July 1

We left Paris for Iceland late Friday; for fare reasons we were flying to Reykjavik through London. Unfortunately, this involved changing not just planes, but airports, and staying overnight. We got to our hotel near Gatwick around 1 a.m. For Louise, who had rather been living the party life the previous week, this was quite exhausting.

And the next morning there was a long line at Gatwick.  






  

We agreed that Iceland's capital was not a major reason to see the country. Our guesthouse was very comfortable and centrally located. The bathrooms were shared, but very clean and well-kept. Still, the city’s architecture had a rather Soviet feel to it. And the weather — OK, we had been warned — was gray and chilly. This is a street festival celebrating, we think, July 1. We were wearing parkas.

July 2

The next day, a minibus picked us and the other riding tour members up. We would later learn we were an extremely international group: German, Danish, Swedish, Icelandic, American and Spanish (more on that later). We drove about an hour and stopped at Thingvellir national park. Viking buffs among you may know that this is where the settlers held their first democratic assembly, in 970 or something like that. It didn’t last through the years of Norwegian and Danish rule, but that’s also the name of today’s Parliament. The site — the annual meetings were held outdoors — is also where the continental plates are dividing, by 1 centimeter a year. The crack is quite visible.

And we passed much amazing scenery.

We spent the night at Fossnes Farm, a charming place about two hours from the capital 

July 3

The next morning, it was time to meet our mounts. The Icelandic horse — technically a pony since under 14 hands — is a 1,000-year-old breed kept pure by rules nearly as old that prohibit all imports of horses into Iceland. Most have five gaits; in addition to the regular three they have a running walk called a tolt, very comfortable for long distances, and a fast pace that is used only for racing (and in cases of bad riders like us, to cheat when they don’t want to tolt, the hardest gait for the horse).  

Louise and I never figured out the names of any of our horses, they all sounded like nothing but consonants (a tad like the many nice people we met).

There were about 18 of us, of varying riding ability, plus five staff on our first jaunt, and we lit out for the hills without looking back. We went out for about three hours  through the hills and valleys near Fossnes Farm,  home of both our horses and us. The weather: some sun and a bit of snow and hail. I am not making this up. Fortunately we had been given pretty good instructions about what to bring (with one exception, more on that later) and were fully layered up. Check the video.

It’s very unusual for the temperature in Iceland to exceed 55 degrees at any time. A dip in the (small) Jacuzzi and a hot dinner of smoked lamb cooked at the guesthouse warmed us up.

July 4

Today was the start of our journey across part of Iceland. We saddled up our horses after a substantial breakfast from which we also made our lunch sandwiches (saddled is the word, these hardy animals only use a heavy, dressage-type saddle, no pad at all). 

Here is the horse I began riding that day:

We were going to travel all day at a fairly good clip, so we took spare horses with us. Some of us led one, and the extras were attached to the ones led by staff guides — there were five or so of them. 

We went for three hours or so over the same bare but beautiful terrain. When the settlers first came to Iceland, about 40 percent of the land was covered by trees. What the settlers didn’t know was that trees wouldn’t regenerate in that harsh climate, so now most of it is bare. Lunch was a very pleasant picnic. Note sheepdog curled up with Louise; he also helped herd the horses.

July 5

For our third day, things looked a little wet as we headed out of Fossnes Farm so we donned our tour-supplied raingear.  

But in fact the morning was nice, just a little windy, as we saw when we stopped to change horses. For the most part we rode one horse and led the spare.

In the afternoon, things got wetter. Undeterred, we visited Gulfoss, a famous waterfall. It was so damp that I didn’t take the camera out of its plastic bag. Nice special effects, actually.

Here we are in the visitors' center with our Spanish friend, Cristina. The only other language she spoke was French so we three roomed together. 

Not too make too much out of the troubles of the day, but at the end of it even Helena, our guide,  said she had never been so dirty and wet. I guess she figured the barn was so soaked it was safe to smoke there. 

July 6

The next day was also wet. Few details needed. Just  note that Oliver, the only man in the group, is wearing the piece of equipment we didn’t hear about, the bug net.

We stayed that night in Geysir—yes, it gave the world that word — we visited the world’s second and fourth-largest hot-water spouts. Sadly, I forgot my camera when I walked over there from our guesthouse, but here is Louise across the road from them. The biggest, which rarely spouts, can go up to 80 meters, but another goes up to 25 meters every 5 minutes or so.

July 7

The next day the weather was clearer and everyone was happy to pose for a group photo. There were six mother-daughter pairs, from five countries: U.S., Germany, Sweden, Denmark (2) and Iceland. Plus our guides, Cristina and poor Oliver, who seems to have avoided being in the picture.

We spent our last day in Iceland doing what all dirty, wet athletes should: bathing in the Blue Lagoon, the country’s biggest tourist attraction. It’s a  geothermal pool (the local power plant does help heat it a bit) replete with mud packs, saunas and steam baths. A great end to a great vacation.