There are days, traveling as a family, when the stars mysteriously align and tourism works for everyone. Our second to last day in Iceland was like that. I’d lined up an itinerary to cater to everyone’s tastes: the adults wanted to see more of the city and learn something about Iceland’s history, the kids were along for the ride as long as there was a swimming pool at the end of it and snacks along the way.

Our first stop was Perlan, the futuristic steel and glass dome on a hill outside Reykjavik. Pretty flash for a hot water tank, eh? It houses the state-of-the-art Saga Museum – if your art of choice is bloodcurdling life-sized dioramas of brutal historical events complete with soundtrack of shrieks and moans, then this is certainly the state-of-it.

I’d say it’s strictly for adults and older children, or seriously twisted younger ones. James balked at the realistic lava flow at the entrance, which was handy, because then I didn’t have to explain the fascinating but often ghastly tableaux inside. He settled for watching the “making of” film about how the watertank was converted into a museum and how the figures were modeled on living Icelanders.

Much more appealing – and free – was the artificial geyser that shoots up through the atrium inside the building, regular as clockwork. James was convinced it only worked if you threw 10 kronur in the pool and made a wish; we spent a couple of bucks fruitlessly trying to persuade him to test this theory scientifically. By the way, if you’re a budget traveler or just a very hungry one, you can really get your money’s worth from the bottomless soup and salad at the rooftop café, which is like a cross between a greenhouse and a spaceship. The view from the balcony was equally spectacular (and includes another artificial geyser outside).

Next stop was Árbćjarsafn, an open-air museum of historic buildings. Getting there was a bit dicey – the bus goes along the motorway and it’s not at all clear which stop to get off at, but by triangulating two different maps and following my nose, I led us safely to our destination.

It’s a quiet, beautiful, thought-provoking place, more than worth the effort to get there. Dozens of buildings have been carefully salvaged, transported, and reconstructed as a village, with geraniums on the windowsills and even teatowels hung up to dry.





The first thing you see is a small town green where old-fashioned toys were laid out. Wooden go-karts, stilts, small trucks and wagons, and a couple of see-saws. Toby had nodded off in the stroller, so we parked him in a shady corner. James and his dad headed for the toys, and my friend Karen and I poked around the old houses.


We spotted a wedding party having their photos taken. I’m not sure, but I think the child belongs to the bride and groom; apparently it’s pretty common here to not bother getting married until you have a child. It sure makes for a sweet wedding party.

One of my favourite buildings was the farmhouse composed of several connected structures, so you could walk from milking shed to dairy to stable to kitchen without going outside, which must have been handy in the long winters.

And the turf roofs, to keep things warm.

The one that really stuck with me, though, was a humble, minuscule house that had been inhabited by two families. You get the sense that until quite recently Iceland was, for most inhabitants, a very poor place.  A family of five crowded into the ground floor, and a couple with a child lived in the tiny upstairs flat, reached by an almost vertical staircase. Unplumbed, of course, it was austere and yet cosy, with cheerful turquoise paint on walls and ceilings.


I thought of our studio at the guesthouse with its little kitchenette and tiny bathroom. And then I thought of our stuff strewn all over it. We travel light, but had still brought ten times more clothes than the downstairs family would have been able to hang in the simple wardrobe created by hanging a flowered curtain across a corner of the hall. And then I thought of all the stuff we hadn’t brought with us but had managed without for ten days. Be it ever so humble; definitely time to declutter when we got back.

And paint everything turquoise.

Our last stop of the day was the magical Árbćjarlaug swimming pool, where we would round out the day with a couple of blissful hours in the water. This was my favourite of the pools we visited; there’s a slide and bubbling hotpots and a gorgeous view. Following a handy tip from a friendly Icelandic blogger, instead of herding everyone onto yet another bus, I pointed us towards the path that winds its way to the pool along a beautiful river valley.

Technically it was dinnertime, but with the summer sun still high in the sky, who cared? We fortified the boys with muesli bars and set off. The smooth tarmac was just the thing for scootering on, so James raced ahead. A man and his labrador provided free entertainment for Toby in his stroller. Richard debriefed from the conference, and Karen and I admired the endless drifts of wildflowers under the blue, blue sky. Nobody whined, not once. For the twenty minutes or so we walked the river path, it felt as though time stood still.