Not long ago, Iceland was a spectacularly beautiful but seldom visited wonderland of waterfalls, volcanoes, and geysers in the lonely North Atlantic, still finding its national feet after centuries of Danish and Norwegian rule. Then, an unlikely confluence of events: The economic crisis of 2008–09 turned the country upside down—and paradoxically made a once-prohibitively expensive destination affordable for visitors. A year later, the air traffic–halting eruptions of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano put Iceland, in all its geothermal splendor, on news broadcasts around the world. Now, the word is truly out—and the supremely photogenic country welcomes so many tourists—2.3 million in 2018—that visitors outnumber residents by a ratio of seven to one. How to find a place for yourself, away from the crowds? Make a break for the majestic north, where whales sidle up to sightseeing boats, and the aurora borealis can be viewed from the comfort of geothermally heated pools. Then cap things off with a day in the picturesque capital, Reykjavik, home to a world-class art and dining scene, dramatic seascapes, and a pretzel that’s frankly worth the trip itself. These days, the sun barely sets. The lupine is blooming. Paradise awaits. By Diane Vadino. Photography by Adrienne Pitts
DAY 1
Tailing whales across Skjalfandi Bay
All is quiet, and all is magnificent.
We have sailed west, into the center of Skjalfandi Bay. Everything around our ship—land, sea, sky—is some variation of gray, except for our full-length, cherry-red survival suits, which look like the gear crabbers wear during blizzards on Deadliest Catch. My seasick fellow passengers, unsteady on their feet, haul themselves to the guardrail and peer stoically into the distance.
At first, the wildlife is limited to birds: gannets, Arctic terns, black guillemots with white patches on their wings. (Regrettably, it is the wrong time of year for puffins.) But we are not here for birds. All of us—I hear Japanese, French, English, German, Scandinavian languages that I can’t distinguish from each other—are here for whales.
The whales cannot be trusted to appear on cue, our North Sailing guide says over the ship’s loudspeaker. We rely on their favor. This is the North Atlantic, not SeaWorld.
And so we wait. I email my landlord, my boss, and a woman who wants to buy an antique pitcher from me. But then we hear it: a whale surfacing, blowing air through its spout, and all at once, it’s magical. (It sounds like a massive, wet pouf.) We hear it again. Then, suddenly, we see the source of the sound, as a slick black tail flips up and then down, into the water. Everyone on the boat rushes in the direction of the whale, slipping on the wet deck, jockeying for a place at the rail. The whale, a humpback, skims the surface in a desultory way before diving again. It’s soon trailed by a boat from a competing tour company, with the passengers who look exactly like us, except their suits are black and fluorescent yellow. At times the whale swims just below the surface, perhaps 50 feet from us and sinking fast, so that we can see only its massive outline. Another boat arrives, its passengers clad in neon orange. The boats follow the whales; sometimes we get the best view, sometimes another boat does.
A rhythm establishes itself: tedium, the majesty of whales, tedium, the majesty of whales. The majesty, though, is cumulative: Before we turn and head back to the small port at the town of Húsavík, Iceland’s whale-watching capital, we have seen a dozen of them (or the same whale a dozen times; who can say for sure?), flipping and swimming and turning tail into the water. As we disembark, I feel strangely euphoric, enchanted. I want whales, everywhere, to be happy and safe.
In summary, my dominant impulse is not to eat them. I discover at the nearby Húsavík Whale Museum that not everyone shares this response. “People go on the tours, come into the museum, and ask where they can eat it,” says Garðar Þröstur Einarsson, a whale specialist and former guide. “Sixty percent of the minke whale meat in Iceland is eaten by tourists.”
We’re surrounded by exhibits that testify to the immense humanity of whales. “That is bananas,” I reply.
No restaurants in Húsavík serve whale meat—certainly not Naustið, with its bright, mid-century mariner design. What it does serve: potatoes and wild arctic char, caught that day in a lake named Kálfborgarárvatn. (When Naustið’s owner tells me the lake’s name, I simply write down “K-?????” in my notebook.)
From there, I drive to the other end of Húsavík, to the GeoSea Geothermal Sea Baths, a brand-new pool complex perched on a cliff above the harbor. Pools are central to Iceland’s idea of itself—as primary to its national identity as pubs are to Britain or cafés are to France. (This is not my idea but author Alda Sigmundsdóttir’s.) The Blue Lagoon, a massive bathing complex near the international airport in Keflavik, is the best known, but it’s just one of many in towns large and small across the country. Of all those I visited, none are as beautiful as Húsavík’s.
Or at least, I’m pretty sure they’re the most beautiful: By the time I get to the pools, it’s pitch-black. (It would be hard to imagine somewhere better to to view the Northern Lights, though the optimal viewing time is late September through March.) The air is cold, so I sit as low as I can in the naturally heated water. The Icelanders are less delicate, walking between the pool and the bar, picking up beers through a service window and drinking them leisurely.
I have seen my fill of whales, but I know that it should be possible to hear them from the pool, so I stay in the water much too long, waiting for another of those spouting poufs.
DAY 2
A pair of waterfalls and Iceland’s biggest toy box
I’ve been to Iceland several times before, but like many visitors, I stayed in and around the capital, Reykjavík, exploring only as far as the Golden Circle. The attractions on this well-worn circuit—Þingvellir National Park, the Gullfoss waterfall, Geysir—are spectacular. They are also very, very popular, meaning that they are in some ways victims of their own exceptional success.
So, instead, today I’ve decided to embark on a self-drive version of the north’s equivalent of the Golden Circle: the Diamond Circle tour. (There is also a Silver Circle tour, near Reykjavík; Iceland will run out of gem names before it runs out of scenic excursion possibilities.) To see as much today as I want to, I leave at 6:30 a.m., before anything (including Húsavík’s bakeries) are open.
My first stop is a 50-mile drive that meanders north (and then south) to Dettifoss, Europe’s most powerful waterfall by volume and the setting for the opening scene in Ridley Scott’s Prometheus. It is staggering, monumental. From there, I head south to the Ring Road, which circles the entire island: If I turn east, and go about 500 miles, I’ll hit Reykjavík. I go west, though, to Mývatn, a wild expanse of a lake that looks broody and Scottish when the sun goes behind the clouds and like a sparkling turquoise field when it comes out. My third stop is Goðafoss, another waterfall. It’s more approachable than Dettifoss—literally, in that it seems less like the sort of thing you fall into by accident, never to be seen again. All things being equal, I prefer Goðafoss (pretty) to Dettifoss (existential).
My fourth stop is the reason for my non-leisurely pace: Deplar Farm, an unassuming yet beyond-beautiful hotel in the Fljót Valley that’s a magnet for the sort of celebrity or finance executive who would be drawn to no-expense-spared vacations. “You’re going to Deplar!” a guide I meet at Mývatn exclaims when I share my itinerary. “They’ve got the biggest toy box in the country.” Justin Timberlake, he adds, is a fan.
I don’t understand what “toy box” means until a couple of hours later, when I see it while trailing behind my guide, a mountaineer/artist named Thorlakur Ingolfsson. He goes by Laki, which is pronounced like Loki, the god/Avenger. (Tom Hiddleston has some serious competition.) Each guest at Deplar is paired with a guide, and I am lucky to have Laki, who is excellent company, as mine. The lodge offers a huge variety of activities, from helicopter skiing in the winter to salmon fishing and kayaking the nearby fjord in warmer months. Equipment for all of these activities is stored in the “toy box,” a hut stocked with snowmobiles, hiking boots, snowshoes—anything you might need for expeditions big and small.
Due to my depleted physical state—so much driving!—we opt for an easy hike into the surrounding hills, followed by a very late lunch of locally caught salmon with lentils and beets at the property’s Ghost Farm. This gives us plenty of time to discuss the best way to travel through Iceland. “The weather has such a huge impact on what you’re able to do here,” Laki says. “Really, the thing to do is check the weather in the morning and go where it’s good.” That’s easy, I say, if you’re not coming from far away, and if you didn’t have to make hotel reservations six months in advance. “If you can, being flexible is better,” he replies. “Imagine the sort of adventure you’d have if you just rent a car and follow the weather, if you truly go and explore a world that’s beautiful, pristine.” I can imagine it.
Afterward, there is yoga, and a massage, and the opportunity to soak in an outdoor pool. (Clouds scupper my northern lights ambitions.) Dinner is served at 9 by chef Garðar Garðarsson, and it is tremendous: beef medallions with beetroots, followed by a port that insists I turn into bed early.
One last thing to do, though: I’ve stayed in hotels all over the world, and Deplar just might be the best. Before I fall asleep, I send imploring emails to my friends, with pictures of the property—even in an all-day mist, with low, gray clouds, it is beautiful—asking them to come back with me.
DAY 3
Reykjavík from land and sky
In the morning, I leave Deplar Farm with regret, after a breakfast of delicious, crepe-like Icelandic pancakes with powdered sugar and berries. From here, it’s either a tidy helicopter ride or a straightforward drive to Reykjavik. Not being Justin Timberlake, I opt for the latter: a five-hour trek I make under sullen skies. Even without any sunshine, the scenery is dizzyingly beautiful; I have to fight the impulse to pull over and take photos at every turn.
Reykjavík is so compact that it’s easy to see a lot, fast. I begin with the city’s most distinctive landmark: Hallgrímskirkja, which looks somehow both Art Deco and ancient and isn’t even 75 years old. The exterior is striking—it looks a fighter jet tipped on its bottom or, equally, where elves might worship in a Tolkein book—while the interior resembles the Lutheran churches of my childhood (read: like a Marriott ballroom). It’s well worth the wait to go to the observation tower: At 240 feet, it offers superb, 360-degree views of Reykjavík, the harbor, and the mountains to the north.
Two hundred miles of driving followed by some intense church viewing mean that I’m both (a) ready for a walk and (b) starving — so I head toward Grandi—a once-industrial, now-up-and-coming area by the harbor that’s home to a popular ice cream spot, Valdís, and the city’s buzziest brunch, at the Coocoo’s Nest. I’m bound for Kaffivagninn, the city’s oldest restaurant. Having sampled a fair assortment of Reykjavik’s fish and chips, these might be my favorite: crisp fries, lightly battered cod with three accompanying sauces (remoulade, mustard sauce, and cocktail sauce).
Sufficiently reenergized, I head to my second stop in Grandi: Studio Olafur Eliasson. If you don’t know Eliasson’s name, you may know his work: He installed waterfalls that seemed to hover 100 feet above New York City’s East River in 2008—and, later, above the Grand Canal at the Palace of Versailles. He is also the author of my favorite book about Iceland, a collection of 35 images, submitted by Icelanders, of their cars stuck in rivers (title: Cars in Rivers), and the designer of the glass facade at Harpa, Reykjavík’s opera house.
The studio, which is open to the public, is at Marshall House, a former fish factory. I wander past Eliasson’s works, including Untitled (Spiral), a tall spiral of metal spinning up (or down), and then I see the artist himself. (In case you couldn’t tell, I’m a fan.) I know it makes sense, that an artist would be working in his own studio—and would be involved, it seems, with the taking down of one installation or the set-up of another—but it is too great. I stop, and stare, and then run away as quickly as I can, before anyone catches me staring.
I have one more stop in Reykjavik: Brauð & Co., which makes pretzels that might be the finest anywhere in the world. I buy three (one for now, one for the very near future, one I will save for a post-dinner snack) and head to the heliport. The weather has cleared, and the sky is cloudless for my flight with Reykjavik Helicopters, which I share with a British mother and her teenage daughter. We fly from the city to a geothermal area, with burbling hot pots and steam vents. Sheep cling to the side of a hill, undoubtedly enjoying the warmth: It’s like standing above a laundry vent, except it smells of sulphur instead of fabric softener. The Brits and I trade travel suggestions (and seats on the way back, so that both the daughter and I have a chance to sit in the front, next to the pilot, an Austrian who trained in Oregon). They report particular enthusiasm for their northern lights tour. “We saw them the first night, and it was nothing special,” the mother says. “But the second night—truly one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever seen.” They show me an app that provides a positive forecast for tonight’s aurora: Like the whales, the northern lights might appear. Or, they might not.
As we fly back to Reykjavík, we agree that it’s all spectacular: the lakes and mountains, the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in the distance. But is this more spectacular than the whales? The cliffside pools? The continent’s most powerful waterfall? The other, less obviously murderous waterfall? The sheep, the hotel, the view from Hallgrímskirkja? If there is a problem with Iceland, it’s that the spectacular becomes everyday. (Confession: I spend the last 10 minutes of our time at this geothermal area, one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, playing Candy Crush.) Can you burn out on natural beauty? Is there a point when too much is too much?
As it turns out, I might be at that point. I head to the Retreat, the new five-star hotel attached to the Blue Lagoon, which offers a more exclusive experience of this exceptionally popular attraction. In the pool, I watch an Instagram influencer do a photoshoot, surely a daily occurrence here. Another vote for north Iceland! At this point, I take my directions from the hotel’s name and retreat to my room—specifically, to the tub that’s positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling windows and the shockingly turquoise water outside—before heading to chef Ingi Þórarinn Friðriksson’s showcase restaurant, Moss. My favorite dish is made up of scallops set in a shell on a bed of actual snow. Nothing could be prettier, or tastier.
It’s about time for bed, but first, I take I look outside for the aurora. When I don’t see it, I feel not disappointment but relief. At a certain point, so much beauty feels immoderate. Also, it’s good to have one more reason—besides the whales and the volcanoes and the puffins and the quiet—to come back.
SIDEBAR: Pool Etiquette
Of the wide array of Icelandic souvenirs—from the ubiquitous wool sweaters to every iteration of puffin memorabilia—none will offer a window onto the national psyche like Alda Sigmundsdóttir’s The Little Book of the Icelanders, a collection of essays on local sensibilities. If you heed just one of her advisories, let it be this: Before entering a public pool, take a shower. (No clothes. Not optional.) “You need to shower, naked, at the pool, before going in,” she says. “It sounds kind of facetious and silly, but not showering really does upset the local population.” Swimming pools, Sigmundsdóttir says, are crucial to the culture—and their customs must be respected. “You have to shower very thoroughly,” she says. “It’s not where you just don’t look at the next person and sort of move on.”
WHERE TO STAY
The Retreat at Blue Lagoon
The minimalist 62-suite Retreat opened last year, offering a super-exclusive experience of the popular geothermal dayspa. Retreat guests can enter the adjoining Blue Lagoon, but Blue Lagoon day-trippers have no similar access to the Retreat, where every angle reveals an Instagram-ready vista of the turquoise, mineral-rich water or the surrounding lava field. The staff, four restaurants, and spa treatment options are all top notch. From $1,210, bluelagoon.com
Alda Hotel, Reykjavík
Ideally located on Laugavegur street, surrounded by the city’s best shopping and restaurants, Alda is within easy walking distance of all of Reykjavík’s attractions. In addition to the spacious rooms, this boutique property offers a sauna and outdoor hot tub, plus three buzzing spots on the ground floor: a design-y lounge, the busy Brass restaurant, and a hip, award-winning barber shop (book a cut in advance). From $135, aldahotel.is
Hotel Berg, Keflavík
Well over 90 percent of foreign visitors arrive in Iceland through Keflavík, home to the international airport, but few stick around to explore the surrounding Reykjanes Peninsula beyond the Blue Lagoon. Ease your arrival into Iceland by staying nearish the airport at the super-stylish Hotel Berg, which offers a rooftop pool (ideal for northern lights viewing), free airport transfers, and a master class in Scandi-chic. From $145, hotelberg.is
On the Cover
At Deplar Farm, a luxurious resort on the remote Troll Peninsula in Northern Iceland, experience is the keyword. The 13 rooms in the farmhouse-chic, turf-roofed lodge are cozy, but visitors will spend most of their time outdoors taking advantage of the myriad included activities: heli-skiing and fat tire snow biking in winter, fly fishing and horseback riding in summer. Less demanding options include alternating between the cold-plunge pool and the geothermal pool—ideally under the northern lights. elevenexperience.com
Have nine perfect days to spend in Iceland? Circumnavigate the country on Hurtigruten’s expedition voyage, and explore every aspect of the wild and alien landscape, from the western fjords and northern volcanic lakes to picturesque coastal towns like Bakkagerdi, where locals will tell you tales of elves and trolls. Onboard, enjoy in-depth biology lectures and even a photography workshop (gotta get that whale breaching shot!) along with locally-sourced meals. There’s also outdoor hot tubs and a sauna—this is Iceland, after all. From $4,444, hurtigruten.com