Hrunalaug
It's summer and I'm shivering in my bikini on the grass. I step into the river, which is hot enough to sting my skin. The whole situation contains so many alien ideas that I have trouble processing it. We stay the previous night in Árnes, a tiny town in the south of Iceland that, on our map, seems to sit on a little island between two rivers. When we arrive at the hostel in the afternoon, the office door is open. Our hesitant hellos go unanswered. A sleepy old black labrador waddles over too us and gives us a friendly sniff before plonking herself down and offering her belly for a pat. A woman comes past. She smiles and asks if we're for the hostel. We nod yes and she says, 'She's at the centre. She'll be back soon.'
'She' arrives a while later. She's square and middleaged. She's got the kind of bustling buoyancy that makes me sure she's somebody's mother. She leads us into our dorm, a huge room off a large garden, with a kitchen and separate bathroom, several cosy couches, a large dining table with four chairs, and a single bunk bed. It's the least dormish dorm I've ever encountered. It's like an overgrown granny flat that someone has accidentally left a bunk in. It's fantastic. She says, 'My husband is cooking the dinner, you understand? You know something about the area? I come back after eating to show you the map.' She leaves without further ado. Candice heads for the shower and I lay on the couch, sooking over a headache that I suspect is the result of driving all day without sunglasses.
The faint smell of garlic accompanies our host's return. She immediately launches into an enthusiastic apology for her absence, and then for her smell, which apparently requires explanation. 'My husband likes to cook the white onions with the fish, you understand? She forms a small heart shape with her hands. 'It's tasting nice but smelling bad.' We laugh together. I love how easy she is, how homey. The way she confides as though we're longtime friends having a knee-slapping old joke at the expense of her adorable oaf of a husband. She takes out a large map and lays it across the dining table.
'You go here to Stöng. See the viking house at Thjorsardalur. Better than the other viking house. Not so many people, you understand?' She draws a circle on the map. 'You drive up here in the mountain, fourty minutes. Closed now, you go tomorrow.' She draws another circle. 'You go here to Hrun. Here are hot mud. You have a four wheel? No? Small car I think will be fine. They make the roads last week. Drive up up here, go left here.' I nod like I know what to make of it all. Finally, she draws another circle. She grins slyly at me. 'You go here to Hrunalaug. Hotsprings. Very beautiful. Very lonely, you understand?' She looks at me significantly. I don't understand. She says, 'You like this one. The young people they like this one. Nice hot spring. They go all alone.' She giggles conspiratorially. 'You like this one,' she says again. There's something about the way she says it that reminds me of kids in primary school giggling in biology class when the teacher says penis.
We set out early the next day to Hrunalaug. Of course we're going there. I'm so itchy curious to find out what the silly grins were for. We follow some sketchy signposting and the vague memory of her instructions until we get to a patch of bitumen on the side of a bald hill. There's room for three cars, but we're alone. The weather is mild, overcast with a light breeze. I'm wearing jeans and a jumper. As we round the crest of the hill, a small creek comes into view, and then a hut that seems to grow from the grassy bank. Beyond it, a small concrete pool has been built into the stream. With the wildflowers covering the grass and the unvarnished wood door of the corrugated iron hut, I feel like we're stepping into some long forgotten pastoral scene, left to return to nature.
Inside the hut it's warm and damp from the steam off the water. The water is so hot I have to edge in slowly, let each part of my body adjust to the shock. For a while we sit there, marvelling at the hills around us, the little unkempt hut, the grass, the flowers, the fact we're in Iceland, the breathtaking aloneness of this place. The rest of the world could be in flames and we'd be none the wiser. It would almost be a sin not to make this a skinny dipping kind of day. We realise what is so funny about Hrunalaug as we strip off and giggle out quick hopes that noone arrives unannounced.
Seljavallalaug
We arrive at Seljavallalaug after eight pm. It's only a short drive from Skogar, where we'll spend the night. The endless daylight has its advantages, and one of them is twenty-four hour nature activity potential. The carpark here is a hike from the pool, along a gully nestled between high peaks. It's a beautiful walk, especially in the cool low light of the evening.
The concrete pool was built in 1923 and is filled with natural geothermal warm water. The large surface area means that the water is cooler than at Hrunalaug, but still warm compared to the outside air. We share twenty five meters with eight others at various times. Beer bottles stand here and there on the edge of the pool. Everybody carries away their empties. It's not the kind of place that attracts messy tourists, I suppose. Though I love being alone, it's kind of nice to have the soft sound of conversation floating across the water as I look up at the misty tops of the mountains that surround us.
Bláa lónið - The Blue Lagoon
No account of swimming in Iceland is complete without a mention of the Blue Lagoon. In 1976, a pool of waste water formed at the site of a recently established geothermal power plant in Grindavik. A few years later, people discovered that the milky blue water improved the symptoms of minor skin ailments and started bathing in it. Thus, the Blue Lagoon was born. There you have it folks. The biggest, bluest tourist attraction in Iceland, the aesthetically gorgeous and oddly magical Blue Lagoon, is a man made puddle of waste water. But don't let that deter you.
If you like extortionate entry fees, wealthy middle-aged europeans, and nothing-to-the-imagination communal change rooms, the Blue Lagoon was custom built for your, well, your custom. Alternatively, if you're willing simply to tolerate these things for the sake of a unique and somewhat alien experience, you'll add the Blue Lagoon onto your Iceland itinerary.
On the day we decide to visit, the clouds are low and there's a constant mist of rain over the vast plain of volcanic rock. It feels like another planet. The air is dense and the colours washed out. We follow the signs to the lagoon, waiting for it to come into sight. It doesn't. The carpark is half empty, probably blessed with thinner crowds by the bad weather. We walk behind a tour group of elderly brits through the thin mist, walls of volcanic rock on either side of us, towards the entrance. Outside the entrance, the pool spreads into a wide lake.The lagoon glows milky pale against the rock. It really is beautiful. If I had doubts before now about paying the ridiculous entry fee (40 euros in peak season) they were assuaged by the stillness of the water.
After showering - as instructed to do politely by the notice on my personal locker door - in the trauma-inducing communal shower room, we walk through the shiny spaceship halls to the lagoon entrance. Aside from the lack of concern for my modesty, I can't fault the setup. The building is constructed mostly of glass on the outer walls, and the view out across the water is impressive. The lagoon comes in under a wall near the entrance, creating a slick indoor bathing area. There are hundreds of towel hooks just inside the entryway, and fountains providing cool water to the overboiled patrons returning from their dip. The cafe has seating beside the tall glass wall, and outside, in the lagoon itself, a bar serves beer, bubbly, and fruit smoothies. Little bridges criss cross the narrow outlets. There's a strange sense of calm over the whole place, like the steam is laced with sedatives.
The water is exactly the right temperature. Entering the lagoon is stepping into a parallel dimension, where normal rules like physics and social convention don't apply. Everyone here seems a bit more beautiful than usual. People drift slowly around, talking in low voices. Some have white mud smeared over their faces and arms. The steam rises off the water's surface and mingles with the moist air.
After a good soak and an exploration of some of the more unpopulated inlets, we head for the change rooms (ergh) to discover quickly that everyone here is actually not more beautiful, by any means. We leave via the viewing platform, which looks back over the lagoon and the black dots of heads moving at a steady pace across its still surface. In the distance, the smoke stacks of the geothermal power plant are visible through the mist.
