Iceland is not just a place you visit: it is a place that changes you, that teaches you to look at the world with different eyes.
There are places you visit once in your life and others that stay with you forever. For me, that eternal love is called Iceland. My name is Evan, I am 72 years old, and over the last fifty years I have been lucky enough to explore this land in all its seasons, in every corner. Iceland is not just a place: it is a soul that breathes through its landscapes, its natural phenomena and its people. The first time I was there I was in my early twenties, and it only took one trip for me to fall in love with it. Since then, every return has been a new discovery, a new emotion.
Of all the wonders that Iceland has to offer, the Northern Lights are perhaps the ones that took my breath away the most. I remember the first one I saw, on a freezing night in February. I was on a hill near Reykjavík, wrapped in a jacket that was too thin for the cold, but the emotion of the moment made me forget everything. The sky, initially black and dotted with stars, suddenly filled with slowly dancing green and purple lights.
It was as if the wind was guiding them, creating patterns impossible to capture with words. It wasn't just beauty: it was something more, a moment that seemed to belong to another dimension. Over the years, I have seen the Northern Lights dozens of times, in different places: from the western fjords to the snowy plains of the south. Every time is unique, yet every time I find the same emotion. It doesn't matter how much you prepare, how much you wait for them: when they appear, they always leave you speechless.
If there is one force that defines Iceland, it is that of its volcanoes. The earth here is never still: it pulsates, it moves, it transforms. The first time I found myself in front of an active volcano I was a curious young traveler, and the sensation was almost surreal. I was observing a phenomenon that had shaped entire continents, a direct expression of the primordial force of the planet.
I still remember the dull, deep noise of the magma moving under my feet. I was near the Krafla crater, in the north of the island, during a period of activity. There was no immediate danger, but the feeling of being so close to something so powerful was intoxicating. I looked at the gases coming out of the ground, the smell of sulfur filling the air, and I felt small, part of a world infinitely bigger than me. Over the years, I have visited many other volcanoes: Hekla, Snæfellsjökull, Eyjafjallajökull. Everyone has their own personality. Some are imposing and silent, covered in snow for much of the year; others always seem ready to awaken, reminding everyone that Iceland is a living land.
One of the most fascinating aspects of Icelandic volcanoes is the way they shape the landscape. I walked on expanses of solidified lava that seem to come from another planet, with bizarrely shaped rock formations and green moss growing tenaciously on top of the black stone. I happened to visit a lava field shortly after an eruption. The ground was still warm beneath my feet, and smoke rose in little puffs from newly formed cracks. It was like witnessing the birth of a new piece of the world, an experience that reminds you how the earth is a constantly evolving entity. Every volcano, every eruption tells a story of destruction and rebirth. And it is perhaps this duality that fascinates me so much: in Iceland, the force of nature is not only something to be admired, but also to be respected.
If volcanoes speak of the power of the earth, the sea speaks of infinity. In Iceland, the relationship between land and water is a continuous dialogue, made up of waves crashing on black cliffs and winds that carry the salty smell to the hinterland. Every time I approached the Icelandic coasts, I sensed something primordial, an energy that seems to come directly from the heart of the planet.
One of the first experiences I remember was on Reynisfjara, the famous black sand beach. The contrast between the dark color of the sand and the white of the forcefully crashing waves was almost hypnotic. The basalt stacks that rise from the sea seemed like mythical figures, silent and imposing. I wasn't the only one fascinated: seagulls and puffins circled above us, adding movement to that already alive landscape.
The Icelandic sea is not only strength, but also calm. I remember a summer morning spent in the Westfjords. The water was flat as a mirror, reflecting the surrounding mountains so perfectly it seemed unreal. I sat on a rock near the shore, watching the seals emerge from the water with slow, curious movements.
On other occasions, the sea was less kind. I saw storms quickly approaching, the sky closing in above me, and the wind blowing with such power that it seemed invincible. But even in those moments, there was a beauty that was hard to describe, a reminder that nature is not there to please you, but to be respected. Along the coasts, I visited fishing villages where the sea is not just landscape, but life. Every house, every boat tells a story of survival, of defiance against an ocean that gives and takes away without warning. It is this relationship, made of respect and dependence, that makes the Icelandic sea so special.
If the coasts and volcanoes show the extreme side of Iceland, the hinterland reveals a quieter, but equally extraordinary beauty. It is a place where nature expresses itself in a thousand forms, each unique and surprising. One of my earliest memories is linked to waterfalls. Skógafoss, with its powerful waterfall, impressed me with its primordial strength. I got as close as possible, until I felt the drops of water wetting my face, and I understood why Icelanders see waterfalls as almost sacred places. Over the years, I have visited many others: Gullfoss, which looks like an immense staircase of golden water, and Seljalandsfoss, behind which you can walk, surrounded by the roar and freshness of the water. Each waterfall has a different character, but they all tell the same story of a nature in constant movement.
The hinterland is also the kingdom of geysers, a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me. The first time I saw Strokkur erupt, I was enchanted by the precision with which the hot water exploded towards the sky. It's like a breath of the earth, a reminder of how alive it is beneath the surface. These places, with their pools of boiling water and the vapors that rise continuously, seem to belong to another planet. Every time I visit a geothermal area, I feel like an explorer discovering an alien world. The smell of sulphur, the heat rising from the ground and the vibrant colors of the mineral formations are a sensory experience that leaves a lasting impression.
There are places in the hinterland where silence reigns supreme. One of them is Eldhraun, the largest moss-covered lava field in the world. Walking there is like entering a painting: the bright green moss covers the volcanic rocks like a soft carpet, creating a surreal landscape. The silence is absolute, interrupted only by the rustle of the wind.
Every time I find myself in these expanses, I find myself reflecting on the resilience of nature. This delicate moss manages to survive and thrive in one of the most hostile terrains on the planet. It's a quiet, yet powerful lesson in how life always finds a way.
Iceland is not just wild nature. Over the years, I have also learned to love life in its inhabited centers, so different and yet deeply linked to the surrounding landscape. Reykjavík, the capital, is a city that embodies the essence of this balance. Walking through its tidy streets, with the houses with colored roofs and the sea always present on the horizon, you perceive a unique serenity. It is a place where modernity coexists with tradition, where you can find an art gallery next to an ancient fishing port.
But it is in the small villages that the Icelandic soul is fully revealed. In places like Ísafjörður or Seyðisfjörður, I found a community that still lives in tune with the rhythm of the seasons. Fishing is not just a profession, but a culture, a connection with the ocean that has been handed down for generations. The inhabitants welcome travelers warmly, telling stories that seem to come from a distant time. In the local markets and taverns, I tasted simple but authentic dishes: fresh fish, smoked lamb, bread cooked thanks to geothermal heat. Every experience, every encounter, reminded me that Iceland is not just a landscape: it is also its people, who have been able to adapt to a land that is as beautiful as it is difficult.
Iceland has changed over the years. Tourists have increased, cities have modernized, and some wild places have become more accessible. But its essence has remained intact: a land of contrasts, where fire meets ice, where silence is broken only by the sound of nature. For those who have never been there, I recommend going there without haste, with an open heart and the desire to be surprised. Iceland is a silent teacher, and if you allow it to speak, it will show you that the world is much bigger and more beautiful than you imagined.
If there is one lesson I have learned in all these years, it is that the most authentic beauty is not only found in big events or famous places. It is found in the details: in the sound of a waterfall, in the light that illuminates a cliff, or in a conversation with a fisherman who talks about the sea.
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