Iceland is one of my favorite places on Earth. It’s a hard shock to the senses with it’s icy weather and lava hot under belly.
It’s a land that rolls and breathes like the native horses that inhabit it.
The small, stocky Icelandic ponies blend into the countryside as naturally as the water that seems to flow from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Their hair is wild, like the gusty wind that blows it.
They are small but robust, navigating the rugged land as gracefully as the ice that flows in Iceland’s many glacial lagoons.
I’ve never been a big fan of horses. They’re too big and skittish to be trusted (if you ask me). But the horses in Iceland seem calmer, more relaxed.
They approach calmly, curiously, and accept all pats, treats, and cameras. As my neighbors’ little boy would say, “They like to cozy with you.”
I’m not big on touching people or animals I don’t know - I keep my hands to myself - but the ponies in Iceland are impossible to leave alone. They want to sniff and taste whatever you have to offer, like larger golden retrievers.
They play and pose, then go on their way into the pristine Icelandic wilderness.