The smelliest part of our trip was in Namafjall Hverir, where fumaric acid bubbled out from pools of hot grey mud. While these are geothermic ponds, they are not quite suitable for bathing like the ones at the Blue Lagoon. The only warning that the area might be hazardous to our health was a small sign with a thermometer reading “100^oC”. Icelanders are big believers in people using their common sense and taking personal responsibility for ones own safety.

These mud ponds were really fun to watch – reminding me of the Bog of Eternal Stench. They were constantly simmering, bubbling up with big bursts of fumaric acid that would sound like “bloob bloob bloob”. It was stinky and messy and grotty and I really enjoyed exploring the region. The whole area smelt like rotten eggs, and the landscape was coloured with the various sulphur oxides. There were also steam vents pumping out water vapour, like a warmth breath from the interior of the earth. John decided that if the black barren landscape we had encountered previously was the moon, then now we must be on Io (the volcanic moon of Jupiter).

I do not like small boats. After various misadventures in the past, I have vowed never to set foot in one ever again. However, this trip promised a unique opportunity to visit an island inhabited by thousands of puffins and other birds. So I tried to be brave, and stepped into the small old boat. Our captain was 77 years old, with white hair and piercing blue eyes. We pulled out of the harbour, and I tried not to think about the arctic water that surrounded us. The boat rocked chaotically from side to side, the undulations increasing as we went further out to sea. I kept my eyes firmly on the horizon, keeping track of the increasing size of our destination. Finally we arrived, and somehow managed to clamber from boat to shore in between ocean surges.

However, the saga was not over. We were then scramble the near sheer cliffs, with only the occasional ladder placed over the dirt for assistance. About one quarter of the way up, I had had enough. I sat down and refused to go on. Adrian sat by me and comforted me until I was calm enough to appreciate our surroundings. I later learned that Rob had captured this moment of my anxiety:

We decided to slowly return to the shore. I would feel happier away from the cliffs, and Adrian would be closer to the puffins for photography. John also joined us, although he constantly lifted his eyes and scanned for the return of Jay. The island that we were standing on was formed from the magma core of a volcano 700 000 years ago, slowly eroded by the seas. As we were the only three people around, I was able to sit quietly and watch the birds in detail.

There were hundreds of kittiwakes, puffins, and guillemots roosting in the cliffs. The puffins were very skittish, as this island is used for hunting during various times during the year. They always looked worried and sad, as if they were contemplating global warming or their impending arrival on a dining table. It was very odd to see them suddenly take off into flight on their stubby little wings. They look so similar to penguins that I almost expected them to be flightless. I sat in the sun, amongst the birds, and watched them ferrying food to their new hatchlings hidden in small rock burrows. By the time the boat returned, I was so relaxed I slept all the way back to the mainland.

There are horses everywhere in Iceland. Even more plentiful than the sheep, they are dotted along the landscape where ever there is green grass. They are exported worldwide, used for recreation and farm work, and sometimes found on the menu. There has been no interbreeding for more than 1000 years, and the rules are so strict that even a horse that goes abroad to compete may never return.They are curious and gentle creatures. One strange habit they have is resting on their sides – flat out on the ground with their heads resting on the ground.

We even had a chance to go horse riding. Or more correctly, horse sitting. I sat on the horse, and it followed a pre-programmed course around the farm for 90 minutes. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. However, my horse was very sweet. His name is Vina, Icelandic for ‘friend’. Sometimes he was a little rascally though, stopping to eat buttercups along the way, which meant that by the end of the ride his lips were completely yellow. We took a picturesque ride through green pastures, along a black sand beach, and through meadows filled with wildflowers. I was even able to experience the tölt – a unique gait of Icelandic horses that is faster than a trot, but still smooth and comfortable.

The lands of northern Iceland are the most desolate through which I have ever walked. The population is so sparse that each individual farm is marked on the national touring map, and even then we could drive for hundreds of kilometers with no sign of habitation. In some places, there were barely even any signs of vegetation apart from moss and a few tiny determined wildflowers. It was like walking on the moon. Black soil would crunch beneath our feet, dust rising slowly from our footsteps. The dark ground would stretch out to the distant volcanic mountains. The pale and dusky sky spread out above us, the dim northern sun a constant companion in the sky. There is a primitive wilderness here that somehow seems to nurture and uplift with its vast expanse of eternity.