Iceland captivates with the chance to slip between ancient and modern worlds | Canada Voices

Six volcanic systems pulsed somewhere beneath the peninsula as we sat in the simmering pool. The North Atlantic raged against Faxafloi bay just a few blocks down, sending gusts of arctic wind over our flushed skin.

And yet, the woman next to me in the cloud of steam was adamant: In Iceland, “there’s nothing to be afraid of,” said 69-year-old Kristjana Axeldottir.

It was a freezing morning in May. We’d been stewing side-by-side for an hour in a sundlaug, or public pool, west of Reykjavik’s city centre. Often overlooked by tourists for glacial hikes or luxury spas, these public geothermal hubs have brought locals together to thaw, vent and debate all manner of business for nearly a century.

The history of pool culture in the country dates back even longer, to the days when Snorri Sturluson, a 13th-century poet and society man, would invite those who came to quarrel with him to soak in his private hot spring. By the time they left, the story goes, tempers had cooled and diplomacy was achieved.

This particular pool was quarrel-free. Instead, I learned about Axeldottir’s time as a hut warden in a cabin located between two active volcanoes, where she spent the year’s coldest months alone, waiting on wayward trekkers.

While the violent nature around us seemed to actively refute her point, the numbers were on her side. The tiny island of just over 389,000 people soared to the first spot in the Berkshire Hathaway Travel ranking of the safest places to visit in 2025.

Beyond its safety record, Iceland draws you in with the chance to slip between two worlds – perennial public pools and ancient landscapes on one side, cutting-edge spas and culinary novelties on the other.

Dipping from one world to the next on a recent trip felt like time travel.

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I began the first leg of my journey by stepping into the future. Just a 25-minute shuttle ride from Keflavik Airport is the Retreat, a luxury spa-hotel tucked into its own secluded edge of the iconic Blue Lagoon.

The road still seemed to simmer in the early morning fog where lava had only recently cooled. A black shroud still covered a nearby road, a remnant from when the Sundhnukur crater expelled its fiery temper just months earlier, triggering the evacuation of the lagoon and nearby town of Grindavik.

The oasis, located in a UNESCO Global Geopark and known for its silica-rich blue waters, has been jolted by a recent string of nearby eruptions, causing the hotel to close and reopen a handful of times over 18 months. Each disruption forced innovation. Recent closings prompted local authorities to construct eight- to 15-metre-high protective walls for diverting lava. (Travellers should rest assured there has never been danger of an eruption directly under the Blue Lagoon complex.)

The country’s unofficial motto is thetta reddast – “It will all work out.” The Retreat’s impossibly vast halls echo that message.

Stepping inside, I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of a new season of The White Lotus. Robe-clad guests sipped strong Icelandic coffee and nibbled on smoked salmon on rye with whipped skyr, a tangy yogurt that amplifies both sweet and savoury dishes.

Panoramic views of milky blue hot waters heated by geothermal energy were punctuated by a monastic silence. TVs were nowhere to be found. A sign informed guests they couldn’t use their phones in the subterranean spa, which included a maze of saunas, a steam cave, a cold well and a resting lounge with a drinking fountain gushing filtered groundwater.

Outside, the lagoon’s waters wrapped the building like a medieval fantasy moat. Guests bobbed unbothered by pouring rain, refilling flutes of Prosecco at the swim-up bar. Some wondered aloud about the time – a concept as slippery here as the moss-covered shores. Unlike in the sundlaug, however, talking louder than a whisper here might earn you a side-eye. This is a place for shutting out the world.

Back inside the compound, a spa attendant guided bewildered guests, myself included, through the intricate “Blue Lagoon Ritual” – slathering silica paste, algae and all sorts of minerals on our skin in a race to absorb as many nutrients as the ancient volcanic earth has to offer.

But Iceland’s most impressive geothermal novelties often come to you on a plate.

At the Retreat’s Lava restaurant (embedded into an actual 800-year-old cliff of lava), dinner was a mash-up of local ingredients and culinary innovations enabled by volcanic heat. Thick slices of rye and slabs of rich Icelandic butter with whipped skyr were the opening act for wild Arctic char with tangy cucumber, Greek yogurt and – the kicker – wasabi.

Infamously finicky beyond Japan’s clear waters and high humidity, the fiery root now thrives in Icelandic greenhouses powered by geothermal heat. I found it snuck its way into everything from dessert to cocktails.

With Michelin-recognized restaurants multiplying across the island and a travelling food fest celebrating its cuisine (Taste of Iceland runs Nov. 19 to 22 in Toronto), it’s easy to forget that 20 years ago, Anthony Bourdain called this country home to one of the single worst things he’d ever eaten. If you insist on eating the fermented shark dish he tried, go to Islenski Barinn and down the ick with a shot of Brennivin.

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By the next day, I was ready to come down to earth.

After setting up base in Reykjavik for the next five days, I piled into a small tour bus heading for the Silver Circle – 150 kilometres of charcoal lava fields, imposing mountains and waterfalls along the island’s west coast. It was a jolting contrast to the spa’s otherworldly calm.

Black sand melted into rivers and receded into ice as we approached Langjokull glacier. Roughly 1,350 metres above sea level at its highest point, the view became a sea of white.

Iceland’s myths and sagas – narratives weaving fact and fiction about the Viking settlement days – inevitably crept into the conversation. In Kopavogur, a street curves to avoid a supposed elf home, and at Christmastime, children heed the 13 Yule Lads, who are more mischief-makers than gift-givers.

Icelandic lore also brims with ferocious female figures, which makes it less surprising that women run this country. Thordis Petursdottir, one of our guides and a project manager at Visit Iceland, named her daughter after Hallgerdur, a heroine who let her husband die rather than spare a lock of hair to mend his bow.

At Sturlureykir, a 90-year-old horse farm, Hrafnhildur Gudmundsdottir’s brisk step and thunderous voice guided us through her family’s stables and rolling hills splintered by gashes of steam rising into a brooding sky.

The eggy scent of sulphur, a sure sign of a nearby hot spring, grew stronger when she pushed aside a massive stone to reveal soggy milk cartons filled with dough. Burying them for 24 to 36 hours near a hot spring, she produced loaves of dense, dark, almost brownie-like rye.

While these loaves weren’t for sale, the island’s other geothermal breads, oversized pastries and desserts packed with rhubarb, licorice and the inescapable skyr deserve their own pilgrimage.

At Braud & Co., I devoured snudur (a cinnamon bun with a cult following) and italskir kransabitar (onion-shaped domes of marzipan perfectly offset by rich, bitter coffee) at Kaffihus Vesturbaejar. Beware: Short of learning Icelandic, ordering at cafés here often involves pressing your finger to a fogged-up glass display and hoping for the best.

I spent my last morning in Iceland roaming the capital’s galleries and food stalls (iconic Baejarins Beztu Pylsur lamb dogs are simple and sublime). In a former icehouse, the National Gallery looked out onto Tjornin lake – now more of a pond nibbled away by Reykjavik’s multiplying multicoloured homes.

In a dark room, a video installation called The Clock, by artist Christian Marclay, featured a 24-hour montage stitched from thousands of film clips referencing time. The brochure promised an “epic narrative of human activity” and a reminder of the temporality of life.

Did I understand it? Not exactly. But it was a strangely perfect way to end my week of time travel in Iceland.

If you go

Icelandair has direct flights from Vancouver, Toronto and Halifax. Aside from my time at the Retreat, I stayed at Iceland Parliament Hotel, located in one of the Reykjavik’s main squares and surrounded by greenery, restaurants and bars. Its pink-tiled spa and sunny restaurant, serving local fare, offer an oasis from moody weather. Rooms start at $400 a night.

The writer travelled as a guest of Business Iceland. It did not review or approve the story before publication.