t has an alien allure, the southern coast of Iceland. As you stand amid emerald fields tinted with wildflowers you wonder where the trees are? They were chopped down by Vikings 1,000 years ago. And where are the animals? Other than livestock there’s practically none. Empty acres of farmland, horizons as wide as the Mojave, but green not brown, and cold, not hot. It’s a place so desolate that Neil Armstrong trained here for his historic moonwalk. It’s where the sun stays up later than you, and boulders are inhabited by elves; not the cute Santa’s helper kind, but the Lord of the Rings warrior kind that steals your children and wreaks havoc. But strangest of all, it’s where they actually take the
