Perhaps it is the photo I cherish most, among the many taken in the magical Iceland. It brings back memories of a trip inland, which, up there, is like going to the moon.
Extreme territories, uninhabited, barren, furrowed by copious streams that you have to Ford, subjected to a repelling and unpredictable climate. Snowfalls are possible even in summer. I drove the hundred or so kilometres to the geothermal area of Hveravellir, the largest on the island, in a small Suzuki Jimny – rented for the occasion – in a downpour. The countless large potholes on the dirt road were filled to the brim. You stood in front of them, one after the other, and you never knew how deep they were. You would enter them slowly, praying that they were not too deep, and each time it was a strong emotion, which, honestly, I would have preferred to avoid. In the meantime, the torrential rain continued, harder and harder. I had never seen such a downpour. Eventually the journey ended without any major inconveniences and, once up there, I stayed a few days sleeping in a tent and exploring, enchanted, the wonder of that place that never ceased to amaze me. But it was the right light that was my obsession. It was her I was looking for. One day, suddenly, the temperature dropped and reached minus 8 degrees. In the morning I found my tent and the landscape transformed by a dusting of powdery snow.
The return trip was even more adventurous and full of emotions than the outward journey, because the freezing temperature had turned the road into an almost continuous layer of ice, forcing me into a slow and tortuous chase.
