I travel for a living. I'm a photographer, filmmaker, journalist—the guy who boards flights to the farthest corners of the earth to capture stories that belong to others. I've spent nights aboard Antarctic icebreakers, trekked across the vast emptiness of the Mongolian steppe, and watched northern lights dance silently in Arctic skies. My passport, heavy with ink and worn at the edges, holds more secrets than most diaries ever will. But here's the stark, somewhat ironic truth: despite years spent crisscrossing the globe, I'd never planned a journey just for me. Not once. Until Iceland.
This wasn't another assignment or an influencer's staged fantasy. It wasn't guided by client briefs or chasing trends. Every reservation, every kilometer driven, every quiet sunrise spent without the worry of a shots list in an untouched landscape—this trip was entirely mine. With just six days to plan and book everything, I was staring down my fortieth birthday, acutely aware that time is both precious and relentless. I knew I needed space. I craved solitude—not isolation, exactly, but enough distance to hear my own thoughts clearly again. I wanted something vast enough to humble me, cold enough to numb the noise, and yet undeniably beautiful enough to slowly thaw me back into myself.
Iceland had quietly been calling my name for years. Not loudly or impatiently, like some urgent bucket-list item, but in a subtler, deeper whisper. It promised something I couldn't find in the familiar comforts of home or even in the excitement of professional adventures. Here was a place paradoxically foreign yet strangely familiar. Wild yet meticulously mapped out. A country seemingly made for those seeking to disappear without ever feeling truly lost. And that's exactly what I needed: the freedom to vanish just enough to rediscover whatever pieces of myself I'd left scattered along life's winding path.
So I did it. Fourteen days. Just me, a rental car humming beneath open skies, my trusted Fuji rangefinder camera, and a loosely sketched itinerary tracing Iceland's Ring Road and diving boldly into the rugged silence of the Westfjords. On my fortieth birthday, I found myself in Reykjavík, sitting quietly at a bar with a burger, a beer, and my phone intentionally off—marking the milestone exactly as I wanted. For the first time, the journey ahead was shaped entirely by my own instincts, curiosity, and a quiet yearning I'd ignored for far too long.
Day 1 - Touchdown at Keflavík. Icelandair gets a quiet shout out here: generous baggage allowance, efficient boarding, and a soft landing into a hard country. My rental—an all-wheel drive Hyundai Tucson hybrid—waited at Hertz. I picked it up with a quiet buzz of adrenaline, then headed toward Reykjavík.
I spent the afternoon wandering the city with no particular plan. I walked Laugavegur, Reykjavík’s main street, ducking into bookstores, record shops, and cozy cafés that smelled like cinnamon and possibility. I climbed the tower of Hallgrímskirkja and looked out over the city’s corrugated rooftops, their colorful patchwork defiant against a grey sky. I found the harbor, watched ships idle. I let the day unfold slowly, letting the cold air slap the jet lag off my face. That evening at Fosshótel Reykjavík, I sat alone at the bar with a local beer and a map. I wasn’t chasing anything yet—just letting it all begin.
Day 2 - Snæfellsnes Peninsula was like Iceland in miniature: lava fields, black churches, jagged coastlines, glaciers floating in the rearview. I passed through Búðir, a black wooden church surrounded by lava fields—so quiet it made my bones ache in a good way. At Arnarstapi, I walked the coastline alone, past basalt cliffs and nesting terns, the wind howling like it had something personal to say. At Djúpalónssandur, I gripped the old fishermen’s lifting stones—the heaviest weighing 154 kilos—and thought about all the weight I’d been carrying that wasn’t physical. That night, Hótel Egilsen in Stykkishólmur offered warmth in all the right ways.
Day 3 - I was supposed to take a ferry but the ferry was canceled, so I drove. And honestly? I’m glad I did. If the ferry is a shortcut, the drive is a slow unraveling—an intimate introduction to Iceland's layered moodiness. I took the long road around the fjords through Búðardalur and up into the Westfjords proper. Roads turned to gravel. Mountains opened into valleys so wide they swallowed thought. At one point, I pulled off just to sit on the hood of my car and listen: nothing. Not even wind. Just me and the hum of the earth beneath cold tires.
The final stretch into Flókalundur passed through raw, knuckled coastlines and wide, glacial fingers. The sun, hanging low and defiant, lit up the mountains in pinks and purples that felt supernatural. Hótel Flókalundur was quiet, but the real destination was the natural hot spring just below the property. I slipped in under fading light and felt the salt air cut the edge of the steam. A part of me unclenched that hadn’t in months.
Day 4 - Dynjandi greeted me like a cathedral of water. Standing beneath it, I felt the full weight of time—how long it takes to carve something beautiful, how powerful softness can be when it’s constant. The rest of the day unraveled through narrow fjord roads, each bend demanding patience. I made a detour to Hrafnseyri, the birthplace of Jón Sigurðsson—hero of Icelandic independence—and stood inside the old turf house where he was born. Hotel Ísafjörður welcomed me with stillness and an old-world pulse. I had dinner at Tjöruhúsið, where they don’t hand you a menu—just ask how hungry you are and feed you accordingly. It was perfect.
Day 5 - This was the day I learned to love silence again. The drive from Ísafjörður to Laugarbakki was hours of unfiltered solitude—just the road, the fjords, and the occasional sheep. I stopped at Hörgshlíðarlaug, a hot pool tucked along the water’s edge, and let the steam rise while snow flurried gently around me. That night, Hótel Laugarbakki felt like a proper rest stop for my brain, too. I ended the day watching the wind dance across the Hrútafjörður bay, quiet and wide and mine.
Day 6 - I left Laugarbakki and headed for Akureyri, the capital of the north. The day’s drive was long but full of small, quiet moments—rolling hills, roadside horses, that occasional flash of sun slicing through clouds like a secret. I took the detour to Hvítserkur, the so-called troll turned to stone. It juts out of the sea like a myth you want to believe in, stark and solitary and beautiful in its own way.
From there, I wrapped around the curves of the Vatnsnes Peninsula, where seals rested on the shore and birds traced the wind. I took my time. That’s the thing about solo travel—you learn not just to be alone, but to enjoy being unhurried. I stopped at Kolugljúfur canyon and watched water tear through ancient rock. I pulled over for Icelandic horses, just to say hi.
When I finally rolled into Akureyri, it felt like a city—but just barely. I wandered the harbor and the old town, watched a local band soundcheck outside a bar, and grabbed dinner without needing to make conversation. Hótel KEA was simple, central, and comfortable. That night, I slept deeply. Not because I was exhausted. But because, for once, I wasn’t restless.
Day 7-8 - I stayed two nights at Hótel Laxá to slow things down and soak in the magic of Mývatn. This wasn’t a pit stop—it was a destination in its own right. The surrounding region felt otherworldly, like the landscape was still cooling from the fires that forged it.
On the first evening, I floated in the Mývatn Nature Baths as golden-hour light slid low across the volcanic ridge. The milky blue waters steamed around me, rich with minerals and silence. Unlike the more famous Blue Lagoon, Mývatn felt quieter, humbler, more local. I lingered for hours, moving between the warmth of the pool and the sting of the Icelandic air. My body relaxed in ways it hadn’t in months.
By day, I explored the region’s geological marvels—Skútustaðir’s pseudo-craters, the geothermal fields at Námaskarð, and the alien chaos of Dimmuborgir. I hiked to the rim of Hverfjall Crater, a massive tephra cone with views that made me feel both invincible and invisible. Even the earth seemed conflicted here—fire below, ice above, and me standing in between. There was clarity in that tension. There was peace in that contradiction.
I spent a slow morning watching ducks trace the calm waters of Lake Mývatn. That kind of stillness changes you. The kind that doesn’t demand awe, but invites it. Mývatn wasn’t just scenic. It was sacred.
Day 9 - I stopped at Dettifoss and felt the roar of it in my chest, like it was shaking loose everything I hadn’t let myself feel. Ásbyrgi canyon, shaped like a horseshoe, was green and still in a way that almost felt sacred. I took the long way to Egilsstaðir, passing through the surreal highlands of Möðrudalur—ash-colored and empty, like driving across the moon. It had snowed the night before so that made the drive even more interesting. That night in Hotel Hallormsstaður, I wandered Iceland’s only forest and for the first time on the trip, didn’t reach for my camera.
Day 10 - The Eastfjords were a symphony of stillness—towns that felt stitched into the rock, winding roads that held their breath with every curve. But the highlight for me was Stokksnes.
I drove out to the windswept black sand beach below Vestrahorn, where jagged mountains rise like a dragon's spine straight out of the sea. The wind was howling, sharp with salt, but I didn’t care. I walked the dunes with my camera slung over my shoulder, feeling tiny in the best way. Then I wandered into the Viking Village film set just inland—a weathered replica of longhouses and turf roofs built for a movie that never happened. It was surreal and moody and empty. A perfect kind of eerie.
I grabbed a coffee from the little café at the entrance and sat outside, watching the waves roll in as clouds danced along the ridges of Vestrahorn. For a moment, I forgot time altogether. Later, I arrived in Höfn and ordered langoustine, of course. It's what the town is known for—and for good reason. That night, I walked the harbor and breathed in the quiet.
Day 11 - I stood on Diamond Beach as blue icebergs clinked ashore like crystal goblets. Jökulsárlón Glacier Lagoon was otherworldly—chunks of ancient ice drifting out to sea like they had all the time in the world. I took a boat through the lagoon, the hum of the engine the only sound against cracking ice. Skaftafell gave me a trail through silence, past Svartifoss waterfall’s basalt columns and into my own smallness. That night I spent in Hótel Katla and it had some of the best lamb of the trip.
Day 12 - The South Coast was a final crescendo. That morning, I joined the Katla Volcano Ice Cave Tour, climbing into a super jeep that felt like it was built for Mars. We rumbled out across the Mýrdalsjökull glacier—underneath it, the active Katla volcano hummed. It’s not lost on me that I was literally walking into ice over fire.
Inside the cave, the world changed. Layers of ash streaked the ice in dark veins, like scars through blue glass. Light filtered in through crevices, turning everything surreal. It was haunting and beautiful—like walking through memory itself. I ran my hand across a wall that had taken centuries to form. I breathed in air that felt older than time.
Later, I visited Skógafoss, Kvernufoss, and Seljalandsfoss—waterfalls crashing with energy, the land exhaling one last time before I moved on. I laughed out loud as I got soaked behind Seljalandsfoss. I watched puffins skim the wind at Dyrhólaey and stood awed on the black sands of Reynisfjara as the Atlantic flexed its muscle against basalt cliffs. That night in Selfoss, I sunk into a hot tub under a slate sky and just let it all catch up to me.
Day 13 -Driving back toward Reykjavík, city life loomed ahead, but I wasn’t ready just yet. Sky Lagoon became my final stop. Photos had hinted at its beauty, but reality exceeded any expectation. Geothermal waters met the ocean, infinity blending seamlessly into infinity. The seven-step ritual there—particularly the cold plunge—felt like a powerful reset. In the steam room's gentle heat, I sat quietly with everything I'd experienced over the last two weeks. No distractions. Just breath. Just warmth. Just clarity.
That night, I checked back into Fosshótel Reykjavík. The room felt familiar, but I didn’t. And that's how I knew this trip had worked.
In the end, Iceland wasn’t about sightseeing or checking boxes. It was about discovering what remains when there’s no one else to impress, no deadlines, no itinerary beyond your own quiet voice. Iceland offered me humility in wide-open spaces, silence wrapped in landscapes, and solitude that was refreshingly gentle. Somewhere between black sand beaches and the glow of the midnight sun, Iceland quietly handed me back to myself.
If you’re reading this and wondering whether you should go: Yes. Book the flight. Icelandair is solid. Rent the car. Drive slow. Pack warm. Remain open. And when you return—because you will—you’ll notice a shift photographs can’t capture. Not perfect, perhaps not even fully healed, but clearer. More aware. More whole. Because Iceland doesn’t just show you what's out there—it reveals what’s still within. And for me, that was exactly enough to begin again.
