Route One is Iceland’s main highway. It circles the country over a distance of 1,321 km, rolling over mountain passes, undulating fjords, deep tunnels, and narrow roads hewn into the sheer coastline. Driving the Ring Road never gets old — under the ever-shifting light and unpredictable weather, no view ever looks the same way twice.
Every time I’ve rounded the Ring Road, I’ve come back feeling changed. The sheer volume of Iceland’s nature envelops the senses and occupies the mind completely. After days of exposure to a rapidly evolving flow of black shorelines, gnarled lava fields and glacier-scraped mountain ranges, a certain kind of calm descends — a form of peace that I’ve only ever felt in Iceland.
It’s a showery late-May afternoon when we set out around the Ring Road in a chunky 4×4 camper van. Iceland had recently enjoyed a historic heatwave — an unprecedented five consecutive days of 20° temperatures that had sent people into a light mania. But the good weather was breaking. Harsh winds buffeted the van as we trundled up to Borgarnes, the wipers working overtime to push away a downpour of summer rain. As wispy tendrils of cloud race over the graceful scree slopes of Hafnarfjall, I contemplate our mission — to drive the Ring Road over the course of 12 days, following our noses and instincts, and talking to the people we meet along the way.
Small town life
We’re in Borgarnes taking the first of many pylsa breaks when an unassuming shop called Brúartorg catches my eye. Alongside Canon, Fuji, and Nikon logos, the sign says “gjafir, garn, myndir” — “Gifts, yarn, pictures.” The bell tinkles as I step inside for a look.
The owner is Elva, who has run the shop with her husband for over 36 years. “Things have changed a lot,” she says. “When we started, we had a photo shop and lab. But lately, people don’t want as many photos on paper, with phones and things like that. So 10 years ago, we added some gifts and yarn.”
Elva is originally from Stykkishólmur, but has lived in Borgarnes for 40 years. “It’s a good life,” she says. “We like it like this. The people are important. We almost know everyone — or we used to. Borgarnes is getting bigger, so we don’t know everyone today.”
Elva contends that locals don’t want or need anything more than Borgarnes has to offer. “We just love the town,” she smiles. “Some might go to Reykjavík for school — our daughter, for example — but then when they have a family and settle down, they move back.”
Covid fallout
Further into Borgarfjörður lies Hverinn, a campsite and diner run by a former Reykvíkingur called Biggi and his wife Stína. They left the city in 2019. “We thought we’d be slowing down,” says Biggi, with a wry smile. “But we really haven’t.”
The pandemic was a shock for their new business. “It was tough,” says Biggi. “What we do here is based on tourism — then it wasn’t here for two years. It still hurts. You borrow to buy things, and when there’s no business, the loans increase. And interest rates have tripled. So those two years are still holding us back.”
Despite the pandemic fallout, Biggi maintains a jovial disposition. “You can’t get stressed about it,” he says. “Business is good, we can’t complain. We have very good summers, then winter is slow, but we only close for one month. We have a couple of greenhouses where we grow tomatoes, carrots, and whatever we need for the restaurant. It’s nice to be able to offer something that you make yourself.”
Ultimately, he’s happy with the change. “Even when we stop doing this, I’m not sure I’d move back to downtown Reykjavík,” he says. “It’s too noisy, and too fast. But you should never get too set on anything.” Another wry smile. “You should always have to have room for change.”
Horses being horses
On the way up to Akureyri we stop for the night at Syðra-Skorðugil, a renowned horse farm that also offers crisp and comfortable lodgings. After a soak in the hot pot, we head over to the farm to meet a young Danish stablehand called Sophie. No stranger to change herself, she’s working for the summer doing riding tours and stable work.
Today she’s holding the fort, as the owners Elvar and Fjóla are taking part in an equestrian competition an hour away. “They’ll be showing all the gaits in different combinations,” says Sophie. “I don’t have an Icelandic horse myself, so this whole world is still a little bit foreign to me. I’ve mostly done classical dressage and natural horsemanship with my Spanish and Scottish horses. They’re completely different in size, mentality, gait, and… well, everything.”
Sophie took a chance on Iceland after finishing university, and it’s been a change of pace. “The hot days we had were hard,” she says. “Because the work didn’t change! It’s hard work, and so different from being at a desk. But the people are very kind.” Her eyes pop wide open. “And there are so many horses!”
In Denmark horses are handled on a daily basis, she explains. But in Iceland, they run free for months at a time. “It’s amazing when you ride up behind the hills over there, and see this huge field of horses of all ages. Boys and girls together, just playing, sleeping, drinking from rivers, and laying in the sun. They have all the space they need. They’re just horses being horses.”
She’s also amazed at the depth of the connection to horses within the family, and the community. “Every conversation is about horses,” she grins. “Friends come to visit, and the talk is about horses. The carpenter comes, and it’s horses. At the table, horses. Horses, horses, horses. Life is horses!”
Nice axe
The next morning we set out eastward in driving rain. The shining asphalt of Route One carves through Öxnadalur like a black ribbon between the sodden green fields and the feathery, fast-moving rainclouds. We crawl over Öxnaheiði in a furious storm and ease past Akureyri, feeling the call of the onward road.
Our target for the day is Mývatn, a breathtaking region where different landscapes collide around the shores of the lake. Mazes of broken lava adjoin bulges of old moss, black sand, and red volcanic mountains, and the water is littered with sea stacks and peninsulas criss-crossed with hiking paths.
It’s on one such trail that we meet Alessandro, taking an evening walk in his neon ICE-SAR jacket. He’s a sometime teacher and ecologicallyminded tour guide who volunteers with Search and Rescue. “We get the 112 calls and texts, and show up to whatever it might be,” he says. “Like three or four days ago, someone walked down some hills by the Hverir mud pools, and it was slippery and sandy so he got stuck. We showed up and put a nice axe in the ground so he could get out.”
The number and type of calls varies by season, from snowbound breakdowns in winter, to mountaineering incidents in the summer. “I was born and raised in Madrid so I haven’t done much fixing cars in the snow, and that whole Iceland vibe,” says Alessandro. “I do more mountain rescues and stuff.”
Like Sophie, he didn’t enjoy the heatwave. “As much as it pains me to say it, I’m thankful that it’s chilly and rainy,” he says. “There were flies everywhere. They come behind your glasses, and go in your mouth. But the heat is also why everything is so green. The whole amazing ecosystem of Mývatn has exploded.”
Rotted wyrm
A day later, on the shores of Lagarfljót, the anti-summer sentiment is echoed again at the Hengifoss food truck, which is opening up as we arrive. The server is Nicola, who has freshly arrived from Sardinia. He ladles out two cups of kjötsúpa, and a tub of sheep milk ice cream for dessert.
To his surprise, Iceland has been hotter than back home. “It was crazy,” he says. “One day it was 35 degrees.” He winces. “It was… too much.” We have no such problems as we drive around the murky water of Lagarfljót in spitting rain. The wide body of milky-brown water looks like a lake, but is actually a wide, silty river. Unusually, for Iceland, it’s surrounded by verdant woods containing several campsites and trails.
We stop at a plaque that lists sightings of the Lagafljót wyrm — Iceland’s Loch Ness monster — between 1639 and 1965. “In 1790, reliable sources described the worm-like monster raising its humps repeatedly above the water,” says the sign. “In 1965, Hallormstaður forestry workers saw a worm-like monster swimming up the lake. They followed it by car, but it disappeared by the Klífa river.” Having stoked our intrigue, it finishes the story in spoilsport fashion: “Half-rotted organic material often gathers in the lake, confusing people’s sight.”
Cool rocks
Another wonder of the east is Petra’s Stone Collection in the tiny coastal town of Stöðvarfjörður. It’s a small museum featuring hundreds of colourful gemstones and minerals in a prismic range of colours, found locally by the late Petra. We arrive 20 minutes before closing, and a fresh-faced girl called Embla waves us through with a smile. “You still have 20 minutes,” she exclaims. “You can see a lot!”
Embla has just started working at the museum. “I’m actually very new,” she says. “I started here like, six days ago, and I’m still learning everything, and how to manoeuvre round here.” She’s been enjoying settling in. “It’s been really chill and nice. But also quite rainy. So I’ve mostly been sitting in this shed selling tickets. It’s really cool meeting people from like, all over the world!”
Embla lived in Reykjavík for a while, but returned to Stöðvarfjörður three years ago. “My parents have this coffee business and they decided that they wanted to move it here for some reason,” she says. “Because they know a lot of people here, and there’s not much to do here. So why not have a coffee house?” When asked how she likes small-town life, Embla beams happily. “Yeah! I really like it. I like the nature, and there are many creative people here. It’s awesome!”
Clubs every night
Our time in the east is short, and by noon the next day, we burst out of the Almannaskarðsgöng tunnel into the suddenly sunny south. There’s an immediate notable uptick in the amount of people who are around, with bright anoraks dotting every layby and peninsula. We stop in Höfn for a lunch of rock crab and crackers, whipped cod roe, and creamy langoustine soup at the busy Pakkhús, and laugh at our uneasiness being amongst the chatty throng after just a few days on the road.
We soon find wilderness peace again at the Hoffell Hot Pots, a couple of hot pots built into the ground, with natural hot water piped in. They used to be free to use, but now there’s a little kiosk. A broadly smiling face appears at the window as we pass. It’s Mattia, a young Italian who arrived on the ferry last year with the intention of cycling around Iceland.
His plans changed when he found the job in a Facebook group. “It was the first job I found!” he says. “I went back to Italy for the winter last year, but I think I’ll stay this time. I would like to see how it is. We’re surrounded by nature here, and I’m not really a city person — I like nature, animals, trekking, and cycling, so it’s perfect for me.”
Mattia still plans to realise his dream bike ride. “I still haven’t been in the north,” he says. “I still would like to cycle all the way to Reykjavík. I would like to cycle all the way around Iceland, you know.” But for now, he’s happy. “You have to be into this kind of lifestyle in order to live here,” he says. “If you’re a person who likes to going to clubs every night, this is not the place for you. I’ve been around the world, you know, and I realised this is what I like — easy, simple, no one bothering you. So this is one of my favourite places.”
Old tissues and glaciology
We set up camp at Skaftafell, and decide to make use of the sun while it lasts. It’s an hourlong up to Iceland’s most metal waterfall, Svartifoss — a narrow torrent that pours down over a spectacular cliff of eroded black basalt. The crowd thins out as we hike through swampy groves and out onto the windblown viewpoint of Sjónarnípa, with views down over the Skaftafellsjökull glacier.
It’s a surprise to see a nervous-looking man standing at the top with a dustpan and brush. It’s Ari Kristinn, a newly minted ranger. “I’ve been picking up trash,” he says. “It’s mostly tissues people use to blow their nose, then throw away. They think it’s biodegradable. And it probably is. But it piles up.”
Ari met some rangers while studying at university, and joined them at Skaftafell for the summer. “It’s a lot of work,” he says. “There’s a lot of cleaning, but also trail maintenance and educational tours. One of the main things people talk about is the glacier and where it used to be not that many years ago. You can even put your phone in this stand here to take a photo, and have it written to a database. A lot of people who come here are interested in that kind of thing, and every photo helps with the research.”
Don’t look back
Back down on the campsite we meet another ranger called Sara — a face that looks familiar, somehow. It turns out she worked in Kaffibarinn for several years, and moved here during the pandemic. “I just stayed,” she says. “There’s something powerful about this area — it’s a little oasis of beautiful green in the desert.”
Sara has also started taking an interest in hiking. “It became a hobby of mine,” she says. “It gets a little bit like meditating. When I visit Reykjavík now, I feel stressed. It’s always good to come back to the quietness. People who end up in this area keep getting drawn back. There’s something special about this area — it has a kind of magic.”
Later in the day, we’ll see what she means. Vík is a formerly peaceful seaside town that’s been taken over by mass tourism, sprouting a new district of hotels and motels designed to hold busloads of people. A bright spark among the grim newbuilds is Skool Beans, a popular coffee operation in an old U.S. school bus. “Sorry I can’t stop to talk!” says the barista, as he serves two matcha lattes through the bus window. “We have to support each other here, or we’ll drown!”
The busyness continues at Hótel Dyrhólaey, a sprawling hotel with views down to the sea. When we arrive for the night, several busloads of tourists are checking in, overwhelming both the sole receptionist and the dinner buffet. It’s nice to have a hot meal and a comfy bed, but Sara’s words about quietness echo in my mind, and come the morning, I’m happy to head out and leave the throng behind.
I cannot smile
Just down the road is the dramatic Dýrhólaey viewpoint, which looks over the black sands of Reynisfjara and Sólheimasandur, and the hulking Mýrdalsjökull glacier. It’s here we meet Pascal, a studious German with an array of expensive photography gear. He’s carefully attaching a square glass filter to the camera as we approach. “I am new to photography,” he says, earnestly. “But I thought — why not get the best equipment.”
Pascal is from Bavaria, and it’s his first full day in Iceland. The pictures are for his own private use, he says. “The sunset last night was amazing. I shot it through the water at Seljalandsfoss.”
He agrees to be photographed, but freezes when the lens turns his way.
“I cannot smile,” he says, the corners of his mouth flickering almost imperceptibly.
“No?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
I’ve seen it all
Our final stop before looping back to Reykjavík is the Westman Islands. We see the sights — more on that here — before settling in for the evening at The Brothers Brewery. Our bartender is the pastel-haired Jóhanna, whose seen-it-all eyes gleam beneath the brim of a tall trucker cap. “I’ve lived in Reykjavík, but I prefer it here,” she says. “If something happens, we are really close and everyone helps out. But you can’t do anything stupid without anyone knowing about it. And people talk — a lot. I hear all kinds of gossip, and it’s not always right.”
Jóhanna explains that the bar has done a lot for the local drinking culture. “People used to drink at home, then go to the puffin bar [Lundinn] from two until four,” she says. “Now they come out in the evening, have drinks here, go for food, then go to the puffin bar.”
Things still get rowdy, and the bar staff are always the soberest people in the room. “We see everything,” says Jóhanna. “We don’t even have to hear about it. We just see it.”
Things get quieter in the winter. “I just hope we can keep the bar open,” says Jóhanna. “We don’t get any tourists because the ferry is longer, if it runs at all. So we have to close sometimes.” They’ve tried selling Brothers beer in Vínbúðin to keep things ticking over. “But after we got the permit to sell here, we stopped,” says Jóhanna. “I remember my boss talking about the percentage they take. So he said, ‘fuck it, we’re just going to sell it here.’”
The next day, we rejoin Route One in high winds. There’s a yellow weather warning across the south coast, with reports of campers being blown off the road near Vík. We skip the final night of camping, and head back to Reykjavík before the worst weather hits. Like the people we met all around the country, we’ve learned how to handle what Iceland throws at us. We seal the circle of the Ring Road exhilarated, exhausted — and changed for the better, once again.
Lux 4×4 camper provided by Go Campers — rent one at gocamper.is.
Room and stable tour provided by Syðra Skörðugil — book at sydraskordugil.is.
Room provided by Hótel Dyrhólaey — book at dyrholaey.is.
Buy subscriptions, t-shirts and more from our shop right here!
