Last week saw myself and Lady Helen heading for the beautiful Iceland (formerly known as Snowland apparently, but that wasn't deemed tough enough for the original Norse inhabitants).

Lady H asked why I'd chosen Iceland and I told her that I'd always wanted that "Fire and Ice" tourist experience, volcanoes, lava, glaciers blah blah blah, but the truth is that I was on a continuing quest to eat a puffin. I'd hoped to do that last year when we were in western Scotland (Oban) but after a three hour boat trip on the choppiest sick-making sea ever (not me you understand as I am actually Viking stock - it's the genes you see) I realised that I was amongst a load of bird watchers rather than chefs, so the inclusion of a portable barbecue and some sesame seed buns in the backpack was a bit of a faux-pas. I thought this was an interesting show of principles from the people of a town that has a bar that is actually called Shenanigans...

Anyhow, the population of Iceland have no such qualms, and it was only a two or three hour flight. Leg or breast, leg or breast...

Amazingly, we arrived at Heathrow and in 10 minutes, we were checked in and through passport control giving me plenty of time to wander around Dixons. Even more amazingly there was no flight delay. With luck like that I expected that the wheel of fortune would repay the favour by having the plane explode on take-off but it didn't (Fortune was planning a much slower restoration of balance).

Reykjavik was the first stop for one night and then were off into the wilderness. We arrived a little after dark, so after a quick splash of Old Spice (Lady H, not me), we were off out into the night.

Impressively, Reykjavik only has a couple of streets, but a bazillion bars and restaurants. My focus was on getting tanked pretty quickly, and a few pints of 'Viking' lager later, I'd managed to complete that mission. Some fairly poor fast food later and we were winging our way back to hotel for the night. Fortunately I was drunk enough not to have noticed how much the beer and chips had cost. An omen for things to come.

Next day, after a rousing breakfast of cheese and ham (another omen), we picked up our giant SUV and set off south towards the national park area. Within 10 minutes I realised that our giant SUV was tiny compared to the hummers and Big Foot-style monsters that the locals drive (2 gears - 'stop' and 'too fast'), and then another 10 minutes later I realised that actually no-one really lives in Iceland outside of Reykjavik.

Getting down to Vik and then back up to Klaustur (our base for the night) took us through some beautiful landscape, consisting of piles of rocks, and Green Spongy Weirdness. We couldn't think what to do with the GSW, so Helen just had a little dance on it instead.

The guidebooks raved about a little Folk Museum in Skogar. I wasn't too bothered - didn't sound like there was a Puffin kebab truck there - but we stopped anyway if only to see some people. The museum was devised and run by Pordur Thomasson - an 80-odd year old bloke. The Lonely Planet said "if you're lucky enough" we might see this local celebrity and listen to his stories and songs. Well, we were VERY lucky, as of course he was there and spent a long time telling us a lot of stories - we'd only really wanted to see if there was a cafeteria. He also wouldn't allow anyone to wander around - he just herded us about the place spinning yarns (literally in one instance) and then shouting "UNDERSTAND? UNDERSTAND?" to ensure comprehension at the end of each story. (Lady H points out that it may be UNDERSTAND! UNDERSTAND! like a Dalek rather than a question.)

Thomasson is an interesting man - he has spent his entire life from the age of 14 collecting treasures for his museum: it consists of old tools from the dairy industry right through to old Miele washing machines and a bunch of retro snowmobiles. Fantastic museum considering its remoteness, full of great objects. As one of his assistants said though - "We have a lot of crap too". But the guy is undoubtedly dedicated and rightly proud of the conservation of the culture of the country.

After a quick stop at the petrol station in Vik - hippest place in town - for some food, we headed out across the plains to Klaustur surrounded by a lot more GSW.