James quickly got the hang of this driving business -- “If you don’t want to stop, just keep your foot on the pedal” -- and proceeded at a stately pace around the course, which has working traffic lights, a gas station (very popular in spite of the shocking price of petrol!), and even a meandering one-way street.

Another kid drove at snail’s pace the wrong way down the one-way street, prompting my upright citizen to ask whether there were any police cars in which he might pursue the scofflaw. What can I say, his great-grandpa was an Irish copper.

I waved at my little driver as he puttered nobly past, then settled down on a nearby bench to soak up the sun while Toby napped. The bored teenage attendants had the same idea, except they lay flat on the ground. Icelandic summers are short; you have to make the most of them.

The family fun park more than lived up to its name: it was full of families having, well, fun. And even though we were there on a summer Sunday, it wasn’t crowded at all. No queues, no cranky kids. No food stands either, or hawkers of balloons and trinkets, just places where kids could have good old-fashioned free fun - once you pay the entrance fee, it's up to you to get your money's worth. Eventually we dragged ourselves away from the cars and sampled the other delights, which were fun for big and small kids alike.

There's a tall tower with a great view. A raft that you can pull Huck Finn style across a shallow lake. Bumper boats on the lake. A flying fox and a bouncy tire swing. A fabulous pirate ship for climbing on, and an oddly neglected-looking Viking boat. A little village of playhouses. A huge sandpit with real powered diggers. Pedal powered go-karts, and wee pedal cars for toddlers. A little wheeled train that drives tired toddlers from one end of the joint to the other, pony rides to pirate ship, and back. Short of actual kid-sized propellor-powered aeroplanes, it's safe to say that no vehicular play option has been neglected.

And the best thing was, most of it you don’t even need tickets for. We used ours up on the carousel and a couple of carnival-style rides that appeared to have been trucked in for the summer, like a swinging tugboat and an airpowered tennis-ball gun. And then it was back to the cars again. We just couldn't get enough of them. Even I had a go - by this time the teenagers weren't even bothering to pretend to be in charge - and managed to jackknife my truck-trailer across the road (immortalised at right by the policeman's great-grandson and his speed camera). Honestly officer, I have a license.

It was a wholesome wonderland, a children's paradise. I loved it, and the boys loved it. Would it be eye-rollingly boring for older kids, or those who’ve been raised on Disneyland and Six Flags? Yeah, maybe – but send them cartwheeling in their socks across this giant inflated trampoline for five minutes and let me know if they change their minds!



Meanwhile, the on-again off-again drizzle had stopped, the sun had come out, and as we left the park, rainbows arced across the rolling clouds. I'd take those over Cinderella's castle, any day.

Now here's how to get there, if you’re using this blog as a guidebook. The #14 bus doesn’t leave from Laekjartorg Square as such, but Laekjargata, the road that runs alongside the square.  The bus runs in a loop, so be sure to catch one that is heading south, away from the water, unless you fancy a scenic detour back through the old harbour area.

The bus may be brand spanking new, but the stops themselves are neither labeled nor announced, which makes things exciting. I followed carefully along on the map as we zoomed around the ring road, passed the shining dome of Perlan with its artificial geyser steaming away, then swung out into the eastern suburbs of the city. Eventually you’ll come to the Laugardalslaug swimming complex, a vast concrete edifice to your right that is worth a visit in its own right. Several visits, in fact. In Iceland, basking in thermal pools is not just a way of life but a religion, and I'm a zealous convert - but more of that next week.

Here's the thing. Smart tourists will hop off the bus at the swimming pool, ask for directions, and take a leisurely fifteen minute walk past the soccer stadium and the ice-skating rink, down to the Botanic Gardens, and thence to the Zoo and Family Fun Park. I bet it’s probably even signposted. Smart-alecs, on the other hand, may opt to stay on the bus because it looks like you can get a smidgen closer to the Family Fun Park from the other end of the valley.

Yeeees, technically you can, but this option is not for wimps. The bus will veer off into deepest suburbia while you placate the offspring and hyperventilate at the thought of doing the entire loop again. Hop off at Sunnutorg - ask the driver for help if you don't trust your map - back up ten feet or so, and head down the hill past the YMCA and a small school. At the bottom of the hill, take the unmarked leafy lane to your right, which will lead you through the Botanic Gardens and eventually to the Zoo entrance.

Do not miss the turnoff into the gardens! If you do, you’ll find yourself circumnavigating the entire complex, tormented by the happy squeals of children from the Fun Park behind the fence, and the unhappy squeals of your own children who don’t appreciate your spectacularly failed attempt to shave a few hundred feet off the walk.

Your reward, however, if you successfully navigate this back route: this eye-catching monument to extended nursing, aka Asmundur Sveinsson’s 1936 sculpture “Mother Earth”. Toby's not much of an art critic, but he knows what he likes. He found it exceptionally affecting. At least I think that's what he was mooing about as he clambered over my head.