I ride a bike in Iceland: it's a killer ride but an easy country to love

After a night at sea on the ferry from the Faroe Islands, a jagged and stormy Iceland appears. With much of Europe in the midst of a heat wave, it's a shock to see snow on the horizon. The ferry skims a long fjord and docks in the small town of Seyðisfjörður on the east coast.

The weather town is charming and bustling with tourists. I pick up my mountain bike and set off, cutting along the northern shore of the fjord and soon leaving the tarmac behind me. Iceland has seen a tourism boom over the past decade, fueled by Game of Thrones and Instagram. One of the effects is that hot spots are now red-hot. A waterfall or a viewpoint deemed special is flooded. But the rest is ignored.

By an abandoned farm, I leave the bike and ride to an idyllic waterfall. The ground is thick with orchids, crowberries and tiny birches that have taken years to reach ankle height. The water ripples over deep, spongy beds of sinister green moss. Bees and butterflies swarm over the plots of wild angelica. I go to bed.