The first time I saw the coast of Vík, my mind struggled to process such beauty. A powerful energy had once swept through the place, leaving its mark in every detail — in the black sand, in the restless sea, and in the cliff face itself, its dark basalt twisting against the waves, alive with the calls of seagulls and puffins. Time itself seemed to pause so that every synapse could fire at full speed, trying to take it all in.
On Víkurfjara beach, my eyes wandered endlessly, unable to settle anywhere. Yet somehow, what I captured was the Reynisdrangar — the sea stacks that, according to legend, were trolls turned to stone by the sun as they tried to drag a ship ashore — a fragment of a scene far greater than any single frame could hold.

Reykjavik had always been a dream of mine, and the moment I set foot in Iceland, it felt truly magical—almost unreal. That night, close to midnight, the city was still alive with a soft, ethereal light, as if time itself had paused. It was one of those rare moments in life when you feel something entirely new, like seeing the world through a child’s eyes again, full of wonder and discovery. I’m in love with this place.

After an afternoon exploring Skógafoss — and even catching a surprise marriage proposal! — we were heading back to Vík when we decided to take a little detour. We made our way to the base of Mýrdalsjökull, a glacier that quietly rests over a volcano. We sat on a bench to eat our sandwiches — mine was tuna — and I watched a group of hikers slowly making their way across the ice. I couldn’t stop staring at the contrast between the bright ice and the dark volcanic ash. They’re total opposites, but together, they’re absolutely hypnotizing.

During a quick stop by Castlegregory (Ireland), the sun lured us to have a look on Maharees Beach to contemplate the mountains of Dingle peninsula. Among surfers, horse riders and probably some other tourists, we stood there, silenced by the raw beauty of the Dingle mountains meeting the sea.

After nearly a week in Iceland, we had a mission: follow the locals’ tip to Vestmannaeyjar. Our brave little Suzuki Jimny—our rental, nicknamed “Matilda" — carried us out at dawn, but the gauge dipped and there was nowhere to fill up. The island plan faded, but the mountains took our breath away anyway.