Sometimes it takes you a while to realise why a place feels so different from what you are used to. It wasn’t until the wind had stopped howling in my ears, in the shelter of a weird wind-carved rock formation, that I understood why Iceland can feel so eerie: it was the deadly silence. 

In the midst of the barren lava-fields of the Reykjanes peninsula – the first that most visitors to Iceland see of this astonishing land – the landscape is unearthly and alien. Not a tree grows anywhere, so there are no birds to sing, and away from the airport no planes fly overhead. There is no distant motorway to provide a background sigh, and no railway for trains to clatter along. All there is are you, the landscape, and the silence.

Kleifarvatn lies about 20km to the south of the capital conurbation, which consists of Reykjavík, Garðabær, Hafnarfjörður, Mossfellsbær and Kópavogur. The water level is extremely sensitive to weather conditions, and varies considerably, to the extent that the lake is used by some locals as a rain gauge. It is surrounded by barren, black rock and lava, dusted with little more advanced than moss and lichen. At the south end of the lake, near the tiny settlement of Krýsuvík, an area of geothermal activity assaults the nose with a pungent sulphurous smell which I would liken to a cross between boiled eggs and Marmite. The intense heat triggers chemical reactions in the soil creating red, yellow and grey mud which seethes and boils endlessly.

We drove through Reykjavík, stopping briefly for something to eat, and headed inland towards Þingvellir, the Parliament Plains, where the first Icelandic parliament was held in the early 10th Century, making it the world’s oldest democratically elected parliament. There is geological significance, too, as Þingvellir is also where the tectonic plates of North America and Europe meet, moving apart slowly to create a vast low-lying plain between mountains to the south and tall cliffs of lava to the north. Over these cliffs the river Öxará flows, creating the Öxarárfoss waterfall, from where the water makes its way down two more, smaller waterfalls before flowing into Þingvallavatn, one of Europe’s largest inland lakes.

As the sun set we paid a brief visit to Geysir, before a long drive through driving rain and pitch darkness to our first overnight stay at Hotel Dyrhólaey, near Vík, Iceland’s southernmost town.

The rain from the first day gave way on day two to uninterrupted sunshine. And in Iceland that means one thing: rainbows. The waterfalls in Iceland are beautiful enough on their own, but at the right time of day and with the right weather, the sun is low enough in the sky to produce the most spectacular rainbows in the spray, and today was no exception as the giant Skógafoss afforded us a complete arc.

Much of day two was spent in wonder at the astonishing distance from which the peak at Hvannadalshnjúkur was visible. At 2119 m (6952 feet), Hvannadalshnjúkur, part of the rim of a volcanic crater called Öræfajökull, is the highest point in Iceland and is visible from as far away as Vík, approximately 150km (90 miles) distant. The road from Vík leads through Eldhraun, an enormous expanse of lava covered with moss, before passing through the small town of Kirkjubæjarklaustur, from where it crosses Skeiðarársandur, an area of gravel and rivers where water from the great Vatnajökull ice cap melts and flows towards the sea. The remains of an iron bridge, destroyed in 1996 in the jökulhlaup (glacier burst) have been left as a monument to the power of nature.

Past Hvannadalshnjúkur we drove to a place where the Vatnajökull glacier meets the sea, at Jökulsárlón. Here, icebergs calved from the glacier stretched as far as the eye can see in a wide lagoon, drifting slowly towards the sea. On the shore itself, where the sand was jet black, chunks of ice lay melting in the sunset, as clear as glass, while larger icebergs that survived the journey were pounded by the waves just offshore.

We watched the sun set over Öræfajökull, turning the mountains to the east blood-red, before heading off to the farmhouse that was to be our accommodation on the second night.

The sky was very clear Monday night but unfortunately the aurora was not visible. However I did get a long exposure photo of the start, and there is a faint green and red glow towards the north, so it looks like it was there, but very faint.

On Tuesday morning, after we had established that all three of us snore, the first thing we did was to get some earplugs from the chemist in Höfn, before picking up some more groceries, petrol, and blank CDs so I could burn a compilation to play on the car’s stereo. I’d always wanted to listen to the opening strains of Sigur Rós’s Hoppipolla while driving through Iceland, and so I finally got the chance after we passed through a tunnel to the north of Höfn and arrived in Austfirðir, the Eastern Fjords.

We found one of Iceland’s numerous waterfalls in the first valley we drove past, the sort of waterfall that, had it been in England, would have been signposted and crowded with tourists. This being Iceland, however, the waterfall was probably nameless, and just one of probably thousands around the coastline, all of which carve the surrounding mountains into the wonderful shapes you see all over the island.

Further round the coast, after yet another amazing waterfall, Jeff spotted a pair of reindeer trotting along in the shallows by the water’s edge, so we stopped the car again to get some shots. Then our breath was taken away.

On the map, we could see where the road left the coast, followed the river along the bottom of a valley, and then headed over the top of a mountain. However in front of us, as we drove, all we could see was a snow-capped mountain ridge, roughly 1km high, with no sign of a road. However sure enough, the road began to climb, and as it did, the temperature began to drop. For the sake of posterity, we stopped as soon as the thermometer on the car’s dashboard reached zero and exchanged a few snowballs, and took some pictures looking back down to the valley. The road continued to climb, and the temperature bottomed out at minus 3 celsius.

Things returned to (relative) normality on the other side of the ridge, with a snow-free drive along a lake that took us all the way to our next stop in Egilsstaðir. After dropping off our baggage we drove back along the lake through one of the locals’ favourite holiday spots, an area known as Hallormstaður which is covered with minature Icelandic Dwarf Birch trees – probably the closest thing to a forest in the whole country. Our destination was a waterfall called Hengifoss, Iceland’s third highest waterfall, however the waterfall itself was so far from the road and so high up that only Jeff managed to make it, a splitting headache defeating me before I could climb the second flight of steps, and exhaustion overtaking Raof half way up.

We stopped for a meal in town that evening, at a place where the clientele all seemed to be construction workers of some description, before heading for the basement in the hotel to download our pictures onto the laptops and then test the efficacy of the earplugs.

As delightful as the drive through the snow on day 3 was, we weren’t prepared for what we experienced on day 4 by any means. Like any good story, the drama reached a peak half way through the trip, and left us quite breathless by the time we arrived at our accommodation for the night.

The landscape immediately beyond Egilsstaðir was quite hilly, and we passed a deep ravine with a river (and, inevitably, a waterfall) at the bottom and a very tall bridge over the top. We also came across an abandoned barn with a semicircular corrugated iron roof, which gave us a few opportunities to experiment with the low light settings on our cameras, and provided a nice abstract for me.

As we headed higher into the mountains, the temerature dropped still further, and the snow around us got thicker. It had fallen a few days ago, and we had seen it on the news on TV on day 1, but had shown no sign of melting and was as soft and powdery as a brand new fall. In places it was three feet deep, and added gentle contours to otherwise rugged landscapes, giving the taller mountains an alien appearance, as if we were on the moon.

I had read about Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Iceland, which was at the end of a gravel road 30km from route no 1, and which on the map at least looked like a straightforward drive, especially for a four wheel drive like the car we had hired. However as the road got further north, the snow got deeper, and eventually we were almost beached as the tracks cut about two or three feet into the snow and the bottom of the car was being lifted up by the deep snow in the centre of the road. We were on the verge of giving up when we saw another 4×4 approaching from the opposite direction, so we waved them down and Jeff, our driver at the time, got some advice on how bad the road was. Assured that it was nothing that our vehicle couldn’t cope with, we pressed on, and somehow managed to make it to a steep, icy downward slope, at the bottom of which we assumed was the main car park for Dettifoss (it was hard to tell under all that snow). The waterfall itself was a bit of a disappointment (to me at least) but the walk to and from the waterfall was something else. The snow was ankle deep, we spotted a pair of grouse in full winter plumage, and the snow had smoothed off all the rough edges, hiding such everyday hazards as steps, meaning we had to watch every footfall.

After learning how to use the various 4×4 modes properly while sitting in the car waiting for me and Raof to return, Jeff managed to negotiate the snowy road back to the ring road with much improved confidence, however we did have to stop on the way to help a family who had been assured by the locals that their small white Toyota Yaris would have no problems in the deep snow. I don’t know how the Icelanders would have managed it (though I have a feeling it would have been achieved) but it was too much for our new friends, so after freeing them from the snow we assured them it was a nice waterfall, but not worth all that trouble!

We met them again at Namafjall, another hot spring area near lake Mývatn, where the steam emanating from the ground had frozen as it emerged, forming unusual shapes like grass made of ice, and filling the air with the eggy Marmite smell familiar from Krýsuvík on day 1.

By the time we reached Mývatn, the temperature had reached minus 9, and we still had a way to go to get to Rauðaskriða, our farm accommodation, so we drove non stop through more snow and past more lakes and waterfalls before switching to the special low-ratio 4WD mode to climb up the snowy path that led to the farm, which felt, as had much of the day, like we were in the middle of nowhere. The lack of internet (which we were told was broken) only added to the impression!

The first half hour on the road on day 5 was spent wondering whether we’d make it to the nearest petrol station. I’d been out late the night before to get some provisions, but had neglected to check the fuel gauge, and had no idea how far I’d driven with the warning light on. The situation could probably have been avoided if I’d driven to nearby Húsavik instead of Akureyri, which I’d believed to be about the same distance away, but the difference was actually pretty significant in the end.

Anyway, we made it to Goðafoss without being caught short, and – mercifully – were able to refuel. Goðafoss means “Waterfall of the Gods” in Icelandic and is so named because when Denmark converted Iceland to a Christian country, all the idols of the Norse gods worshipped previously were thrown into the waterfall as a final act of allegiance to the new rulers. It’s pretty appropriately named, too, as any god would be proud to have such a waterfall named after them. The temperature was still well below zero, so there were icicles and frozen spray everywhere, adding variety and texture to the surrounding rocks, and making walking on them pretty treacherous.

Next stop was Akureyri, the capital of the North, for a quick coffee, conscious that we still had a lot of ground to cover. The road through Akureyri headed north and then west into the mountains, but there was an alternative route – longer, but which looked more scenic – which went further up the coast before turning inland through a long tunnel and heading through the mountains further north, finally turning south on the west of Trollaskagi, the spur of land between Eyjafjörður and Skagafjörður. We were justified in taking the diversion, as just inland of the fishing town of Olafsfjörður, we came across a lake which was so still and unruffled it was as smooth as a mirror.

We continued through the mountains which were under several feet of snow, ensuring progress was slow, but providing some wonderful scenery. As we neared the coast, we stopped at a field of Icelandic ponies for a bit of getting to know the locals, and more photo opportunities. The temperature was rising by now, and for much of the rest of the journey the snow had disappeared. There was a delightful view across Skagafjörður towards the mountains on the other side, and we stopped in a tiny fishing village called Hofsós for lunch and a break.

Beyond Skagafjörður the landscape was fairly unchanging, and given the drama of the previous day seemed almost mundane, with the exception of an interesting cap of cloud hovering over the opposite shore of Hrútafjörður. We arrived at Staðarskáli, our accommodation, just before sunset, and as our hosts spoke no English at all, my rudimentary grasp of Icelandic allowed us to arrange for breakfast at 8am the next day (klukkan áta)! Fortunately they also understood the word internet, so we were able to upload some more of our photos and also check the reaction of some of the people who had seen what we posted on Tuesday night.

On the morning of Friday, our sixth day on the road, and the day before returning home, we had the shortest distance to drive to get to our next stop, Reykjavík. Before we came to Iceland I had hoped we would get to see some of the Western fjords, but maps can be deceptive and it was clear that getting anywhere interesting would have been far too much of a diversion, so we stuck to the ring road and headed due south.

By now all the snow had gone completely, and the bare green-brown, half-dead grass and subsequent mossy lava were showing again, giving the landscape a touch of the unearthly. The volcanic craters at Bifröst did nothing to alleviate that impression, and loomed large and imposing over the surrounding lava fields. A huge wall of exposed rock to the east hinted at the chaotic past of this part of Iceland, which lies squarely on the active fault line between the continents that gave birth to the island originally. We were speculating as to whether these particular volcanoes were exctinct or merely dormant as we climbed up to get the best view from the top of the taller of the two cones.

A little further south, and we headed off the main ring road to visit a curiosity that I had been to before, five years previously, the lava falls: Hraunfossar, and neighbouring Barnafoss (the children’s falls). The lava falls are unusual in that the water emerges directly from the rock at the side of a river, straight out of the ground. The lava from which the adjacent landsape is made is porous, meaning rainfall heads straight underground, flowing along above the non porous bedrock before emerging where the softer lava has been cut into by the river. Upstream of Hraunfossar is Barnafoss, so named because (so the story goes) two children, who had been left behind after a nearby village went to church, went to play by the waterfall, which at the time was bridged by a natural stone arch. Somehow the children fell into the waterfall, so that when their mother discovered what had happened, she destroyed the stone bridge so that nobody would perish in the same way again. Looking at the water roaring through a narrowing in the river, it wasn’t hard to imagine how dangerous it would be to go for a swim. The overcast conditions helped us considerably when it came to getting the best exposure times for the wonderful ribbon effect you can see on most of our waterfall pictures.

Close to the waterfalls is the town of Reykholt, home to Snorralaug (Snorri’s pool), a small outdoor pool where the Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson used to bathe. A hot spring nearby helps to keep the pool’s water warm, and emerges from the ground innocuously nearby, next to a rather incongruous pile of rubber tyres.

Heading on to Reykjavík, through the tunnel at Hvalfjörður, we got to the city much sooner than we expected, so took a detour to Gullfoss – the Golden Falls – which we had missed on the first day as it had been too dark and wet. Gullfoss is probably my favourite spot in Iceland, and I can just sit and watch and listen to the water crashing down that famous double cascade all day. This being my fourth visit I left the camera in the car so I could enjoy it properly; besides, the weather was pretty poor (grey and drizzly) meaning the rainbow was missing, and two tourist buses had arrived alongside us, meaning it was swarming with the dreaded Other People! I had forgotten how busy places like Gullfoss can get, as we had been pretty much alone for much of the entire trip so far.

We took the south coast road back to Reykjavík, with Jeff and Raof annoying me by taking pictures of a wonderful sunset while I had to keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road! Back in Reykjavík, with luxurious double rooms all to ourselves in the hotel, we left the cameras behind and headed into town to spoil ourselves with a proper meal (Icelandic style, meaning expensive!) before meeting up with a friend of mine who was visiting and heading off to a bar to just sit back, relax, and reflect on the amazing things we had seen and done over the past week.