I have rarely fallen in love with anything. At best, I get a fleeting moment of obsession. It sometimes may last a couple of weeks, months… Sometimes a couple of years… Until another spark of madness sweeps this flickering interest deep inside one of the multiple drawers that make up my mind. And my attention snaps. It forgets its first focus, half-heatedly promising itself that all will be accomplished in due time, which of course never comes.
However, a constant to my bohemian ways is a persisting fascination for the Arctic, and by the wrathful, frighteningly beautiful Iceland.
From Hekla, the volcanic clock, we travel south to the psychedelic swirls of the Landmannalaugar. We can, over a ten-day trek, get ourselves a return trip to the Moon, then land back on earth among the endless glaciers of the Wild North; From there, our hike will take us back to the primordial Earth, through a desert of fumaroles, geysers and boiling mud, before reaching an impressionist delicacy where layers of blood orange, golden lemon and ripe pistachio undulate under the ozone blue.
Rough, rugged and ravishing, Iceland obsesses the bold and terrifies the sane.
http://tales-of-a-skytrekker.blogspot.co.uk/2013/12/iceland-rough-rugged-and-ravishing.html
