Laugavegurinn, Iceland

 
The grandiloquent landscapes of Iceland’s interior have inspired centuries of myth and legend and lured millions of curious adventurers into their ambivalent embrace. Most live to tell tales of strange and supernatural beauty; some are never seen again.

Not one to be daunted by superstitious talk of goblins and ghosts, death and disappearances, and eerily unperturbed by the fact I had never walked further than the local newsagents for a pint of milk, I decided my first visit to Iceland wouldn’t be complete unless I ventured through the heart of the region.

I chose the most famous trail: the world-renowned Laugavegurinn. Starting at Landmanallaugur and ending in Thorsmork, the walk is a hard-core 53km schlep over glaciers and volcanoes. There’s no provisions en route; you carry all your own food and clothing with you, and the only accommodation consists of rudimentary wooden huts positioned every 12-15km or so.

As every seasoned walker knows, there are certain cardinal rules for mountain trekking. Never step out in brand new walking boots, for example. And don’t wear heavy clothing such as denim. Oh, and also, never try and survive four days in the mountains on a diet of tinned sardines in piquant tomato sauce.

What I lacked in experience, I made up for in naïve confidence, bounding optimistically into Reykjavik bus station sporting new walking boots, a pair of old Levi’s and – yep - a rucksack weighted with canned fish. Ignoring the bemused stares of the Goretex-clad, stick-brandishing, lightweight-Mac-wearing hiking professionals that were also waiting in the bus terminal I cheerfully bought a ticket and boarded the bus.

The weather that morning was spiteful. Rain and hail lashed at the bus windows as we wound upwards through the mountains. The wind howled like a lunatic and we blew a tyre. As if that wasn’t foreboding enough, the 100m stroll from the bus to the start hut, in what was by now a fierce storm, resulted in my jeans tripling in weight from the rain and my heels developing what looked suspiciously like blisters.

Since the weather was so bad, I couldn’t start the trip right away as planned. I had to stay overnight, which meant consuming part of my precious tinned fish supply. And which also meant walking two sections of the hike the next day - 25km in one go.

I tried to work out how many consecutive milk shopping trips that would be, but all I could see in my mind’s eye was the skeletal face of certain doom. It had bad teeth, matted hair and breath that smelled, funnily enough, of sardines.

The next morning though, was clear. The sun sent out rays of optimism and I set off with a happy heart, albeit way behind my less leaden companions. Iceland’s interior seems to throb with an otherworldly energy and the landscapes morph constantly.

One minute you’re traipsing through pastel mountains gracefully sculpted from rhyolite; the next you’re surrounded by fields of shiny black obsidian. Or lava. Or snow. There are no animals, not even birds. Just mountains and glorious silence. Ah, and lichen. Lots and lots of lichen.

These ecstatic views were what got me through that ridiculously long first day. I pretty much collapsed at the second hut and woke the next morning to find some prankster had replaced my limbs with planks of wood. As for the blisters – they also had blisters.

The next two days were mercifully shorter and easier. Aside from some boring stretches of flat black sand, the vistas were once again magical. I took a lunch break in an ice cave, waded through glacial rivers so cold they made me howl, and laughed out loud to myself on several occasions at the madness and beauty of it. Yes, it was that good.

I probably looked more like a refugee than a hiker when I emerged at Thorsmork, where the sudden sight of trees and vegetation brought me back to Planet Earth with a bump. The smirk on the bus driver’s face certainly suggested he wasn’t about to get me confused with Ranulph Fiennes.

And so there it was. One of the toughest experiences of my life – much, much tougher than the milk shop walk – and one of my happiest. I didn’t see elves or goblins or any of that other weird Icelandic stuff you read about, but it did inspire further treks through mountain ranges all over the world.

Of course, I don’t wear jeans any more, and my boots are broken in now. And when I take my own provisions, let’s just say fish is no longer on the menu.