understood why this is the favorite activity of the descendants of the Vikings .
The Golden Circle , the most visited tourist circuit in Iceland , includes the Gulfoss waterfall , the wonderful splashes of water of Geysir and Þingvellir , seat of the first democratic parliament in the world . All fantastic , but never as much as the idea of having a roof over our heads . We took advantage of the invitation of dear friends who have lived for a long time in the northernmost capital of the globe , and head quickly to Reykjavik . I found it almost difficult to move in the highly educated city traffic after so many days of state roads without queues . We strolled among the colourful houses of the centre and enjoyed all sorts of comforts ; we gorged ourselves on an excellent hot dinner without worrying that the wind would take away dishes from our plate and we sank into the warmth of a real bed .
The writer Jules Verne could not have chosen a more beautiful place of the Snæfellsnes peninsula to set the prologue of his novel " Journey to the Centre of the Earth ". Volcanic peaks , golden beaches and lava fields make this strip of land a concentrate of all that Iceland can offer . The village of Stykkishólmur overlooks the bay of Breiðafjörður which , according to local legend , is home to the other thing in the world impossible to count beyond the stars in the sky : the islands contained in the wide channel . The leaden sky and the wet road enhanced the colours of the rainbow that we crossed with the motorbike as we said goodbye to the Kirkjufell , a particular rock formation that resembles the dome of a church , and the waterfall of the same name at its foot .
The western fjords summarise the wild essence of the island . From Hólmavík we followed the Strandir coast ; the dirt road ran along beaches covered with logs that arrived here from Siberia , up to the abandoned factory of Djupavik which stands in front of a waterfall and the vertical walls of the amphitheater . The road wound its way through the fjords and rolling hills before stopping abruptly at Krossneslaug where we found an ocean-view hot tub at which it was impossible to resist .
We walked the entire circumnavigation of the Ísafjarðardjúp following the thin strip of asphalt that skims the waters on which the snow-capped peaks are reflected . The creeks are so small that it seems to follow through the teeth of a fine comb . In Litlibaer we stopped to watch the seals basking on the rocks a few metres from us .
After Ísafjörður , the only real town in the area , a dirt road branched off from the coast to cross the mountains of the Þingeyri peninsula . Dynjandi appeared to us from afar , opening in a wide fan with a rocky escarpment more than 100 metres high . With eyes imbued with so much beauty , we didn ’ t give weight to the sign that defined ' mountain gravel road ’ in front of us . We found ourselves in a cold hell : as if the steep bends and the slippery ground weren ' t enough , we were enveloped by the fog that obstructed the view of the poles that marked the slope , while the gusts of wind prevented any attempt to drive on the platforms . Under buckets of water , we reached the Látrabjarg cliff , considered the westernmost point in Europe . Here the 400m high coast plunges into the sea ; the ideal place for Puffins who feel so comfortable that they can be photographed from a few steps away . Despite the difficulties of the road , we would also go down to Rauðisandur beach to be enchanted by its sand rich in shades from red to pink .
Probably driven by the boredom of being stuck for two days between the tent and communal areas of the
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