There are no skyscraper plumes of steam here, the kind that burst from cloudy blue pools lined with cameras waiting for the moment to squeal in delight. Geysir, I’m talking about you. I saw you many times before I saw you in the flesh, as it were. I saw you on screen, on Facebook and on Instagram. Even when I waited by that roiling water I saw you being seen through many lenses. As if the enjoyment of you was something to delay the gratification of, to wrap up and take home.
Seltún is quieter, both in terms of brash geothermal activity and number of visitors. It seethes and bubbles and unlike Geysir, it never gives the grand release of vast energy all in one go. But like Elliðadalur (an account of which will be coming soon!), the smaller, more intimate scale here allows for a different experience. Less of a wow than a slow burn.
We peer in to miniature puddles of oozing grey-blue, the colour of storm clouds, but here in a red desert. The surface tremors. It’s energy is potential, not latent. It’s a tease.
Shifting the gaze to the wider landscape the colours sit next to each other like scraped back layers of a fresco. Though their colour comes from the minerals within; not imposed on a blank space. The red emanates and ochre is shockingly yellow.
The boardwalk leads through the steaming streams and cautions you not to step off it – perhaps a sedate section is bearable but segues signlessly into scalding water. There’s no way of knowing.
The absence of shooting plumes invites the study of smaller movements. Water rocking back and forth sending slops up the gravelly sides of it’s little pool. Quivering surface as if tickled by a strong wind. Curls of steam marking the breeze. The boundaries between colours, each intensifying the other, vibrating red and the milky blue of some crystal.
A world in miniature. What greenery scrapes a living nearby is also a tapestry for close inspection.
And even the concrete reinforcements bleed with ore.
By now I hope you are itching to go to Seltún. Travellers will be pleased to know it’s just around 50 minutes drive from Reykjavík on a particularly scenic route along the lower slope of some hills and passing a wide and beautiful lake, Kleifarvatn. I give these details halfheartedly because I don’t really think this blog is a very practical source of information, and this post in particular is more of an encouragement for close looking and a love letter to landscape . But on the off-chance you stumble across it and want to make the trip; take Road 41 through Kópavogur, Garðabær and Hafnarfjöður then turn onto road 42. Put it in google maps, it has you covered. For extra credit you could extend your drive around the Reykjanes peninsula afterwards.
Curiously, I am writing this on a day when the first snow of winter blankets the ground and casts everything white. It’s falling right now. What a perfect day to remember colours.