Water isn't just water in Iceland. It falls in icy blue ribbons, drifts past the main highway as icebergs, erupts from the earth as steam, offers warm spots to bathe and arrives sideways in stormy weather. For Icelanders, this is part of everyday life. For travellers, this is the reason they visit.
We arrive in late March, when the country sits suspended between seasons. The first hints of spring soften the edges of winter, but the cold wind still swirls around with a sharpness. My family are here for 12 days, road-tripping along the southern coast from the capital Reykjavik, in the country's south-west, to Hofn in the east, with a side trip through West Iceland. Much of our 1200-kilometre journey follows the Ring Road, a two-lane highway that circles the country, linking waterfalls, glaciers, volcanoes and fishing villages. We're waterproofed from head to toe, prepared for a country where weather can swing from sunshine to downpour within minutes.
Leaving Keflavik International Airport in an SUV from Lava Car Rental, there's an almost fitting symmetry that within minutes we are driving through a lava field. In 2024, lava from the Sundhnukur eruption flowed across this road, reaching the outskirts of the town of Grindavik. "It looks like cookies and cream ice-cream," my 10-year-old daughter excitedly suggests from the back seat. Snow has settled across the landscape, but the relentless Icelandic wind has swept the tops clear, exposing black rock beneath.
In less than an hour, we're wearing hard hats with head torches, descending a rocky staircase into the darkness of Raufarholshellir, an ancient lava tunnel. A large eruption more than 5000 years ago caused the molten lava to completely drain away, leaving behind a hollowed-out passageway. As we move deeper into the tunnel, our guide has us switch off our head torches and stand in complete stillness. "A sort of mindfulness," he chuckles.
My daughter's hand immediately slides into mine; the darkness swallows us. Fifteen metres beneath solid rock, there is absolute silence. No echo bounces off the walls. The lava rock and shape of the tunnel absorb every sound. It feels both awe-inspiring and eerie. We're told of a couple who, about 10 years ago, got lost after their iPhone light died. They eventually got out but I'm very happy we are here with a guide.
The snow-dusted paths of Thingvellir, about an hour's drive north-east of the lava tunnel, mark the boundary between the North American and the Eurasian tectonic plates. Here, the ground hasn't just cracked, it has split into giant jagged fissures where the Earth is slowly pulling itself apart. We walk through the Almannagja rift, a canyon-like fault line. You can snorkel or scuba dive here too, in the clear glacial water between the continents. Thingvellir is also where Iceland's parliament first met in the year 930, though that sense of significance is lost on the kids, who are busy timing who can run the fastest between continents.
We rejoin the Ring Road to where Iceland's water forces take centre stage. At Gullfoss, one of Iceland's most recognisable waterfalls, a windy viewing platform hangs above the canyon walls. From here, the scale of the gorge becomes immense, as does the roar of the icy water plummeting 32 metres in a two-tiered drop. Amid the spray and wind, the children test the limits of their "cricketing arm", determined to see if they can throw snowballs into the river far below.
I find myself wondering what Sigridur Tomasdottir would think of the falls now being a tourist attraction. Known as Iceland's first environmentalist, she fought to protect Gullfoss in the early 20th century when foreign investors wanted to harness the waterfall for hydroelectric power. The story goes that she threatened to throw herself into the falls if construction proceeded. It never did.
Another close by attraction is Strokkur, a geyser that erupts every nine minutes, launching superheated water and steam 40 metres into the air. Crowds gather in a tight ring, cameras raised, ready to catch the earth's exhale. We slip away from the main platform to a quieter edge, where small geothermal pools bubble in light blues and milky turquoise, ringed by sulphurous mud.
Driving along the coast, it's hard to miss Skogafoss, a towering curtain of water known for its thunderous roar and its misty rainbows. Beyond the crowds at the base, we huff and puff, hauling ourselves up a steep 527-step staircase. At the top, Waterfall Way begins, a 16-kilometre trail dotted with 25 waterfalls. Every little while the children call out, "Another waterfall!" before racing ahead to the next viewpoint.
On the other side of these waterfall-cut mountains is flat land that gives way to black sand beaches and the sea. We drive to Reynisfjara, named one of the world's top 10 non-tropical beaches. Here, black volcanic sand lies beneath towering basalt cliffs. Sea stacks rise dramatically from the icy Atlantic, which Icelandic folklore says were once trolls caught dragging a ship ashore. We stay well back from the water's edge, as "sneaker waves" can surge far up the shoreline without warning. There are many warning signs, but sadly these waves have still claimed the lives of several visitors over the years.
Hugging the coast on the drive out to Dyrholaey peninsula, the road almost dips beneath flowing meltwater, a reminder of how quickly this headland can be isolated in storms and why a well-suited hire car matters. In summer, this promontory is alive with cliff-nesting puffins, but at this time of year the skies are empty and so the focus shifts to the landscape itself - a beautiful monochrome world. Low grey clouds press down on black sand and white-capped waves smash into basalt cliffs. Above us, geese cut through the sky in a V formation, flapping hard against the wind as if they're trying to lift the weather for us.
The further east we travel, the more obvious the influence of Iceland's glaciers becomes. Meltwater streams crisscross the landscape, outwash plains stretch towards the sea, and eventually the road delivers us to Jokulsarlon glacier lagoon, a vast lake formed when a nearby glacier began to melt and retreat, leaving a basin filled with meltwater. Large pieces of ice regularly calve away from the glacier, falling into the lagoon as floating icebergs. Seals weave between them, occasionally hauling themselves onto a berg to bask in the muted light.
Over time, the smaller icebergs drift through a narrow outlet into the Atlantic, only to be swept back onto the black sand beach by the large waves. There, they smash apart into glittering fragments that sparkle like gemstones, giving the shoreline its name, Diamond Beach. Here, we join streams of other travellers picking up huge shards of ancient ice. The kids lick theirs, announcing they're "tasting water from thousands of years ago".
With grey skies for much of our trip, the northern lights remain elusive. But an aurora-spotting app suggests that, for one night we have a chance. A little after 10pm, a flicker of green appears on the horizon and slowly unfurls across the night sky. We hurriedly wake the kids, and instead of piling on layer after layer, we live out a quintessential Nordic dream; soaking in a hot tub underneath the northern lights, surrounded by snow and silence. For the next 30 minutes she dances above us. And then, just as suddenly as she arrived, her green ribbon dissolves and she is gone. By morning, we wake to a complete whiteout. The thawing landscape has vanished beneath new snow and clouds.
Road-tripping through Iceland bends time in a strange way. The drives feel slow but never dull. It's easy to see why Iceland's landscapes have been used to depict other worlds on screen. Unlike the mountains at home, the peaks are largely bare of trees, rising above moss-covered lava fields, glacier-carved canyons and vast black sandur plains left behind by volcanic eruptions and glacial floods. NASA astronauts have even trained here for lunar missions, from the Apollo program in the 1960s to the more recent Artemis missions.
Yet for all its otherworldly qualities, Iceland is surprisingly easy to explore as a family.
Just as the familiar chorus of "are we there yet?" starts up from the backseat, the landscape intervenes with another distraction - a tumbling waterfall, a tiny regional museum, a turf house or a glinting glacier. One of our favourite distractions comes in the form of Iceland's many hot springs and local pools. At Krauma Geothermal Baths in the country's west, the water is fed from Deildartunguhver, the highest-flow hot spring in Europe. Local pools, by contrast, offer a glimpse into everyday Icelandic life, where children race down waterslides while adults linger in steaming hot pools.
Our time in Iceland ends much as it began - learning about lava. We're ushered into a darkened theatre at the Lava Show in Reykjavik. Inside, a furnace roars to life and volcanic rock from the Katla eruption of 1916 is reheated until it becomes molten again. This is the only place in the world where you experience lava in a controlled setting. The heat hits immediately and just like an open fire, it's impossible to look away. It's hypnotic. Yet the show is about more than molten lava, blending science and personal stories from founders Ragga and Julius, whose families have lived through volcanic eruptions.
On our final night, we check into the Courtyard by Marriott next to the airport. With its clean Nordic design, warm lighting, and expansive windows it feels like a gentle transition between the country's untamed landscape and our return to mainland Europe. From the hotel window, the kids watch planes ascend, and share they aren't quite ready to leave. Neither am I. Some destinations satisfy your curiosity. Iceland seems only to deepen it. I suspect we'll be back. Our plane is delayed the following day due to heavy rain. Water has shaped every part of this country, and now, our departure as well.
The writer was hosted by Lava Car Rental and Marriot Hotels