Iceland in Winter
"How did you come up with that?" a friend asked when I told him I’d be flying to Iceland the next day. "It’s freezing there—minus twenty or something—and it’s New Year’s Eve. What are you going to do there alone?”
I don’t often ask myself those kinds of questions, but I understood his point. "I need to go. Now. I need to feel the elements. The cold, the ice, the fire, the lava, the wind, the water, the sea. I want to stand in the middle of it all. I need to feel it, breathe it in, taste it—or my heart will freeze.”
Sometimes I speak like a poet fueled by wanderlust.
After endless waiting, I took off from Schiphol: landing in Iceland doesn’t follow a human clock. "This is where it begins," I thought. "Here, you follow nature’s rhythm—not the other way around."
Though Iceland’s name speaks for itself, I was awestruck by how thoroughly this land was blanketed in white and blue—ice and water as far as I could see.
A meter outside the airport, Iceland’s winter greeted me. Snow deeper than a Dutchman is tall, with buses on wheels bigger than jeeps. The sidewalks were lined with people in Uggs and heavy-duty hiking boots, pulling trolleys and shouldering backpacks. It was 5 p.m., and I wondered what New Year’s Eve would look like here.
A lot of fireworks. I don’t think there’s a country in the world that matches Iceland’s enthusiasm for New Year’s Eve pyrotechnics. Apparently, it’s a tradition. I stood by the Hallgrimskirkja—Reykjavik’s landmark church, a beautifully simple structure that, to me, resembled an elegant ancient temple. I realized that, despite invasions or outside influences, you can never strip away people’s roots. Thankfully.
I took in the geometric architecture of the church and shared a warm drink with locals and tourists gathered to watch the fireworks. I asked one of them where to go the next day. "Take a walk around Reykjavik," they suggested.
The next day, I set off. Thermal layers, two hats, two pairs of gloves, a banana, and a bottle of water. I was ready. My first sight, with only four precious hours of daylight, was Reykjavik’s shoreline—a striking blend of white, gray, and blue. The air cracked my lungs, and I breathed deeper than ever. "I need to be out on that sea," I thought, and headed for the harbor. A boat was just about to leave, and I asked if I could join. The sailor looked at my jeans and nodded, pointing toward a coat on board.
As we departed, a storm arose. I asked if we should turn back, but the sailor waved my concern away with a laugh. I could stand on the deck like his colleague if I wanted. The "storm" turned out to be five intense minutes of wind, ice, and water, and then we saw the majestic fin of a distant humpback. "The’tta reddast!" the sailor cheered. Everything does, indeed, turn out alright.
Back on shore, I decided to walk around the city and perhaps join a day hike further inland. The beach around Reykjavik was a vision of powdery snow, black pebbles, and frozen waves, as though thick sheets of glass were washing up again and again. Beyond lay an expanse of gray, merging with the sky.
After an hour, I grew hungry and thirsty. My banana and water bottle had frozen. My jeans were wet. So much for the adventurer in me. I headed back into the city, looking for local gear, a coffee, and a plan.
The next day, I was picked up by Thorei, an Icelandic woman who guides people with her 4x4. I found her through the Couchsurfing Community. Thorei was fantastic. No-nonsense, sturdy, with wild curly hair in a bright red snowsuit. "The baseline in Iceland is equality," she said. "Try to survive here without it. The first men and women who came had to be equally strong and resilient. It’s all teamwork here; nature rules, and you listen, or you die." "I want to live here," I thought.
Thorei took me to Thingvellir, where Asia and Europe’s tectonic plates meet. Once, the island’s chieftains gathered here, and I understood why. Silence in Iceland has a vastness to it. When night encroaches on day, in minus twenty degrees, everything breathes silence. Only the rocks look at you, and you look back. You don’t move a stone without thought; there’s life within it. Covered in ancient moss in summer and cloaked in winter ice, these rocks bear witness.
We continued to Haukadalur, where steam rises from the ground. The geothermal fields breathe sulfur in countless vapor trails, with boiling rivers cutting through ice. Flecks of green moss, yellow sand, and black rocks emerge in sharp, fleeting shapes.
On the way to Blàskogabyggd, we stopped at a horse farm. A simple rectangular building in an endless icy plain, with a feed trough where magnificent Icelandic horses munched. "Pet one!" Thorei laughed. I’d never touched a horse with such a thick, double-layered coat, an inner layer that felt sturdy and oily, with an outer layer of drier, longer hairs for insulation. Icelanders are one with their horses, I realized. They’re free. They roam in summer and are sheltered closer to home in winter. I made a mental note to join an autumn trek one day.
Our drive continued to Grimsnes-og Grafningshreppur. (One day, I’ll learn Icelandic.) I’d never seen a frozen waterfall before, and the sight brought me to tears. So much space. So much air. So much white. So much ice. So much nothingness—and everything. It was, at that moment, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. The familiar shapes in the frozen forms. The lines in clay, sand, and ice. Our brains are trained to recognize patterns.
Back in Reykjavik, I bid Thorei farewell and spent my last day wandering the streets, images of ice, steam, rock, and water still fresh in my mind. Reykjavik’s low buildings are charming; the architecture a cross between gingerbread houses and Eastern Bloc structures, with murals in Thingholt reinforcing that impression. The city feels simple, authentic, without pretense. Except for the Harpa building—a stunning concert hall that stands above the rest without arrogance. Its glass construction echoes the island’s elements, offering a moment of peace in the city.
I flew home with a backpack full of stones and a head full of images. Back in my studio, I searched for a glaze that could capture both rock and water. I didn’t know what form it would take—a tile, a vase, a sculpture?
The experience ultimately translated into two tiles and a dinnerware collection:
- The Lava Tile, a rugged gray wall tile, brings the essence of Iceland’s rockscapes into your living room, office, or bedroom. Each tile is a miniature landscape, with the glaze cracking and bubbling in unique patterns, like a volcanic surface—one of my favorites.
- The Glacier Tile, a smooth, glossy tile with a hint of light blue and delicate crackles, recalls the frozen waves along the shoreline. As a wall tile, it brings a soft, bluish glow to any room.
- The Dinnerware Collection brings together lava and ice. The sturdy plates, bowls, and mugs are designed to withstand the elements, inspired by Iceland’s robust beauty. The clay is embedded with crushed stone, visible through the glaze, making it a resilient yet delicate collection—just like nature itself.