Ice and fire in August

Our first stop isn’t Reykjavík, but a charming little cottage east of the capital: Blackwood Cottage, an Airbnb surrounded by vast, beautiful countryside. Four nights, each of which allows for day trips in a different direction.

Arrival day, August 6: a quick stop at Hveragarðurinn Geothermal Park—hot water bubbles up from the ground right in the middle of the village, alongside tomatoes and bananas in greenhouses heated by the earth itself. A first taste of just how close everything is to the volcano here.

Day two: Golden Circle. Þingvellir—we walk through the fissure where the North American and Eurasian plates are drifting apart, two centimeters per year. Geysir and Strokkur—you actually mix up the names, but no one corrects you. Strokkur erupts every few minutes, with the punctuality of a Swiss commuter train. Gullfoss to finish: a two-tiered waterfall in a gorge, a misty rainbow above, cold pant legs below. Plus the Kerið crater, a blue lake with a reddish-brown rim. And deeper into the highlands: Háifoss, a 122-meter-high waterfall whose existence you almost forget because fewer tour buses make it there.

On August 8 at two in the afternoon: snorkeling in the Silfra fissure. Crystal-clear glacial water between the two continental plates, two degrees Celsius, drysuit up to the chin. Visibility: feels like 100 meters. The rocks below glow in a blue that doesn’t look like water, but like a filter over consciousness.

Day four is the day of superlatives. Nine in the morning: Inside the Volcano. We take an elevator 120 meters down into the vent of a dormant volcano—Þríhnúkagígur, one of the few magma chambers in the world you can climb into. The walls are red, yellow, green, black; in the silence, you can hear your own heartbeat. No one says a word; that’s the norm down here. Afternoon in Reykjavík: strolling through the alleys, coffee, a bit of city life. Seven in the evening: helicopter flight. We circle over the still-smoking volcano, over crater landscapes and lava fields that look like charred bedsheets. In between, a spa day, because the body needs to stop marveling for a while.

On August 10, we set off southward. The journey drags on—through endless expanses of lava fields, scree deserts, and green meadows. Variety is the order of the day: first it’s cold, then the sun comes out and we’re in T-shirts, then it pours down in buckets. Four seasons in a single day—that’s just everyday life here.

Near Vík, we sleep in a glamping tent at the Farmhouse Lodge. Sounds good, looks good, but isn’t restful. The strong, constant wind makes the tent noisy and not really cozy. On the plus side: hot springs in the evening, lamb stew at the table, and in the morning, the sound of sheep shaking the tent.

Reynisfjara: black beach, basalt columns like organ pipes, waves that crash with an indignation as if land were fundamentally a misunderstanding. Signs warn of “sneaker waves”—treacherous breakers that regularly sweep tourists away. We keep our distance from the water. Right next to it is the Hálsanefshellir Cave: a grotto of geometrically perfect basalt columns.

An hour later, the DC-3 wreck on Sólheimasandur—an airplane that crashed in 1973 (everyone survived) and has since lain in the black sand like an abandoned whale. A four-kilometer trek across a black planet, wind in our ears, ending at a dented aluminum hull. Then Hjörleifshöfði — the “Yoda Cave,” whose entrance looks like the head of a little green master. Star Wars jokes are mandatory here.

The day before: Skógafoss, 60 meters high and so close you can walk right up to it, getting your pants wet whether you want to or not. Dyrhólaey, the rock arch with puffins in the cliffs. And on the way, Seljalandsfoss—the ultimate fairy-tale waterfall, which you can walk right through.

Amazing food everywhere: seafood, black-crust pizza, lamb stew. Pizza with black dough sounds like a concept restaurant, but it tastes as if the Icelanders invented it because regular dough would be too boring.

On August 12, we set off for Eiðar—and along the way, the stop that colors everything: Jökulsárlón. Chunks of ice from the glacial lake float across the lagoon toward the open sea and wash ashore—sometimes as big as a person’s head, sometimes as big as a car, all in a shade of turquoise so vivid you might think it was Photoshopped. Seals watch from the lagoon to see what the tourists are up to.

Right next door is Diamond Beach: the same beach, the same chunks of ice, but now draped like jewels on black sand. Just before that, Sarah is caught off guard by a wave and gets completely soaked. Half an hour later, in front of the same beach and the same chunks of ice, a marriage proposal. “She said yes.” The journey before and after took on a different hue.

Eiðar in the east: a hostel and apartments in an old school building—quiet, simple, in the middle of nowhere. One night is enough—we’re practically alone here.

The day in between: Hengifoss with its red lava layers, 128 meters high. Stuðlagil Canyon with basalt columns sticking out of the ground like bundles of crayons. Beautiful scenery, waterfalls, gorges, basalt cliffs—the east is Iceland’s quiet side.

The rest of the journey through the mountains isn’t quite as cool: fog-shrouded peaks with visibility down to a meter, plus a gravel road. Then through the Hverarönd area—geothermal activity everywhere, smoke and sulfur in the air, the ground bubbling, gurgling, and hissing. Goðafoss by the roadside: the Waterfall of the Gods, into which pagan idols were thrown in the year 1000 when Iceland officially converted to Christianity.

Akureyri, capital of the north, just under 19,000 inhabitants. Three nights in an Airbnb apartment. Beautiful geothermal region, great food, lots of nature. Mývatn the next day: a volcanic lake with pseudo-craters, bubbling mud pots, the Grjótagjá lava cave (water 38 degrees Celsius—Game of Thrones fans know what was filmed here), and in the evening, the Mývatn Nature Baths—the more authentic, less Instagram-filtered sister of the Blue Lagoon.

On August 14, whale watching with North Sailing in Húsavík, an hour north. Humpback whales surface so close to the boat that water splashes in our faces. Afterward, the Geosea thermal bath with a view of the sea—hot water on one side, the cold Atlantic on the other, and in between, us and the feeling that this is actually the most natural form of wellness.

Back to Reykjavík on August 16. Stopover at Kolugljúfur Canyon—a waterfall in a small gorge, hardly anyone there. Finally back in the city, one night in an Airbnb apartment right in the heart of 101 Reykjavík. Hot dog at the world-famous Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur—supposedly the best in Iceland. We think that’s true. Hallgrímskirkja, shopping, souvenirs, food, exploring the city.

Hot springs in Iceland are less of an activity and more of a way of life. Sky Lagoon to wrap things up: a 7-step ritual with a sauna, ice bath, and an infinity edge overlooking the Atlantic at sunset. We stay until the lifeguard kindly but firmly closes up.

Back in Switzerland, everything is green, warm, and unspectacular—a soothing contrast to twelve days in which every horizon looked as if someone had composed it.