Planet Iceland

Virgin Atlantic said they weren’t scheduling flights to the moon until 2007, but looking around I half believe this is an early secret space mission. Coal black fields of lava lie abandoned, stinking sulphur potholes gurgle, and a strange green hue haunts the midnight sky.

But Virgin hasn’t made a mistake. This isn’t the moon, this is Iceland, and it has it all. Extreme, desolate, untouched, but blessedly free from Martian life. At just four hours away from London, it’s also just little bit closer.

It’s true that Iceland’s capital Reykjavik has a party reputation – but mostly highlights the amount of alcohol . In truth the city remains as pretty as Prague once was, before the hoards of pre-bridal parties started showing up. Wooden houses in pastel pinks, greens, and yellows sit sleepily together, with shuttered windows and tin roofs, like candied constructions. The snow-laden street is bustling, but not overcrowded, remaining strangely silent, free from tacky lights and brassy advertising. Hidden inside you’ll find sleek stores selling discreet designer labels, kitschy kitchenware collections, and thick knitted woolens. Nestled between the shops, artsy cafés serve good strong coffee and frothing hot chocolate. Beneath the snuggly façades, stark, modern restaurants supply cuisine at haute prices, while bars are so designed that they could have been poached from Manhattan’s sidewalks.

It’s becoming clear that old culture sits quite comfortably with new. But choice, efficiency, and luxury do not come cheap. Iceland has Europe’s highest standard of living, and almost everything costs big bucks. Eight pounds for a glass of red, anyone? However, to experience a true measure of Iceland’s hospitality, you cannot get away without a spot of bar hopping. It’s in these secret dens of drinking iniquities that the usually hunched and gruff Icelander of day transforms into the chuckling chatterbox of night. It’s you who will have to strike up the conversation, but once it is done, expect to be seriously ear-bent by charismatic tales of history, politics, pop culture, or whatever, the storyteller’s eyes shining and cheeks aglow. The bars are all a slide, skip and stumble away from each other with the crowd dictating where to go next. Damon Alban’s Kaffeebarinn is said to be Bjork’s local haunt, but there are nearly 120 bars to choose from. A nightly ritual for Icelanders, the revelry is more about good times than drunken chaos, and is as much entwined in the culture as geysers and glaciers.

A swift breath of pure, crisp air and the sight of a gleaming blue sky is enough to clear a cloudy head instantly as we head away from Reykjavik. It’s time to moonwalk.

Pingvellir National Park is like stepping onto a movie set; it is a lump of sci-fi gold- all moss green, brooding landscapes, and dark, lonely cliffs. Its history is as dramatic as its scenery: the Vikings came by horseback way back in 930 AD, and made it the spot for the first ever meeting of Parliament. Now it is becoming a land of its own, as both the American and Eurasian tectonic plates pull away from each other at the rate of about 2 centimeters per year, leaving the park wrecked and torn with splits to each side, exposing the Earth’s ragged crust.

The luna-scape lies dark and glistening wet at Geysir. Littered with craters and rips to its pathways, steam seeps slowly, drifting into the frozen air; the barren land looks other-worldly, despite a growing crowd who wait expectantly as a hot spring bubbles and starts to dome, preparing to spew. Geysir is Iceland’s most famous hot spring, and lends its name to all other geysers worldwide. But these days it’s her neighbor, Strokkur, who has more entertainment value, spouting boiling water 25 to 35 meters up into the air every twenty minutes or so

I wonder whether it can get any better than this, when we hit Gullfoss, a two-step waterfall on the glacial Hvita River. If you’ve been to Niagara and think you’ve seen it all, think again. No souvenir stalls here, no boat trips, no waterproof gear for sale. Just a winding, icy path with a stiff rope guide, leading to a powder-white cliff. The sound of rushing water hints at what’s to come - loud, beating all around you. Mist showers your skin and casts rainbow after rainbow across the slippery track. At the top a spectacular view awaits and two huge streams of water pelt the rocks, deafening against a frozen landscape. Tears sting as nature hits, stunning and exhilarating.

We wind our way back through the lava fields in a blizzard of soft white powder, the end of a surreal tour of a post-modern land that hasn’t much changed since Viking times. Though it is well traveled, Iceland has somehow managed to preserve a feeling of unkempt beauty. Heading back to Reykjavik, I ponder sampling a touristy staple – some puffin or putrefied shark meat. I might attempt pony trekking, or visiting a glacier. I wonder how modernity and ancient mystery live so comfortably side-by-side, and how efficiency and progression mix with such eccentricity and simplicity. And looking on one last time, I wonder if I will ever forget the sense of wonder, and the feeling I have that I witnessed something truly magical.

Because until the moon launch of 2007, surely there’s nothing comparable?