Lake Como - Days 4 & 5

Things I love about Italy:

1. The Food. Sorry, rest of Europe, but when it comes to immediately accessible, in-yer-face, don't-have-to-know-a-local-to-get-it, consistently good food, Italy wins HANDS DOWN.
2. The accent.  Hilarious.
3. Foot-operated flushes in public toilets.  Hoorah.

Things I don't love about Italy:

1. The bloody prices. Jeeeez...  probably not an awful lot worse than London prices and probably more obvious because I'm coming from a fellow Euro-using country so can't baffle myself with mental exchange rates, but even so.  €5 for a teeny glass of wine, when I'm used to paying €2 for a whole bottle is crazymad.
2. The vast numbers of American tourists.  I'm sorry, I don't mean to have a go at a whole nation but seriously U S of A residents, can't you pipe down a bit? I mean, seriously, just....ssshhhhhh.
3. The way cars don't stop when you're waiting to cross the road at a zebra crossing.  Rude.

Had a lovely couple of days. Yesterday I got on a boat to Bellagio. Lake Como is shaped like a headless, armless man standing with his legs apart, and Bellagio is situated where his willy would be.  It's widely considered to be the most beautiful town on Lake Como, but having been spewed off the boat with all the other (largely American) tourists straight into a plethora of leather handbag shops, Como silk scarf shops and ice cream shops, I beg to differ.  Varenna is better.

Bellagio is definitely lovely, but it's just a bit much. Too many people for my liking, even at this time of year, so I beat a hasty retreat and walked to the very tip of the promontory; the anus of the headless, armless man, aptly named Punta Spartivento (point where the wind splits). It was lovely and peaceful there, with wonderful views towards the northern part of the lake and the mountains and I considered having lunch in the little restaurant but it turned out that every table was reserved, or maybe they just didn't like the look of me, so I wandered back to town, and meandered up and down alleys until I found a likely looking old pizzeria and had a most delicious lunch of penne al salmone. Grace Gable eat your heart out.

Afterwards I got a chestnut and vanilla ice cream (not sure about chestnut ice-cream tbh) and wandered south to visit the villa and gardens of Villa Melzi, which was very pleasant, but certainly nothing to write home about.

*Pointedly stops writing home about it*

I got the boat back to Varenna and had a nice aperitif in a quayside bar, before coming back to the apartment and catching up on a load of shite on iPlayer on my laptop. (Christ, Downton's a bit thin on plot, isn't it? Lovely frocks though.)

Today I got the boat over to Tremezzo on the opposite side of the lake and spent a couple of hours wandering the house and gardens of Villa Carlotta.  NOW you're talking.  It was magnificent. But if you're ever going to come here to see the gardens, come in April (would be my advice) - the azaleas must be fantastic at that time of year.

Then I decided to walk south for some lunch, and on the way I managed to get myself onto the 'Greenway del Lago' which is a nice pathway up above and behind the towns, which avoids traffic.  I was hoping to visit the spot where Mussolini actually copped it, whilst trying to escape into Switzerland at the end of the war (a bit macabre, I know, but I'm not fond of fascists), and felt sure the Greenway del Lago would deliver me to it, but it didn't, sadly. Walked MILES and ended up at Lenno, where I had a late lunch of lasagne and then jumped on the boat back to Varenna.

Since I've been here I've noticed an awful lot of people drinking a vile orange drink that looks like toxic Lucozade, and thanks to an incidental chat with my friend (Nick Harris) I discovered that it's an aperitif widely drunk in these here parts, called Spritz.  It's prosecco and the local spirit, Aperol, on ice.  It looks ghastly but I had one this evening and it's DELICIOUS. I'm going to buy a bottle of Aperol to take home.

I heard on the indirect internet grapevine that my dear husband, currently enjoying a jolly in the Algarve but without a wifi device so not in direct contact, fell over whilst pissed last night and has hurt his shoulder. In truth, I think he drew the very very short straw.  I'm looking forward to a cup of tea, a booze-free early night and ten hours solid sleep.

Although that's not all that easy with your passport shoved down your knickers.

Lake Como, Day 3 - Karma bites me in the arse

You know that thing where you're being a bit smug; when you're a tad too pleased with yourself; when you tempt fate by gloating and fate turns around and laughs right in your face?

Yeah.  THAT.

This morning I got myself all ready and appropriately kitted out for a hike up the mountain behind Varenna to visit a castle and have a lovely lunch, and just before I left the apartment I thrust my hand in my backpack, as is my wont, to check for the presence of keys, wallet and (as I'm abroad) passport and guess what? No palpable passport in the bottom of my back pack.

I felt about, checking pockets, checking jeans, checking coat, emptying backpack onto bed...no passport.

I checked the backpack again.  And again. I told myself to keep calm, whilst feeling the panic rising in my chest. I checked the backpack again. This is not possible.

Anyone who knows me well knows that this is not possible.  I'm not the sort of person to lose important things.  I always know EXACTLY where my wallet and keys are and when travelling I have a fanatical obsession with keeping passports and travel documents safe. This was like a bad dream. A nightmare actually. I checked my backpack for the eleventh time.

I started talking out loud to my self. 'Keep calm.  It's here somewhere' I said, as I checked my suitcase, under the bed, in drawers I'd never opened, in the bathroom, under the bloody rug ffs. My passport lives right at the bottom of my backpack, with my wallet. My wallet is actually tied to the inside of my backpack on a long string, as is my phone. I have never lost a phone, wallet, key or passport in my life (apart from my phone that time on the beach, but I found it again and learnt a 'tie it to your person with string' lesson). Even when I've been out on the lash and can hardly remember how I got home, I've always woken up with my handbag and its full contents right next to me.

I started hyperventilating.  I wondered whether I'd slept walked (I've never slept walked) and put it somewhere weird, so I checked inside the fridge and the oven and the microwave and behind the toilet.  I checked my backpack again. Eight times.

My passport wasn't in my apartment.

The last time I saw it was yesterday when I was checking in and Diego, the manager guy, had photocopied it.  But I distinctly remembered taking it back off him and stuffing it into the bottom of my backpack, where it lives.  After that I'd gone down into town and had been into my backpack four times. Once in each of the grocery stores, and once in two separate cafe bars.

It's Sunday today and Diego had told me that although there was someone around from 9am to 6pm Monday to Saturday, Sunday was their day off, and he would be at home on the other side of the lake.  I tried to text him but I couldn't get my Portuguese phone to work. I wasn't expecting to have to use it, frankly.

Having searched every nook and cranny in the apartment, I decided that it was either still in the hall where I checked in (which was now locked and I was quite certain it wasn't in any case) OR it had fallen out of my backpack when I had pulled my wallet out in one of the grocery stores or cafe bars.

I started to cry.  Then I slapped myself across the face, found Diego's email and emailed him, then set off to see if someone had found it or handed it in. No-one had.  In one of the grocery stores I met Mr and Mrs Snotty Englishers and their Snivelling Baby. They listened as I asked the young girl behind the counter if anyone had found a passport and they COMPLETELY BLANKED ME. Not a smile or a nod or a sympathetic murmur. After all, nothing can be as important as them and their bloody baby. I mean let's face it NO-ONE ELSE HAS EVER HAD A CHILD AND TAKEN IT ON HOLIDAY HAVE THEY?!
OK, I'm getting angry now.  It's a good sign.

The lovely shop girl could see I was upset and took me by the arm up to the Tourist Office.  The lovely lady there regrettably informed me that no-one had handed a passport in but that if one had been found it may have been handed into the Municipality Office (kinda doubles as a police station) but that it was Sunday so everything would be closed until tomorrow.

So that was that. As far as I was concerned my passport was gone, with someone probably stealing my ID as we speak, but I wouldn't find out for sure until tomorrow when (a) Diego turned up and checked reception, and (b) the Municipality Office was open.

I would have to wait for 24 hours to find out for sure that my passport was gone, and then, once it was confirmed, I would have to spend the rest of the week trying to sort out a replacement.  I'd probably have to go to Rome, or at least Milan, at great expense, and everything was ruined, basically. I went back to my apartment and wept.

Diego phoned. He seemed pretty laid back about the whole thing and said he'd be here first thing tomorrow and we'd definitely find it.  His tone was reassuring, but I was unconvinced. I'd just have to deal with it.  My holiday was ruined but no-one was going to die. Worse things have happened to people, me included, so I'd just have to fucking deal with it. But, God, what a DRRRRAAAAGGGGG.  I so wish I hadn't gloated about how wonderful everything was yesterday.  What an arse I am.

After a couple of hours I pulled myself together and decided to hike the mountain anyway. Better than staying in fretting all day when there was absolutely nothing to be done. I set off with a heavy heart and a face like a wet weekend.  Actually, a face like a ruined holiday.

As I let myself out and set off up the lane I was aware of an old gentleman coming out of a ground floor apartment.  He was very old but far too dapper to be British - he was wearing chequered trousers and a cravat and had a tan. He turned and walked up the lane behind me, away from town, which I thought a bit odd.  Perhaps he was going to hike up to the castle too, I thought. Looks a bit old for that.  He'll probably collapse in front of me and I'll have to bloody deal with that too, I thought, meanly.

I glanced behind me just in time to see him produce a set of keys for the huge oak doors that led into the reception hall of the villa where I'd checked in yesterday, and let himself in.  I trotted back down the lane - and arrived at the open doors just in time to see him lift the lid of the photocopier and pick up a passport.

He examined it briefly, then looked up at my face.

"I theenk thees ees yoours", he smiled, as he handed it to me.

I could have kissed him. I ADORE that man. He chuckled as he hobbled off down the lane, and at that point my phone rang.  Diego explained that he had asked his elderly father who lived in the downstairs apartment to go and check if my passport was in the photocopier. And there it bloody was. THERE IT BLOODY WAS. I can hardly believe it. I must have had some sort of mental aberration.

Villa Monti (where my apartment is)

I blame Mr and Mrs Snotty Englishers.  If they hadn't been so self-important and humourless and STRESSY, with all their bloody bags and paraphernalia then neither Diego NOR I would have allowed this to happen.

I'm going find out where they live.

After that the day went swimmingly.  The hike was beautiful, if a little nerve-wracking for someone who's not keen on heights (but hey, what's a little fall off a mountain when you thought you'd lost your passport?) and the castle at the top was delightful.  And when I got there I met someone who looked like I'd felt an hour previously:

Me

I had a plate of carpaccio and parmesan and a celebratory glass of wine in a little restaurant in the mountaintop village, before descending back down the mountain via the easy route, and treating myself to a big fat rum and raisin ice cream whilst dangling my feet over the edge of the pier. Later I went for a stroll around Villa Monastero and its beautiful lakeside gardens, and concluded that, all things considered, I preferred my own garden. Which is a good thing. But I'm not being smug, honest.  Just grateful.

I shall sleep well tonight.

View from castle

View of Varenna from castle

Villa Monastero

Villa Monastero

Lake Como - Days 1 and 2

You know your life has turned out OK when, on the morning of the day you're due to fly away on a week-long holiday you kind of feel like you don't really want to go.
This is how I felt yesterday as I pottered about my garden, barefoot and in my jimjams, harvesting the odd aubergine here and squishing the odd bug there, whilst reeling off instructions to Grace about plant watering regimes and animal feeding routines.  My enthusiasm was further dampened by the weather app on my phone which forecast that my destination was going to be a good few degrees cooler than my home. WTF? Why would I want to drag myself away from three quarters of the bosom of my fambly and do that whole hideous airport thing, just to mope about on my own by a cold and soggy Italian lake? I bet you feel really sorry for me.

Back in the spring Rich had declared that in September he was going to the Algarve to meet up with a load of old cronies from Wales, and spend a week trying to hit a ball into a small hole, so I saw an opportunity for a little jolly of my own (I love travelling alone) and booked a cheap flight from Lisbon to Milan.  This was really a case of SleazyJet dictating where I take my holiday, but it's fortuitous that a trip to the Italian Lakes has always been on my 'to do' list.

But my heart still wasn't really in it until half way over the Pyrenees when, plastic cup of rosé in hand and a gob full of Pringles, I started to get that holiday feeling. I arrived in Milan at about 6pm, from where I needed to get a train to Saronno and then another train on to Como. Turns out that Italians don't really understand a Welsh person speaking very poor Portuguese at them (force of habit), and I had a job trying to ascertain if I was on the right train. It also turns out that you have to pronounce Italian place names with an Italian accent, otherwise they won't understand you. Saronno is pronounced SarOOHHnno and Varenna (my ultimate destination) is pronounced VarAAYYnna.  I find the Italian accent hilarious. It sounds to me like they're taking the piss out of themselves. But I probably need to stop laughing when they speak or I'm going to get in trouble.

Anyway, it turned out I was on the right train and eventually I arrived in Como after dark. I found the hotel I'd booked into in the very attractive old town, dumped my stuff and headed out for a pizza  under the the imposing and floodlit gothic/renaissance (bit of both) Duomo, which I washed down (the pizza, that is, not the Duomo) with a nice glass of Chianti.
*makes Hannibal Lecter 'sccchhhllll sccchhhlll' noises*

Como from the lake

I love arriving at places after dark, because you have no idea where you are when you wake up the next morning. Como old town is beautiful at night time but spectacular in the daytime.  It has a lovely waterfront  and is flanked by steep mountains. I bought a ticket for the 'slow boat' to take me north up the western limb of Lake Como to a little village called Varenna on the eastern edge of the central part of the lake.

I can't describe how beautiful Lake Como is, and neither do my pictures do it justice. It's breathtakingly spectacular. I sat, literally awe-struck, for the entire 2 hour journey. Its deepest bit is 420 metres deep you know. FOUR HUNDRED AND TWENTY METRES. Ugh.  That creeps me out. I hate deep water.

Beautiful Lake Como

There are some fantastic houses - we passed the place where Volta lived (invented electricity), the place where Winston Churchill stayed after the war, the place Mussolini got murdered, Richard Bransom's new gaff, Versace's gaff before he was murdered, George Cloony's gaff and the place where they filmed James Bond. Like everywhere else in the world, most of the best houses - originally the summerhouses of Italian noblemen - are now owned by Russian multi-millionaires.

Where Casino Royale was filmed

Eventually, after stopping at about fifteen villages en route, I arrived at Varenna. What a gorgeous place - all steep cobbled alleys and lapping water edges. I found my way from the boat jetty around the cliff-hugging walkway to the main part of the village and clambered up cobbled steps to the main square, where I killed the hour and a half before my accommodation was ready by enjoying a long and delicious lunch of prawn salad followed by strawberries and ice-cream. Absolutely fabulous, darling.

Varenna

I'm staying in a studio apartment in the tower of a renovated villa and everything is lovely lovely lovely. Except for Mr and Mrs Snotty Englishers and their snivelling baby, that is, who are also staying somewhere in this villa. I met them in the hall when I checked in.  I say 'met' - what actually happened is that I smiled at them and said hello and helped them with their ridiculous number of bags which included helium balloons for some reason, and they both completely blanked me.  English, obviously. Very. He's a bit dim and ruddy and looks harassed.  She's got her nose in the air and a face like a smacked arse. I 'met' them again half an hour later in one of the only two grocery stores and smiled and they blanked me again.  Then I met them again an hour later in the other grocery store and did a sort of laugh/smile/we-must-stop-meeting-like-this thing and they bloody blanked me again. Now I'm bearing a grudge.

Tomorrow I'm going to ask them who won the rugby. Heh heh.

Varenna

Varenna

View from my apartment

 

Iceland Days 7&8

Day 7

Reykyavik is a very small capital city; not much larger than a town, but terribly pretty. The houses are made of timber and painted in bright colours. It seems strange to me that an island so rich in stone and rock, but so lacking in trees (there are virtually none - we encountered no forests at all) should make its houses out of wood. Especially when you consider the weather.

We visited the Viking settlement museum, then, somewhat rashly, booked a whale watching trip for the afternoon. I'm scared of rocky boats and I was crapping myself. Fortunately I got distracted by the dolphins and forgot to be scared even though it was bloody rough (and bitterly cold). We didn't see any whales, unfortunately, but it was a great trip.

Had huge Thai meal and bottle of red to warm us up when we got back. Exhausted.

Day Eight

Spent the morning lolling about in the Blue Lagoon before heading to the airport. It was as hot as a HOT bath and totally relaxing. So relaxing that Rich actually fell asleep. In the lagoon. Loved it. Loved everything. Love love love.

The End.

(P.S. Other interesting things we learned about Iceland:

The people are very tall and sane. Surprised by this because my only previous experience of Icelanders has been Björk, who's little and bonkers.

They have a weird naming system. If we were Icelandic we'd be called Lucy Dereksdaughter and Richard Charlesson. Our children would be Holly Richardsdaughter and Grace Richardsdaughter.

No trees. I already said that.

They have surreptitiously started whaling again. Minke whales mostly. The meat is targeted at tourists as an Icelandic tradition (which it's not - they only started it in the 1920s). Icelanders rarely eat whale meat. The whale watching companies are putting massive pressure on the government to ban whaling. The whaling companies and the whale-watching companies hate each other. So if you visit Iceland DO go whale-watching, but DON'T eat whale meat.

Puffins are only around from May to mid-August. Devastated by this. I love puffins.

Iceland is almost as big as the UK. We drove over 2000km during the past week. Well, when I say 'we', I mean Rich. BUT I NAVIGATED. Am brilliant at navigating. Brilliant.)

PPS Met at Heathrow by Holly. 'Your car's in the Shortstay Carpark, level 2, row K,' she says, handing us the keys and jumping on the tube into London.
There *is* no row K.

Days 5&6

Day Five

Met a wonderful black and white Siberian Husky dog this morning. She belongs to the owner of the guesthouse. She's called Milllfvággörrroósthfjürraxxyyzcc. Or something.

Signed the visitors book before we left (but after Operation Free Lunch). The entry before mine said only, in bold capitals: 'I AM FROM SOUTH KOREA'.
So maybe not quite so many Japanese as we'd thought.

Headed off west. Unfortunately it was grey and misty and the tops of the mountains were obscured, but the scenery is desolate and beautiful.

I'm reading a book called Burial Rites, by Hannah Kent, an Australian. I heard about it on the radio a few weeks ago. It's a novel based on a true story and set in Iceland in the 1820s. It's really good. We do a very small detour and drive up the valley it's set in - this is fantastic! The five farmsteads it's based around in the wide, bleak Vatnsdalshar vale are still there. I wonder how many non-Icelandic people who read that book will be privileged enough to visit its setting. None, probably. If my mind wasn't already blown, it is now.

Continue across the north west. We pass unbelievably remote farms occasionally. They all have enormous farm buildings as they have to keep their animals (sheep and ponies mainly) housed all winter. We see a reindeer.

Reach the western area and visit another crazy waterfall - this time a load of underwater rivers emerge from somewhere beneath the brilliant orange and rust of birch trees. There are literally no health and safety precautions - a slack rope has been fixed either side of the path, with signs asking people to keep off the flora, and at the end of the path the ropes disappear and you find yourself teetering on the edge of a precipitous drop over an immense waterfall. This attitude, opposite to our own 'blame culture', makes me chuckle.
'Feel free to fall to your certain agonising death, idiots, but DON'T WALK ON OUR LICHEN.'

Check in to hotel in Reykolt, a small village where Snorri Sturluson lived. Never heard of Snorri Sturluson, but apparently he was a literary big shot in 12th century Europe. It's a national chain hotel, immediately rendering it soulless and money grabbing and I have to buy 24 hours of Internet connection for 7000 Krona (means nothing to me, but sounds expensive).
It stops working just as I'm doing some VERY IMPORTANT FACEBOOK. Rich goes to investigate and turns out there's this superfit hunk from England doing some endurance training thing and Sky TV are doing some news feature on him, and they HAVE to download or upload something VERY important, using up ALL the Internet. Hmmm. I track down superhunk (who is enormous and quite hot actually) and confront him, accusing him of breaking the Internet. The sight of a crazed, slightly squiffy and obviously mad Welsh woman wearing a kaftan in a remote Icelandic valley is too much for him and he takes fright and literally runs away. I return to our room, cackling maniacally, and there's a timid knock on the door. A frightened looking producer apologises profusely and asks if I'm open to bribery. This is what he actually said. I immediately lose my advantage and the upper hand by bursting out laughing. I let him off but warn him that if my article (travel blog) doesn't get to the publishers (Facebook) by the deadline (time I'm too pissed to focus) then I'll be cross.
As it happens they only take an hour, hogging the interwebs, and the hotel refund us the 7000 Krona. Result.

Day Six

Head south towards Reykyavik, veering off inland to the Thingvillar National Park. This is on the Mid Atlantic Fault Line and there is a vast Rift Valley between the cliff-like American and Eurasion tectonic plates. It's pretty amazing to see. Weirdly this was also the site of the first democratically elected Icelandic parliament in 960AD. I think this is very suspicious. They wouldn't have known the significance of the 'cliffs' and yet they chose this area over all the other weird and wonderful (and a lot handier) Icelandic locations. Spooky. We go for a long trek around yet more amazing waterfalls and creepy flooded fissures, before heading back to the car for Operation Free Lunch.

En route to Reykyavik we stop at Alafoss, where they make wool. I want to buy some Icelandic wool and make one of those Fair Isle type jumpers (which cost about £200 here). However, when I eventually get the chance (after many missed turnings and direction-seeking stops) I decide it's too course and scratchy and I can't bear the feel of it between my fingers. Richard slightly exasperated.

Welcomed to Reykyavik with blue skies and brilliant low sunshine. We climb the cathedral tower to get our bearings and are stunned by the prettiness of colourful Reykyavik. Lovely supper, spoilt a bit by noticing Minke Whale on the menu, which makes me cross. Early night in our rather posh hotel, attempting to get through the wine we brought with us from UK, and punctuated by Rich popping out to look for the Northern Lights. No luck tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Iceland - Days 3&4

Day 3

Woke up alive, which was a relief. Was power cut in hotel at breakfast so no coffee or orange juice (it came out of a machine) so made extra large 'Operation Free Lunch' sandwiches to compensate for the inconvenience.

Continued our journey east on Route One, south of the massive (actual size of Yorkshire) Vatnajökull Glacier. Completely amazing to see ACTUAL glaciers in ACTUAL glacial valleys, just like in geography 'O' level. Cannot come to terms with it at all. They're sort of sliding, imperceptibly slowly, down the valleys - many miles wide and deep, just like candle wax. It's not snowy or icy elsewhere by the way. Just the glacier, on top of the volcanoes like the icing on the cake. In places the glacial 'tongues', as they're called (and they do look like giant icy tongues), almost reach the road. We drive past a particularly large one, in the distance to our left, with the sea on our right, and at Jökulsárlón we notice a pathway over the bank of rocks at the side of the road. We park up and clamber over the rocks and LO AND BEHOLD! A MASSIVE lake FILLED with blue and white icebergs! We stand and stare, and it's completely silent except the eery creaking of the ice and our exclamations of disbelief. It's like we just happened upon another planet.

Back on the road, we follow the coastal road towards the Eastern Fjords, with a brief detour to the lighthouse at Stokknes with the hope of spotting seals. No luck. Too bloody cold for seals. At Hofn the road takes us through a tunnel in the mountain and when we emerge the other side we find ourselves in a completely different country. Glorious sunshine reflects off the deep blue sparkly waters of the Eastern Fjords. Blinded by the low sun we have to find our sunglasses ffs. It's mental.
In and out, in and out, in and out of the fjords we drive, occasionally passing through a village, consisting of about half a dozen very colourful pre-fabricated houses. It's really beautiful. Similar to the Scottish Highlands (crossed with Lanzarote with a big glacial cherry on top).

Then up and over the mountains - we suddenly find ourselves in a snowscape - before descending into the Lagarfljót valley and a little guest house at Egilsstadir in the north east of Iceland.

Guest house doesn't have many facilities. Unlike most places, there's no 'hot pot' (similar to a hot tub but without the chlorine, bubbles or tasteless nouveau riche) and no restaurant. We have dinner in a wonderful restaurant over-looking the river, that was recommended by the guesthouse owner. It's in an old, very grand farm house, with starched table linen, crystal glasses and fabulous artwork on the walls. I have lobster soup and a stupendous fish dish. Rich has smoked goose and lamb. We share a bottle of Chianti and the whole thing comes to about £80. I say this only because Iceland has a reputation for being prohibitively expensive, but since the banks collapsed in 2009 it's actually on a par with UK. Expensive yes, but no more than the UK.

And it was a FABULOUS meal, dahhhling. FABULOUS.

Day 4

Woke feeling a little jaded. The cold tap water here is the most pure and refreshing water I've ever tasted. The hot tap water is 40 degrees and stinks of sulphur. This is a good thing because it means you can fart 'til you're blue in the face and no one points a finger at you. Not that *I* do, of course. But YOU could.

Sunshine and blue skies today. We set off, heading west, climbing up the valley. It's all oranges and browns and blues. Half an hour later and we're in a monochromatic ash- and snow-scape. It's just black and white. Not even any greys. This country is so weird. We can't work out whether the weather is changing or whether it's just entirely different in different parts of the country. Bit of both, probably.

Continue west over the mountains for a couple of hours then take sharp left, heading north up to Krafla and Leirhnjukar - a couple of volcanoes. Is mad up there. Sulphurous steam bubbles out of holes and rifts in the ground and icy snow drifts accumulate elsewhere. Having spent so many hours sitting in the car we decide to trek to the top of the still-active Leirhnjukar volcano. There's virtually no-one around as we're off-season, but the few we see are kitted out in hiking boots and appropriate cold-weather gear. They keep looking at us funny and sniggering. Okay, so I'm wearing jeans and a Topshop coat, I do at least have a pair of sheepskin boots on. Rich is wearing daps ffs. Anyway, we do it, and it's brilliant, and Rich tries to put smoking volcano out by weeing in the crater, and we get lost on the way back down, but we don't die. So. Hah. Stupid British Tourists 1, Rest of the World 0.

Eat our well-earned Operation Free Lunch sandwiches in the car then descend to Myvatn, a massive lake surrounded by weird volcanic stuff, then on to some more amazing waterfalls and then further west to Eyjafjordur - a fjord on the north coast of Iceland. We're staying in a 'country hotel' which is actually a guest house on a farm on the east coast of the fjord. Off season so no supper available here but owner directs us to restaurant in nearby Akureyri (second largest town in Iceland and about the size of Monmouth).

Lovely meal in the fifth floor restaurant overlooking the fjord. Realise we've not had any vegetables since we arrived. Also there's an awful lot of Japanese people here. And 66 golf courses. SIXTY-SIX! The total population is only 300,000 and it's dark for half the year. This country is really weird.

Iceland Days 1&2

Day One

As we haven't had a holiday this year - because we're trying (and failing) to sell our house and move to Portugal, thereby making every day a holiday - we decided on a last minute adventure road trip somewhere or other. I decided on Iceland because I've always wanted to go and I suspected that if we don't go now, we never will. We captured Holly and Grace after their summer galavanting around rural Bulgaria and made them stay at home to look after the animals and off we went. 

Arrived in Keflavik (an hour west of Reykjavik) mid afternoon, picked up a hire car and headed south, the plan being to drive around the whole of Iceland in an anticlockwise direction. 

First stop was the well-known Blue Lagoon. It's only about 15 minutes from the airport and we were driving past so we decided to have a look, although we'd already decided to visit it properly on our last day before a late afternoon flight home. 

The lagoon itself is a wonder of nature -  completely BONKERS pale blue, opaque water amongst the black volcanic rock. Gazing through at the steamy public bathing area, I was reminded of Centre Parcs, Longleat, circa 1999, but without the white water rapids. This isn't necessarily a good thing but I shall reserve judgement until I've had the full experience. 

Drove on south to the coast then headed east, then inland at Porlakshöen, and up to Hveragerdi, where we spent our first night. 'Hver' means 'hot spring' and there is an actual HOT river that runs through the town. Use is made of this to grow tropical fruit and vegetables and the town is full of huge glowing greenhouses. We stayed in a small hotel/guesthouse which was actually ON the hot river. Our timber-floored room had a balcony over-looking the river, and steam spurted out of holes and cracks in the ground on the banks. We ate supper in the little restaurant - fish gratin - then donned our swimming gear and ran outside. Beneath our balcony was a 38 degree C hot-tub and under our room was a steam room. Not a posh spa kind of steam room - an authentic one, made of stone and accessed via an outside door, with crumbly walls and sulphurous steam spurting and gurgling from a hole in the corner in an entirely unpredictable and alarming way. With the outside temperature about 6 degrees,two glasses of red on board, and the river thundering by in the darkness, it was BONKERS. 

Day Two

Lovely breakfast, with the option to take an egg outside in a little net thing on the end of a fishing rod thing and cook it yourself by dangling it in a steam hole underground for 4 minutes. Declined the offer. Launched 'Operation Free Lunch' which involved surreptitiously building ham and cheese sandwiches and hiding them up my jumper for us to eat later in the car. Huge success. Should add (for the trolls) that no way was this stealing - we have small appetites compared to most and never get our money's worth at buffet-type breakfasts. 

Drove up the Hvitá valley to Geysir. Hilarious that Richard was so surprised and delighted by this. The big Geysir, after which all geysers are named, erupts unpredictably, but its neighbour Strokkur erupts every 5-10 minutes. We watched it erupt 4 times, Richard's whoops of joy and peals of laughter undiminished each time. BONKERS. 

Continued up the valley to Gullfoss (Golden Falls). Incredible double water-fall down into hidden ravine that took us both by surprise, especially the refreshing lack of health and safety precautions. 

Was really cold up there. Rich beginning to regret bringing no hat, no gloves, no scarf and just a moleskin jacket. To Iceland. ICEland. 

Drove back down the valley and then up the next one, apparently the longest glacial valley in Europe. Apart from great views of Hekla - a volcano once thought to be the literal gateway to Hell - this proved to be a mistake. Vast plains of lava for miles in every direction and the road turned into a gravel road halfway which meant driving 26 km at 15 mph. 

Rejoined Route 1, the circular route around Iceland, and headed east along the south coast. Stopped at two more spectacular waterfalls, both of which cascaded off the foothills of the Eyjafjalla volvano - that's the fecker that kept us stranded in India in 2010. Then on past Katla, its neighbour and big brother volcano, that historically always erupts shortly after Eyjafjalla. Look out, Europe, she's gonna blow any minute. It's covered in a huge glacier and glacial fingers drape down the valleys like melting wax. Rich and I try to outdo each other by coming out with geographical terms we remember from 'O' level geography. I lose when I point to a pile of rocks and say 'tundra'. Apparently. Although I'm still not convinced. 

On to Dyrhólaey, the southernmost tip of Iceland. Spectacular. Black sands. Fierce winds. Biting cold. And NO PUFFINS. Bitterly disappointed. I love puffins. 

Back on route 1 and headed east. Vast desolate ash plains for ten miles to our right and five miles to our left and a two hour drive across it to our next destination. Needed petrol. Or was it diesel? Didn't say anywhere. Checked hire car document  - 'diesel' box definitely crossed. Diesel pump wouldn't fit in tank. Concluded it must be petrol DESPITE WHAT DOCUMENTATION SAID. Set off across deserted vast plains in the failing light and driving rain, convinced car going to conk out and we'd be stranded (and bankrupted) and probably die. Like a couple of idiots. But we did it anyway. Phewee. It's seemingly a petrol car and documentation is wrong. Convinced now that car hire company did it on purpose because we refused to take out extra insurance. Bastards. 

Eventually found hotel at Hoff. The Hoff Hotel. Nestled in the foothills of Vatnajökull, the biggest glacier in Europe, looking out over 10 miles of ash, and in the middle of absolutely nowhere, it reminded me A LOT of the hotel in The Shining. 

Arrived at 7pm and restaurant was 'shut'. Only place to eat was back at Skaftafell - a petrol station about 20 km back the way we came. Had cheeseburger and chips in typical Icelandic fashion, bought a hat for Rich, then returned to our hotel. Fortunately we have a box of wine in our suitcase as at time of writing am convinced can hear child tricycling around the corridors and am fully expecting 'Jonny' to make an unforgettable entrance with an axe.