We wend our way back through the countryside as our tour guide fills us with tales of doom and gloom about climate change and electricity bills. We pass a tiny field of delicately balanced piles of rocks, and multiple clusters of sheep shouldering through tall grass and brush. Apparently sheep are specially cut to signify who owns them and then allowed to roam across the fields at will for the summer months. We rumble over a dark blue fjord with a shimmer on its surface from the sun that has finally decided to appear, and a grim-faced cyclist battled against the wind alongside us for a while. Clusters of pines appear around the base of the hills shielding hidden log holiday cabins with all the mod cons - I can't wait to return to this country.
I wish I could come back to Iceland with a car, a tent, and a salary. Hitch-hikers line the roads looking rough and ready to go, and I spy a beautiful blonde couple stopping to smooch and fill up their water bottles at a brook running alongside the ring road. Hostel tales of driving for hours along that one road that loops around the whole island and only seeing perhaps one or two cars maximum really sound like a dream to me; being able to pull over and stand and stare out at the glaciers or the smoky mountains (without craning to see over that fat Australian woman in front) would truly be bliss.
As we roll towards Reykjavik our guide tells us that the Icelandic language is really just undiluted old Norse - spoken by most of Scandinavia at one point before mass abandonment and becoming unique to Iceland. A pointy church appears at the end of a tree-lined path, where the lead player in the famous Egil's Saga was laid to rest. Perfect.