A Day with a Local Guide: What It’s Like to Explore Iceland with a Native
If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to explore Iceland through the eyes of someone who calls it home, let me take you along for a day in my boots — weathered, waterproof, and always dusted with a bit of volcanic ash.
The day starts early, before the tourists wake and the light has fully spilled over the mountains. I sip my coffee, staring out at the steam rising from distant geothermal vents — the earth breathing, as we say here. My guests arrive bundled in layers, eyes wide with excitement and maybe a hint of jet lag. “Welcome to Iceland,” I grin, “land of fire, ice, and unpredictable weather.”
Our first stop is Þingvellir National Park — where two tectonic plates pull apart like slow-moving giants. As I tell them about how this place was once home to our first parliament, I see that look I love — the mix of awe and connection. They’re not just standing between continents; they’re standing inside a living story. I grew up hiking here, listening to my grandmother tell tales of trolls and elves that lived among the lava fields. Sometimes, I still half-believe she wasn’t kidding.
By midday, we’re winding our way toward the geysers. I can smell the sulfur before we see the steam — it’s like nature’s perfume, sharp and earthy. My guests gasp as Strokkur erupts, water bursting skyward with a roar that echoes across the valley. I laugh every time — even though I’ve seen it hundreds of times, it never loses its magic. Iceland does that to you. You think you know it, and then it surprises you again.
Lunch is always my favorite part of the day. We stop at a tiny roadside café where my friend Björn makes lamb soup that could warm the coldest heart. I tell stories of growing up during the long winters — of fishing trips with my father, of learning to drive on roads lined with black ice and endless horizon. My guests share stories too — of faraway homes, of dreams that led them here. For a few moments, it feels less like a tour and more like a gathering of old friends.
The day ends near a waterfall — maybe Gullfoss, maybe one of the hidden ones I only show to small groups. The sound is thunderous, a reminder of how small we are against nature’s power. As the mist soaks our faces, I tell them one last story — about how Icelanders believe in luck, but also in hard work and respect for the land. It’s not a fairy tale here; it’s a way of life.
When I drop my guests back at their hotel, the sun is barely setting — it never really does in summer. They thank me, but I always feel like I should thank them instead. Every day I get to see my home through new eyes — and that, my friends, is the greatest gift of all.
