There is no better way to discover a place than to ride through it on horseback. We travel through spaces that cannot be traversed on foot: craggy lava fields opening up into wide rusty red plains, grassy hillsides dusted in lilac moss and deep rushing rivers, each set against a backdrop of volcanos and the occasionally steamy hot spring. After a gallop along the beach under beautiful clear skies, we spot two huge eagles perched on a cliff edge just metres ahead. At lunch, the whole group naps contentedly under the sun.
A tölt along the beach at LöngufjörurJohn Chilton
Staying humble
A younger version of myself would have been perfectly happy to gallop off after a loose horse, but now I am content to watch the guides work. Seeing how the horses navigate the difficult, rocky terrain with such plucky, surefooted lightness is amazing. If they don’t feel any concern ploughing headlong through streams and up rocky crevasses, I reason, neither should I.
And mostly, I didn’t – bar one humbling moment. My horse, Gia, grew distressed when our group began to fall behind the herd, speeding down a steep slope in pursuit. To my credit, I did stay on, but any resultant self-congratulation was short-lived. After getting off to wait for the others, she took off again mid-remount attempt, which left me sitting dazed on the grass and Gia careering off sans rider. Only my ego was bruised, but it reminded me of the skill, strength and dexterity it takes to ride properly!
At the end of each day, my knees and abs remind me how long it’s been since I’ve been in the saddle. But it’s the type of satisfying ache that comes with knowing you’ve done a really good workout. We set the horses free, take a minute to drink some ridiculously tasty hot chocolate and head back to the ranch.
Traversing the riverJohn Chilton
Ranch life
The guesthouse is classically Icelandic, unpretentious with comfy beds topped with thick woollen blankets and a cosy lounge opening onto a terrace with a hot tub – important when your muscles have been put through the workout of a decade – and a convivial dining area. Guðmar’s wife Christina takes on the cooking, and over the likes of pecan-crusted Icelandic salmon, chicken thighs with rice pilaf and a changing rainbow of salads, we get to know the other riders.
Among our group was a woman who’d had a nasty riding accident a few years ago requiring 40 stitches, who’d come to Iceland to help conquer lingering – understandable – fears. Another had been on 30 treks at Hestaland and had bought a horse from Guðmar she was preparing to ship back home. She mused whether she was making the right decision – once an Icelandic horse leaves the country, it can never return.
A new perspective
For someone who grew up deep in the Somerset countryside, I have become very accustomed to my pampered London lifestyle. It takes me a minute to switch to the rhythms of rural life. On the first day, I offer guide Berglind a squeeze of my hand sanitiser at lunch. There was a brief pause before she laughed, suggesting it “might be a bit late for that.”
But I soon slip into my new ritual, enjoying the reprieve from screens and city air. Mornings are spent rising early, packing lunches, pulling on a thick coat and heading out to find the herd sheltering together against the sunrise. We ride for eight hours a day, and by the end, we are all exhausted. I accept, then embrace, that I’m simply going to look grubby.
The last day was the longest ride. As we make our way back across the grasslands, we are joined occasionally by a trio of marshmallowy sheep. “It’s nearly round-up season,” says guide Nienke. “So they are ready to come home.” And so are we. After a solid three-hour stint, my horse and I both begin to tire, but then the mountains give way into familiar roadsides, and we start tölting up the path towards the ranch. It’s time to say my final goodbyes to Gia – we are friends again after my previous indignancy – and then she is gone, disappearing into the herd one last time.
Book tours via Hestaland