Drizzle, Diamonds, and a Day That Would Not Quit
Iceland Road Trip
As is customary in Iceland, the day began with a gray sky and a persistent drizzle. The car was loaded outside Vík Hostel, with wet windows and damp gear from the previous day. It wasn’t exactly a cinematic departure, but it felt authentic. The weather in Iceland is not a backdrop. It is a character.
We were cold. We craved something sweet. And we were not about to begin the day with another soggy protein bar in a moving vehicle.
Nutella and The Art of Car Dining
We stumbled upon a small food trailer called Crêpes, which serves up breakfast to the brave souls who don’t mind eating in the rain. The menu was simple, and the drizzle persisted. We ordered Nutella pancakes, waited under a half-hearted awning, and then ate them in the car with sticky fingers and foggy windows.
It’s raining nonstop outside.
Inside, there are warm pancakes, quiet chewing, and the soft hum of the defroster’s losing battle.
Not elegant. But it’s absolutely perfect.
Sticker Shock and Coffee Salvation
We stopped to fuel up before heading back out on the open road—and winced. Iceland’s fuel prices are not for the faint of heart. It was a painful reminder that living here is expensive, and gas is no exception. But what are you planning to do? Push the car through the lava fields?
Fortunately, redemption arrived in the form of caffeine shortly after. We pulled into Skool Beans, a converted school bus turned café, and it was without a doubt the best coffee we’d had on the trip. Strong and rich, brewed just right. The staff was friendly, chatty, and clearly in their element. It was everything a coffee shop should be: a place to uplift your spirits and fill your cup without pretense.
Boots, Stamps, and Other Essentials
Before leaving Vík, we made a final stop at the local convenience store, which also serves as the post office. A few stamps for postcards, a little glue for my hiking boots (because, of course, something had to fall apart mid-trip), and we were off again. Dry socks, hot coffee, and slightly repaired shoes. Overall, a good start.
Fjaðrárgljúfur (The Impossible Canyon)
Our first stop of the day was Fjaðrárgljúfur, a challenging name to pronounce. This serpentine canyon winds dramatically through moss-covered rock, narrow and deep, like something out of an old Norse poem.
We walked along the edge in a light mist, gazing down at the winding water far below. There are no drones or filters, only green cliffs disappearing into a gorge carved by myth rather than water.
Lava and Layers: Walking Eldhraun
The trail to Gönguleið um Eldhraun leads through one of the world’s largest lava fields. It’s quiet here in a way that creeps up on you. Miles of spongy, moss-covered rock—formed in a single, catastrophic eruption in the 1700s—extend as far as the eye can see.
We didn’t go very far, just enough to let the silence settle in. Something about this landscape feels post-human, as if the earth has pressed pause.
Sisters, Soup, and Soft Reset
We continued on to Kirkjubaejarklaustur, where we paused to stretch our legs at Systrafoss, a modest twin waterfall that feels more gentle than grand. It does not roar. It hums.
Down the street, we discovered Systrakaffi, a cozy café named after the same “sisters” that the town celebrates. We had broccoli soup, which was steaming and hearty, served with dark bread and butter that made you question your previous butter relationships.
That soup activated a reset button somewhere deep within. Warmth. Simplicity. The pause we didn’t realize we needed.
See Fossálar, Svínafellsjökull, and Roadside Magic.
Back on the road, the landscape began to change again—hills grew wider, cliffs rose higher, and waterfalls appeared out of nowhere. We stopped briefly at Fossálar, a lesser-known but impressive series of waterfalls just off the main road. There’s no crowd. It’s just the sound of water and gravel underfoot.
We detoured to Svínafellsjökull, a glacier located in a hidden valley. After a few minutes on a rough track, you’re staring at blue ice and creaking cliffs of frozen time. It’s not a guided experience like Sólheimajökull, but rather a place to stand, breathe, and be reminded that glaciers exist—and continue to melt.
Coffee and postcards at Freysnes
We stopped in Freysnes, a blink-and-you-miss-it settlement where the café serves as a gas station, souvenir shop, and information center. We sent a few postcards, had another coffee (because why stop now?), and stocked up on supplies for the night.
The clouds were only slightly breaking by this point. Enough to allow light to shine through and make everything feel softer. We were not rushing. We were drifting.
The Diamonds and Lagoon
Then came Diamond Beach and the Jökulsárlón Glacier Lagoon—the kind of places where you expect to spend 20 minutes but end up staying an hour.
Chunks of ice drift like ghosts through the lagoon, breaking off the Vatnajökull glacier and floating out to sea. Some wash up on the black sand beach in translucent shards, sculpted by the waves and glowing from within. It feels like you’re in a dream, half winter, half myth.
We strolled. I took too many photographs. I watched the wind ripple the water and the seals bob between the icebergs. We stayed longer than we intended. Everybody does.
Seljavellir Guesthouse: Warm Beds, Cloudy Skies
We arrived at Seljavellir Guesthouse as dusk began to fall. Just enough light to unload our bags and organize our snacks at the Freysnes stop. The rooms were clean, warm, and thankfully quiet.
We were exhausted. The muscles are sore, the boots are scuffed, and the eyes are full. But, before collapsing, we set our alarms just in case.
The Northern Lights had been a whispered possibility all day. But when we looked out later that night, we saw nothing but thick clouds pressing down on the darkness.
There are no lights. No stars. Just the sound of the wind.
And even that felt right.
