more swarms of those tiny, toothless insects! Sue and I all but galloped around the pseudocraters, thoroughly exasperated at every step. The surrounding scenery, mini, grass-covered calderas reflected in the stillness of the lake, certainly merited more time and appreciation. But any hope of quiet contemplation was dashed by the persistent attentions of those pointless apologies for wildlife.

Even the coach failed to provide sanctuary on this occasion. The windows and roof vents were thick with the wretched things, and to our deep frustration, we were forbidden from exacting revenge. The driver, understandably, didn’t wish to spend the evening scraping squashed insect remains from his vehicle. Drat!

On our return to Akureyri, the coach wound its way through the town, which revealed itself to be much larger than it first appeared, and fully deserving of its status as a city. Our guide was especially proud of the town’s colourful and well-frequented Lido. I remain unconvinced; thermally heated or not, we are, after all, just below the Arctic Circle, and for most of the year, it gets more than a little nippy around here!

That evening’s entertainment was once again provided by the ship’s resident song and dance troupe. They were, as always, excellent, and one feels they deserve a more permanent and glamorous stage.

20th August 2021 Chasing waterfalls……. again.

After steaming overnight, we were moored up as we sat down to a leisurely breakfast. The waters of the fjord were millpond-still, perfectly mirroring the steep scree-covered slopes and patchy shrubbery, all topped with a sweatband of cloud that hugged the peaks with quiet drama. The small township of Seyðisfjörður, home to just 740 people, nestles at the very end of its namesake, a ten-mile-long inlet flanked by rugged beauty. A string of light industrial buildings sweeps along one of its shores, understated yet somehow fitting in this remote setting.

Clear evidence of a recent mudslide remains a sobering reminder of a night, just a year ago, when the entire town was forced to evacuate to a larger settlement in the neighbouring fjord. Weeks of relentless rain had saturated the hillsides, and although the locals are well-versed in avalanche threats, a mudslide of this scale was unprecedented. Several buildings were lost, but miraculously, no lives were lost. Since then, the townsfolk have been hard at work implementing measures to guard against a repeat.

Our chosen excursion today was called Chasing Waterfalls. As if we hadn’t seen enough cascading water! Still, the promise of a ramble appealed. By 10.30 am, kitted out for some serious adventuring, we were aboard the coach for a short fifteen-minute drive down the fjord.

We stopped at the site of the 19th-century deserted village and former whaling station of Vestdalarssyri. There’s little to see now; the early homes were ‘kit’ houses, designed to be dismantled and relocated if necessary. And, evidently, it had become necessary.

A well-marked woodchip trail led us up the mountain through the Vestdalur Valley, following the course of a powerful stream which, every so often, hurled itself off a cliff in dramatic fashion, much to the delight of those in our group more accustomed to flatter landscapes. Cue a flurry of camera clicks.

Some sections of the path proved a challenge for a few in our party, so progress wasn’t exactly brisk. But to their credit, even those with unsure footing were determined, and most made it all the way to the penultimate series of cascades. Sue and I were more than happy with the pace; the guide was engaging and well-informed, and to our delight, the trail was peppered with wild blueberries and crowberries, ripe for picking and surprisingly delicious.

Many photos later, and feeling that we had at last burned off a respectable number of calories, we began our descent from the mountaintop towards our waiting coach, now parked a little further along the inlet. On the way down, we passed a pair of Icelandic horse riders, proud and resplendent on their sturdy, pony-like mounts, whose manes fluttered in the breeze like something out of a Norse saga.

I’d saved an apple from my packed lunch earlier in the week, secretly hoping I might find an opportunity to offer it to one of these famously friendly horses. With the riders’ permission, I approached. The horses accepted the treat with enthusiastic slobbering and juice-spraying crunches, clearly appreciative of the gesture. Smiling, we continued along the trail.

We were back on board just in time for a late lunch and a round of afternoon activities. That evening, we dined in the aft restaurant, watching Iceland recede into the distance. The island’s towering, craggy cliffs slowly slipped beneath darkening skies, eventually vanishing from sight, but not from memory.

The night’s entertainment was once again provided by the Irish magician from a few nights before. As ever, he was excellent, leaving us smiling and thoroughly entertained as we headed off to bed.