Iceland’s hot springs prove there’s life in the old geyser

Icelanders love their hot springs. When the nights get dark and cold and they are in need of an energising lifeline, they converge on the pools. And visitors, too, have been seduced by the scorching embrace of Iceland’s thermal waters, which is why a slew of new, sleekly designed lagoons have opened to harness these natural springs.

The latest is Laugarás Lagoon, a smart, two-level basin recessed into a river bank, conceived as an infinity pool hugged by basalt stone and punctuated with grassy seating islands that help it blend with the tufty meadows around it. Spending time in its naturally hot waters connects bathers to the surroundings. It opened in October, and sits on the outer edges of the Golden Circle, a route that loops 300km from Reykjavík and hits some of Iceland’s headline natural attractions, from Geysir, the geothermal area that lends its name to all erupting water jets worldwide, to Gullfoss, the mighty waterfall. After Gullfoss, the Golden Circle loops back to the capital via the Kerið volcanic crater and the thermal river valley of Reykjadalur.

On a recent visit, I decided to take the longer route to the lagoon via the small town of Flúðir. I had left Reykjavík before dawn one morning in early November, and taken a detour off the main road to Thorufoss waterfall, set in a snaking valley about 40km east, arriving just in time to see the sun rise behind its roaring, cascading waters. Back at the wheel, we wove through Thingvellir National Park and along its expansive central lake, where hundreds of tourists had stopped to admire its central canyon, the meeting point between Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. However, you can catch a glimpse of the rift – a jumble of rocks squashed together around a deep recess – even just driving by.

Driving towards Laugarás, I spotted several greenhouses by the road, and once we arrive, the lagoon’s architect, Halldór Eiríksson, immediately offered context for the greenhouses. “There is a lot of thermal heat in southern Iceland,” he said, as steam rose slowly from the pool’s expansive, panoramic tubs. “This area is the largest lowland in the country where vegetables have long been grown and cattle raised – like the Tuscany of Iceland.”

In design, Eiríksson has responded to the area’s “docile” nature with a structure that – despite being clad in green grass – doesn’t disappear into the landscape. Instead, it borrows from the vernacular of both traditional turf houses and Roman aqueducts for an arched result that looks like a pitched tent. The building is constructed with stone and wood sourced nearby. Meanwhile, the interiors of the lobby, changing rooms and on-site restaurant, Ylja (designed by US-born Anthony Bacigalupo) are tranquil spaces enhanced by a large work on Japanese fabric by the Icelandic artist Sigmundur PF.

This ethos of connectedness to the landscape extends to the lagoon’s kitchen: Gísli Matt (one of Iceland’s most accomplished chefs, who also runs Reykjavík’s excellent Skál!), can count on the produce that grows inside the region’s greenhouses. But he has also been experimenting with how to harness geothermal heat in cooking methods and fermentation techniques. “There is a real sense of warmth in this area,” he told me. “And not just in the earth. Lots of people want to do amazing things, and they’re very proud of where they’re from.”

After sampling his succulent lamb prime and a creamy skyr mousse – a worthy homage to two of Iceland’s best ingredients – I finally headed to the waters. The lagoon is vast and warrants exploring. A smaller tub sits in a corner surrounded by perfumed conifers, and a wood-hut sauna is flanked by a frigid cold plunge. Submerged seating in the main pool invites guests to linger. During my visit, some groups bobbed about chatting, but most people chose to dangle at the pool’s edges, facing out to the expanse of the lowlands and the River Hvítá running its placid course below. A few hours spent soaking in sweltering water ensured a deep night’s sleep once I got to Klettar Tower, a tiny four-room hotel inside a corrugated-iron tower in the middle of the plains.

Water, steam and heat have shaped this region and its fortunes, so the next morning I set out to follow this aquatic thread. The three tubs at Hrunalaug hot springs are tiny compared to the offer at Laugarás, and the changing rooms much more spartan, but this spot just outside Flúðir provides precious insight into bathing customs from the past.

“My great-grandfather built the first pool here In 1890, mainly to wash laundry, but then people started going in,” said Guðrún Eiríksdóttir, who runs the site, which also includes a sheep-bathing basin and a grass-covered cabin from 1935. “I grew up on the farm nearby, and stayed in the water with my friends for many hours. In the evenings, the farmers would use it after work.”

Bathing in hot water always also helps work up an appetite so, as post-dip Icelandic tradition dictates, I headed out on a hunt for a hot dog. Pylsuvagninn, an unassuming cabin-cum-drive-through in the centre of Selfoss, has a reputation for being the best in the whole region. Until recently, this town – with a population of 10,000, the biggest in southern Iceland – wasn’t much more than a functional but largely charmless stop-off. Developers are changing that with an ambitious plan to construct replicas of pretty historical houses, which make up a town centre that includes the large Old Dairy foodhall.

“Within a radius of 150km from here, you can basically see everything Iceland has to offer,” said Vignir Guðjónsson from developers Landsbyggð. “If you drive 15 minutes, you can see six volcanos, black beaches, waterfalls, canyons – you have it all close by.”

Not everywhere else in the country, though, can you drive down an open road and watch as plumes of steam rise into the air. The geothermal area of Hveradöl sits just off the route leading back into the capital but few cars bother turning towards it, to find out what’s causing the clouds of white vapour. The strong sulphur smell is a telling sign: a wooden pathway leads to a patch of hot vents and bubbling mud pots that look like witches’ cauldrons.

Grettir Rúnarsson bought this land and the lodge at its entrance 12 years ago, and has been focusing on reviving the area’s history as a winter ski resort. There are also some small tubs filled with dark mud, which visitors are encouraged to smear over themselves – it is said to help smooth skin and soothe back aches.

“We started using it ourselves and we can feel it,” said Rúnarsson, who grew up further east, but has since fallen in love with these surroundings. “There are so many spots around here that not only tourists don’t know about, but Icelanders, too. This area is always changing – it’s very much alive.”