A Morning at the Icelandic Horse Farm

As dawn split the volcanic horizon, I wandered into a mist-wreathed horse farm in southern Iceland, where the air stung with the tang of geothermal steam and the earthy scent of moss-covered lava. Sunlight poured over shaggy Icelandic horses, their coats shimmering like obsidian in the first light—some stamped hooves on frosty ground, others nuzzled each other, manes tangled with morning mist. A farmer in a woolen sweater knelt to fasten a bell around a foal’s neck, its chime echoing over the black sand fields.
Near the stable, a teenager groomed a chestnut mare, her hands combing through the horse’s thick winter coat. "They’re born to survive the dark," she said, pointing to a horse pawing at snow to reach grass. I watched as a stallion tossed its head, mane flying like a raven’s wing, while a family of ptarmigans scurried past, their white feathers blending with the snow. Somewhere in the distance, a geyser erupted, its spray catching the sun to form a fleeting rainbow over the stark landscape.
The farmer handed me a lump of sugar, which a gray mare lipped from my palm. "Feel their warmth—they carry summer in their blood," he smiled, rubbing the horse’s flank. Sunlight strengthened, gilding the edges of nearby glaciers that loomed like silent giants.
By mid-morning, the farm hummed with activity: riders saddled horses for treks, a veterinarian checked hooves, and children laughed as they fed carrots to curious foals. I left with horsehair on my coat, reminded that in Iceland, mornings wake in the steam of geysers and the steady thump of hooves—where every horse is a survivor, and every breath of frigid air holds the wild, untamed spirit of the north.

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