A thick fog had rolled in from the ocean, creating a grey blanket that shrouded the mountains in mystery. I’d been excited to visit Stokksnes, and the infamous mountain known as Vestrahorn, that stood proud on the black sand beach. Somehow, Ísland has a way of never disappointing you, even when the weather isn’t ideal. Eyes hidden and covered from the brutality of the wind, I kept one foot in front of the other, accompanied by my new friend who I’d managed to bribe with breakfast biscuits and poorly spoken commands in Icelandic. The sheepdog ran on ahead of me, racing off towards an old, white car that stood out against the bleakness of the horizon.
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