February 2018 brought me to Iceland, where winter paints the landscape in tones of white, steel, and deep black. The south coast became my road, each stop unfolding into a scene more otherworldly than the last.
We began with waterfalls. Seljalandsfoss shimmered like a curtain of glass, spilling from a high cliff into snow-dusted fields below. Even in the brittle cold, its spray caught the light, making it seem alive and shifting. Not far away, Skógafoss thundered, powerful and unwavering. Standing before it, you feel its immensity not just with your eyes but in your chest, where the sound reverberates like a drumbeat.The coast drew us further. At Reynisfjara Beach, the Atlantic roared against black volcanic sand, the basalt stacks jutting from the sea like sentinels. From there, the distant arch of Dyrhólaey was just visible through the winter haze, a reminder of how the land here is constantly sculpted by water and time.
We passed through the small town of Vík, a quiet pocket of color and warmth tucked into the edge of so much raw landscape. By evening, we reached our accommodation at Fosshótel Núpar, nestled in the wide silence of the countryside. Waking up to the low winter light breaking over snowfields was almost as memorable as any landmark.
The journey eastward led us to one of Iceland’s most surreal places: Breiðamerkursandur, better known as Diamond Beach. Glacial ice from Jökulsárlón washes up here, stranded on the black sand like shards of crystal. Some pieces were clear as glass, others glowing blue from within, each one unique and fleeting as the tide slowly returned them to the sea.
Just across the road, we climbed to the Jökulsárlón viewpoint (Útsýnisstaður yfir Jökulsárlón). From above, the lagoon stretched out, filled with floating icebergs that drifted slowly toward the ocean. The whole scene was hushed, the only sounds the crack of shifting ice and the calls of seabirds tracing the horizon.
The return journey gave time to seek out a quiet dark area to see the aurora borealis. Streaking green and violet across the darkness. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of standing beneath a living sky, light moving as though painted in real time. For a moment, the world felt infinite, as though Iceland had pulled back the curtain and let us glimpse something beyond.
A final highlight came with the raw power of Gullfoss Falls and the nearby Strokkur Geyser. Gullfoss is all roaring energy, a double cascade plunging into a frozen canyon, throwing mist into the air that crystallizes in the cold. In contrast, Strokkur feels alive in another way — building tension in silence before erupting, a great column of steaming water bursting upward every few minutes. Both places reminded me that Iceland is constantly moving, breathing, reshaping itself, even in the grip of winter.
Iceland’s south coast in winter feels like a world on pause — stark, untamed, but also full of subtle moments of light and movement. Each stop left an imprint, as though the land itself tells stories written in water, stone, and ice.