Hitch, please - Sunday, June 26th

In the morning it was time to get my skates on and make my way back down 450kms of Route 1 and back to Reykjavik for a 6am flight o Monday.

I said my goodbyes to the Germans and a warm farewell to Bernat. Despite a slightly slow start, we had enjoyed our time together for the most part and had shared some interesting experiences. I only hoped he would forgive me one day for going on about Brexit quite so much.

Ride number one came from a kindly northerner called David and his equally charming wife Irene. After about half an hour of idle chit chat I realised I was in the lion's den. They were senior citizens living in the countryside between Manchester and Liverpool. Surely, they must have been leavers.

We danced around the topic until it was very much the elephant in the car. "So, how do you feel about all this EU malarkey?" I probed, as diplomatically as I knew how to.

"It's bloody ridiculous. Why on earth would you vote to leave!" Returned an exasperated David. Soon we were balls deep in about the twentieth Brexit debate I'd had in 24 hours.

David was clearly as worked up as I was. Even many of their friends had voted remain. So that begs the question. Who the fuck actually voted to leave?! I've not met any of them yet. And I'm glad I haven't, because I'd slap them a new one.

It turns out that they had hitchhiked around Europe and North Africa in their youth and were rather more cosmopolitan than one would initially expect. We got along famously and I was sad when we had to part ways at the dreaded glacial tourist lake. 380kms to go.

Ride number two came in the form of a dark hared German man in his early 30s with wolverine eyes called Phillip. He was accompanied by his lovely Mexican wife Vera. Phil had spent 12 years in the German military as a back office IT engineer. Before that he had apparently been a very successful drug dealer.

I wasn't quite buying this but it transpired that they had recently honeymooned at a luxury resort in the Maldives for two weeks. I had the sneaking suspicion that there had been some career overlap.

They deposited me at the famous waterfall with the viewpoint that had absolutely no view. After a few false starts, I was given a lift by a French couple, mercifully from Bordeaux. I doubt Parisians stop for hitchhikers in any case.

They were both engineers at Airbus and as my nearest and dearest know (tragically), I love a good chat about planes. They seemed a little taken aback about how eager I was to talk about airline engineering. Especially as I was attempting to do it all in French.

Lift number four was probably the fastest turnaround you could possibly have for a hitch. Vin and Valerie deposited me at a petrol station near their hotel and no sooner had I let out a relieving fart than I was face to face with Paul and Cassie.

They were a young American couple who were attempting a long distance relationship between Seattle and Washington DC. It's a five hour flight between the two and it didn't need mystic Meg to tell you that their days were somewhat numbered.

Having grown somewhat weary of car conversation I was overwhelmed with relief when they gingerly informed me they were halfway through their audio book. "Oh, god no, please, please go ahead. I love audio books"

The audio book in question was an unabridged version of Leviathan Breaks. A hefty science fiction tome that had not yet crossed my radar. I probably wish I had heard of it because it would have given my the time to jam some sewing needles into my ears.

I warmly encourage you to have a listen. It sounds like someone on a meth binge tried to tell the plots to Star Wars, Buck Rogers, Flaw Gordon, Aliens and Show Girls backwards. I researched it and apparently it was warmly received by critics, which is slightly dismaying. But there's no real accounting for taste.

It was, at least, an accidental good laugh and I choked on my rye bread a number of times trying not to offend my kindly car hosts.

Ride number five was also a remarkably quick hustle. I was dropped off at another petrol station with only a titchy 150kms to my final destination.

Without much hesitation I had walked into the petrol station cafe and waltzed up to the most attractive person there. A slender blonde with piercing blue eyes called Inga. She was busy finishing her last bite of dried fish when I asked her if she was heading west. Indeed she was.

Inga was every inch what you would imagine if asked to summon the image of a typical Scandinavian woman.

In fact, she was actually something of a rarity. Despite there being no McDonalds in Iceland (too expensive to ship it over) the women here were some of the most rotund I'd encountered.

That makes a little more sense when you discover that Iceland is both the world's largest consumer of coca cola and films per capita. They also have the longest (often sedentary) weekly working hours of any country in Europe (43.5). Throw all that together and you've got a recipe for a rather chunky nation.

It also may go some way to explaining why the country banned strip clubs in 2010.

Perhaps they were storing it all for the long winter. But judging by some of the creatures I'd come across, they were banking on winters that would last several decades.

Inga spoke with the same, gently icy reserve that many women had on the island. It was hard to tell if it was a protective veneer or just the way that they make them here but I sadly didn't have time to find out as we were at the entrance to her family farm.

It felt like a farm on Iceland was slightly wasted on Inga. But then again, Iceland is probably wasted on many of its other inhabitants too.

I had heard some rumours about a thermal river near a town called Selfoss, just outside of Reykjavik. Inga helpfully confirmed this before she deposited me at the side of the road.

It was only five minutes before ride six appeared. This lift managed to trump Inga by quite some margin. Two dusky, athletic locals called Ida and Elsa.

It quickly transpired that they were both trapeze artists at the Reykjavik state circus and both qualified masseuses to boot. I felt humbled to be in the presence of such talents.

I informed them of my plans to head to the Hverdegerdi hot river, where I would bathe liberally in its resplendent, steamy waters.
"Ooh, vi were planning to go there too!" Exclained Ida.
"Oh, I see." Fighting back any outward sign of excitement with every fibre of my being.
"But vi decide to go to Reykjavik earlier."
"Oh, I see." Now fighting back tears.

As we approached the beginning of the hike to the river, I gently threw the suggestion open to the floor again.

"Are you sure you don't want a quick dip?"
"Oh, OK vy not." Said Ida
'Oh. How utterly glorious.' I thought.
"But vi only have one bikini." Said Elsa.
Before I could suggest that perhaps one didn't need clothes for this swim I could tell that the game was truly up as there was an hour long hike to the river and they were in high heels.

"Oh, next time you are in Iceland vi go! Yes?"
"Yes, next time girls. Next time" Sad face.

It seemed then, that fate had something rather less marvelous in store for me.

When I did make it to the springs I got taking to a girl whose father actually managed the path to the spring. She was with an absolutely barmy Bosnian and and his much less insane Swiss friend.

The hike was beautiful and I just about gotten over how shite the weather had been during my trip. On either side of us was a fertile green valley strewn with bubbling cauldrons emitting vast towers of sulfurous steam. It all felt very primordial.

Once at the steamy river, I got talking to two Americans called Jay and Nate. They were a wonderful antidote to everything that one fears about American tourists. Well educated, traveled and inquisitive. They knew even more about Brexit than I did! I hoped there were more like them back at home.

It was approaching 11pm and time for lift number seven. This was from Tino the bonkers Bosnian and his gentle Swiss friend. Tino was keen to know about Iran and by the end of the lift he was a total convert.

They dropped me off at a petrol station on the motorway to the airport on the edge of town. The international airport is basically in another city and takes another hour to get to from Reykjavik. I soon realised that this being midnight on Sunday, there was more chance of Britain entering into a union with Mongolia than getting a lift to the airport.

I ran across the six lane motorway and soon got a lift back into town from a rather strange, blonde, bespectacled, doughy local in his 20s with a completely mute girl of about 14 in the passenger seat.
"What are you guys up to?" I inquired, sensing something nefarious afoot.
"Oh, just driving around."
The whole thing smelt fishy being measure but I just wanted to get be somewhere that wasn't an empty petrol station on the outskirts of Reykjavik.

There was a two hour wait for my 3am airport coach so I had time to take stock of the past four days.

After some initial hesitation at the beginning of this , it did become obvious what all the fuss is about. Yes, Reykjavik is dull as a damp cloth and yes, the whole island is absolutely swarming people who are about to take a pew in the heavenly choir.

But when you look past the field of anoraks and people called Colin, it is simply one of the most visually rewarding places on earth.

The people of Iceland too are quite friendly and open minded, just in a slightly frosty way. I enjoyed many conversations with locals about the history of the island, Brexit, football, fishing, volcanoes and much more.

In all truth, if I had to put up with the huge number of tourists that come here I'd probably be a little frosty.

Personally, if you want to be really adventurous here then I would just avoid anything that can be reached by a bus. If you're with a neurotic girlfriend then I would probably rent a 4x4 but otherwise I'd recommend hitchhiking.

Hitching is certainly a lot more exciting and spendthrift than a coach. But, and I'm pained to say this, a coach may be a little more reliable. But only a little. But you're unlikely to bathe in a hot spring with two trapeze artists from the Icelandic state circus either. Perhaps for next time.