Free Play in Iceland: A horse ride through the country’s rugged wilderness is an adventure like no other

When Haukur Suska-Garoarsson, the weathered owner of Hvammur farm in the Vatnsdalur valley, passes a certain spot on horseback, he always crosses himself.

No wonder. The valley, an extinct volcanic crater in the northwestern region of Hunavatnssysla, was the site of Iceland’s last execution in 1830, when two farm workers were beheaded for a double crime of passion. A representative was sent from each homestead to attend the execution. No one was allowed to look away.

Iceland is no place for shyness, as my friend Gavin and I discovered on a five-day horseback riding adventure through the beautifully macabre wilderness.

The landscape in this extraordinary country can be confronting: vast, treeless plains and high mountains. You can’t hide – especially not from yourself.

But we didn’t complain. We were looking for a physical challenge so we booked through Unicorn Trails who specialize in horseback riding adventures. A gifted but humble rider in my youth, I easily adapted to the trail. Gavin, who had never set foot near a horse before, would impress anyone with his determination.

We flew to Reykjavik and stayed at the four-story Icelandair Hotel Reykjavik Marina, a leading eco-certified ‘green hotel’.

Our room was spacious and incredibly fragrant (L’Occitane everywhere). With its palatial bathroom, thick sheepskin rugs and tranquil view of Faxaflo Bay, it brought tears to Gavin, a music producer who works in garage-style recording studios.

Outside, the strings of lights connecting the low, brightly colored wooden buildings stood out like pearls against the sky. The North Atlantic was black and still as a mirror.

Early the next morning, the manager of Hvammur farm, whose name I misread as Stinky, came to take us to the farm, three hours northeast of Reykjavik, where we stayed for four nights. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I have five children and thirteen grandchildren, and that makes me the richest person. Buckle up.”

Seventeen other riders, mostly women under 30, piled in and we traveled across the tundra under a fishy sky, broken only by granite mountains and the occasional red farm (bright colors help them stand out against the snow ). The air smells of flowers.

Gavin and I got our own room, others shared a room. The large, well-equipped kitchen became the focal point – the food was simple and excellent, and all sensitivities (coeliac, dairy intolerance, etc.) were catered for with great charm. In the evening Haukur played the guitar and we all sang along with songs about drunken men, horses and elves – English lyrics, text sheets were lovingly provided.

Antonella flew to Reykjavik (pictured) and stayed at the four-story Icelandair Hotel Reykjavik Marina, a world-leading eco-certified ‘green hotel’.

During the trips we got a deep insight into the life of the traditional Icelandic farmers.

Because our horses were chosen for us—a combination of human and equine characters, if you will—the experience was tailor-made. Days started at ten o’clock when we found our horses, mounted and left.

Three to six hours a day we drove about 100 horses 20 to 24 miles from farm to farm, just for lunch and to change horses.

The rides, while relatively easy in relation to the terrain, were challenging. Beginners are strongly advised to take lessons before flying out and to bring trousers, riding boots, gloves, hats, parkas and warm, tight undershirts that can be worn over each other. We drove over black volcanic sand, swam in blue water with seals near Hvitserkur rock and marveled at Hvammsfoss waterfall.

The highlight was riding horses through Lake Hunavatn in the protective gear provided. Knee deep in that rippling, silvery water on horseback, I was overcome with wonder.

Late one afternoon, I watched as Gavin gradually slipped like the hands of a clock under his mare, who was patiently waiting for him to come out.

As part of the tour, Antonella swam in blue water with seals near Hvitserkur rock (photo)

He hopped into the saddle, stiff as a boiling egg, and gripped the pommel so tightly that his hands were clawed.

I resigned out of solidarity. Neither of us realized that we were standing on the threshold of a swamp that had to be crossed on foot. I took a step and, surprised that my rubber riding boot slipped, I fell flat on my face.

At this point we started laughing so hard that I fell backwards into another puddle. On our last night, Gavin and I spent several hours in the hot tub, wearing woolly hats.

None of us had experienced anything like it: enveloped in absolute silence and pure air, the shadow of the dark granite mountains on our right, while above us the ghosts of the early Northern Lights spread like bright green smoke in the air.

We felt renewed.