Testing Friendships on Holiday in Iceland
We should have trusted the man at Avis car rental in Reykjavík airport. He examined our itinerary closely — volcano, glacier, black-sand beach — and insisted on an all-wheel-drive car with every conceivable airbag. We thought he was being melodramatic. He stressed the importance of always parking “into the wind” as the gusts get so strong that the moment we try to get out of the car, the wind will rip the door off. We smiled, nodded and did not believe him. He probably wanted to sell us the more expensive insurance.
An hour later, we were happily forgetting everything he had told us while bobbing around in the Blue Lagoon’s steaming thermal waters, feeling healed and scrubbed clean, our bodies weightless. I had come to Iceland with nine old school friends, men and women, all of us in our mid-thirties. None of us had children yet, or any major responsibilities, but there was a sense that these things were coming for us — and so this holiday felt freighted with high expectations. We had booked this particular week in March because we’d been told of a once-in-a-decade confluence of atmospheric conditions, resulting in a uniquely high chance of witnessing the aurora borealis. This prediction had been correct; everyone we met when we arrived, from bar staff and hoteliers to drunk men in the street, regaled us with a story of just how extraordinary the northern lights had been the night before. The whole of Reykjavík had been awash in ribbons of ethereal wonder. Green and blue tendrils flowed freely through the sky while we were packing our bags in London.
Perhaps it was this early disappointment that made us particularly, unhealthily, motivated to get through everything planned, even as the weather closed in. Driving slowly into the night, we arrived at our next hotel after dark, missing dinner. At this speed, we knew we’d barely reach the glacier before having to turn back to catch our flight. But no one wanted to suggest lowering our ambitions, so we kept going — into crosswinds that tried to wrestle the steering wheel from my hands.
On our third day, we went snorkelling between tectonic plates. It was grey and cold, and my memory of the safety briefing is hazy thanks to my dry suit being so tight at the neck it cut off the circulation to my brain. My friend interrupted the instructor to ask if it was OK that my lips had turned blue. I was given a new suit, then we gritted our teeth and jumped in. The temperature of the water was just above zero and, as we stiffly kicked our way through the frozen crevasse, we saw not one living thing. Correction. We saw 10 living things: we, human animals, clawing through a barren greyscape in the name of recreation. Again, this experience should have made us rethink our plans. But we kept going east — into the weather.
I was driving fast on a long, straight stretch with steep ditches on either side when we hit black ice. The car fishtailed across the road, barrelling at 60mph into a white-out. My life did flash before my eyes. Then it flashed again, as we stayed skidding for a long time. In fact, I had time to remember what the Avis man told me. I steered into the skid. The tyres gained traction. We drove on, breathing hard, grateful for the all-wheel drive.
On our fifth day, we finally reached the glacier and the black-sand beach and they were, I can confirm, astonishing. We walked among the ice-melt boulders — sublime natural sculptures, as if Henry Moore had been out here with an icepick — then we briefly hiked up the glacier, comprehending our insignificance in the face of its awesome power. Although these sights were remarkable, there was also a sense of relief. We’d seen what we came to, and so we could all agree to immediately turn round and start the drive back.
The weather didn’t improve and, on the final morning, we were still 200 miles from the airport. Our flight was in the evening and all we needed, really, was a good three or fours on the road and we’d get there on time. All we needed, really, was not to be blown off the road in a snow storm.
We were blown off the road in a snow storm.
Or, more accurately, our friends were. We were at the rear of the convoy, watching their car spin out and slide into a snowdrift. A low-speed accident, no one hurt, no airbags deployed — but the car was stuck. With the wind screaming at our windows, we parked up and discussed the situation. We checked our watches and the price of a new flight — and made a few calculations.
I volunteered to break the news. As I stepped out, the wind did its best to pull the car door off its hinges. It took all my weight to close it. I could barely stay on my feet as I skittered across the frozen road. Then the wind started taking my clothes off. This is not an exaggeration. A wild gust lifted my T-shirt and jumper up over my head so I was, for a moment, flailing around in the middle of an iced-over highway, blindfolded and half-naked.
I eventually squeezed into the backseat of the other car. Our friends were shaken up but basically fine. At least that’s what I told myself as I explained our decision. As they weren’t hurt, we were going to help them call roadside assistance and then leave them here, waiting to be rescued, while we cracked on to the airport. That’s what friends are for. I’m not sure if I made eye contact while saying any of this. I don’t remember them complaining, either, but they later told me that the sight of our car slowly fading into the whiteness was one of the saddest things they’d ever seen.
We all made it to the flight on time, but I’m not sure the block of ice in our friendship group ever truly melted. You learn who your real friends are in times of great trauma. And none of us liked what we learned.
We also never told them what happened to us after we left them behind. It turned out that the storm and winds were highly localised. In the very next valley, there had been brilliant sunshine and a sky of pristine blue: the best weather of the week. We stopped for a restorative lunch and then took a quick stroll to see a waterfall. It was unforgettable. We did feel bad, though. We talked about them and wished them luck. They would want us to have good time, wouldn’t they? We lay down in the snow to make angels.
Joe Dunthorne’s new book, Children of Radium, is out in the spring. This piece appears in the Winter 2024 issue of Esquire, out now
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