Iceland taught me one thing about myself that I never knew. I like ponies way more than I should.
Roughly the size of Maine, Iceland’s infrastructure is fairly simple on paper. One main road loops around the entire country with a few tributaries branching out here and there. If you want to see the country, you can follow route 1 around and hit the main attractions. If you want to fully experience the country, though, you should hit the tributaries. That’s where the hidden gems are – the double-converging waterfalls, the lonesome church overlooking the seaside town below, and most importantly – ponies.
Sure, you can see Icelandic ponies along the main road. But those things are manicured, stately, prissy – nothing at all what their Norse forebearers would have wanted. To see the rough-and-tumble, salt-of-the-earth, spit-in-your-eye ponies, you have to hit the middle of the highlands of Iceland. That’s where you see them – donning their unkempt, fuzzy winter coats and their wind-swept emo hair. Gosh. They’re hilarious. And playful. Deep in the country, that’s where they are braying, jumping, nuzzling, huddling together for warmth in the brutal cold. That’s where my ponies are.
Okay, fine, they’re “technically” horses that are just pony-sized. But god damn it, I fucking love those ponies.