The horse farm, Laxnes, picked us up from our hotel in the morning. At the farm, we were outfitted in bright orange rain gear (a la Deadliest Catch), helmets, and boots.
I seemed to be the only one with any significant horsey experience, and I was assigned to a sweet dark brown mare name Liperta (“twinkle toes.”) Matt got a big gentle bay, Trolli (“giant.”) Finally, it was time to go. Liperta and I fell right into line behind the lead guide, and for the next couple of hours I was completely happy, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I didn’t even mind the freezing driving rain or the sheets of wind that came out of nowhere. We crossed streams and cantered up hills and took a rest break so guides could smoke and the horses could graze. I tried really really hard to ignore the other tourists, like the squealing Canadian girl (“My horse won’t listen to me! He won’t stop!”) We’re all trying not to listen to you, dear. And the stuck-up English woman who kept crowding me, although Liperta solved that by aiming a swift kick towards her horse. I could have ridden all day but too soon it was time to head back.
We had planned to take a walk in the afternoon to the Perlan, but a nap fit in better to my day. We wandered into the streets of Reykjavik as the night life was just starting up, and it a different city.
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