Field Notes from Iceland: A Slow First Day - Blue Lagoon, Hotel Berg, & Hvalsnes Church
Twenty-five years into a marriage, Kyle and I celebrated the way we seem to celebrate most things, with a map, a few destinations in mind, comfortable shoes, and time to wander.
Over the next couple of weeks, we traveled through Iceland, France, Switzerland, Italy, and Germany. We weren’t trying to see everything. In fact, I’ve become less interested in checking places off a list and more interested in letting a place unfold slowly enough that I might actually remember it.
I like long breakfasts.
A good bakery.
An art exhibit that changes the way I think.
A hike that ends with food.
The tiny details that never make it into guidebooks.
I’m also a firm believer that vacations should still feel like vacations. We rested in hotel rooms during the hottest part of the day. I sketched. I wrote. We lingered over coffee. We occasionally took the easier train, the taxi, or the extra hour because sometimes protecting your energy is part of the journey too.
I travel somewhere between practical and curious. Not luxury. Not backpacking. Somewhere in the middle, where I can justify a beautiful meal after a long walk but still think twice before buying the fancy cheese because I have to carry it across another country.
These won’t be travel guides, though I hope they might become good companions if you are planning a trip of your own. I spend an embarrassing amount of time researching before we go, following little threads until they lead to a family-run hotel, a small bakery, a lakeside swim hole. I’ll try to share those links whenever I can, in case they save you some wandering. If these stories lead you somewhere, or remind you of somewhere you’ve already been, I hope you’ll tell me about it; I’d love to hear from you.
So consider these field notes from someone who loves art, history, old churches, bookstores, wildflowers, local food, and the stories people tell about the places they call home.
If you’re looking for the ten things you must do, I probably won’t be much help.
So we’ll begin where we began.
Iceland.
Three words stayed with me after those first two days:
Lava. Legends. Light.
Black lava stretched farther than I imagined possible, softened by fields of purple lupine. We rented a car and drove out to the Blue Lagoon.
Blue Lagoon
We soaked travel-weary bodies in the milky-blue water of the Blue Lagoon, and it ruined me. For now, it will be the balm for every international flight and will only be available in Iceland. After a good soak and some coffee in the cafe, we kept driving along coastal roads to a little black stone church whose cemetery overlooked the sea.
Hvalsneskirkja (Hvalsnes Church, 1887)
sits on the southern tip of the Reykjanes Peninsula, only about 15 minutes from the Keflavík Airport. What made it unforgettable was the contrast between the dark lava stone and its pale trim, surrounded by fields of blooming lupine. It felt like it had grown out of the earth itself. The church sits next to a beautifully kept cemetery overlooking the sea. Hvalsnes is a fishing community, so many of those buried there belong to families whose lives are tied to the North Atlantic. Standing among the graves, you can hear seabirds, smell salt air, and feel the constant Icelandic wind. It was peaceful.
I read that Hvalsnes means “Whale Point”. (hvalur = whale, nes = penisula or headland). The coastline around the church, long associated with whales and the sea, gives that place an ancient, almost mythic feeling. But unlike some Icelandic sites famous for elves and trolls, I could not find one dominant folklore story. Instead, it seemed to carry the quieter mythology that runs through so much of Iceland… the sense that the landscape is still alive.
The lava fields, weathered cliffs, and solitary boulders invite a kind of respect. In Icelandic tradition, unusual rocks are often associated with the “huldufólk,” the “hidden people,” and whether you believe those stories literally almost doesn’t matter. Standing there, it's easy to see why they exist.
Near the edge of the cemetery stands an old carved stone that I never fully understood. One side holds the image of a haloed figure, and the other a face that catches the light differently from every angle you view it. I searched later for the story behind it and couldn’t find one. Some places are generous enough to offer mystery without insisting on an explanation. Still, curiosity has a way of lingering. If you know its story or know someone who does, I hope you’ll share it, leave a comment, or reach out. I’d love to keep learning, and I’ll update the post so the next curious traveler can know more too.
From there we followed another Icelandic tradition, one that required far less contemplation and a lot more mustard.
Pylsa
We drove into Keflavík to Pylsuvagninn, a tiny hot dog stand tucked beside a neighborhood park. Iceland’s famous pylsa is made from a blend of lamb, beef, and pork, topped with crispy fried onions, sweet brown mustard, remoulade, raw onions, and ketchup. It may sound simple, but somehow it becomes exactly the meal you want after exploring.
Lucky for us, the sun was shining, and we carried our hot dogs to a picnic table overlooking the park. It was unhurried, and we could let the flavor complexities sink in.
Before heading to the hotel, we stopped at a neighborhood grocery within walking distance from the park. The grocery store or food market is always one of my favorite things to do in a new country. We gathered skyr, fruit, and a few unfamiliar candies and chips, whose names I still can’t pronounce, to bring back to the hotel to tide us over to bedtime and to ease the early morning departure. Sometimes I feel like simple groceries and market foods tell you as much about a place as museums sometimes do.
Hotel Berg
That evening we checked into Hotel Berg, a small boutique hotel overlooking the harbor. The rooms are simple and comfortable, but what makes the place memorable is its quiet location and warm rooftop pool overlooking the landscape. If your flight arrives in the morning like ours, it is an ideal first night. Close enough to the airport to make the next day’s departure easy, but far enough away that you begin to feel you arrived somewhere rather than simply landed.
Our bodies were begging for sleep at this point; instead we chose one more walk.
Just beyond the harbor is “The Giantess in the Cave” (Stekkjarkot), one of the most charming little surprises in Keflavík. I won’t spoil what waits inside; you should discover her for yourself, but I will tell you she is less a tourist attraction than a love letter to childhood.
She was created by a local elementary school teacher, Sigríður Guðmundsdóttir, who wanted children (and children at heart) to step into a story rather than simply hear one. Icelandic folklore is filled with trolls and giants, and this gentle giantess has become the keeper of the harbor, watching over the children as they grow.
One story from inside the cave I will share is that I learned local families often bring a child’s pacifier here when the child is ready to give it up. The giantess, they say, keeps them safe. It’s a small ritual of growing up, one that feels perfectly at home in a country where stories are still allowed to live in ordinary places.
By then we could barely keep our eyes open. Back at Hotel Berg, we crawled into bed, thankful for blackout curtains against the midnight sun, our internal clocks completely confused, and the scent of geothermal water still lingering on our skin.
Comments