The not quite midnight, not quite marathon - Thursday, June 23rd

Sadly the site chosen for Rejkavik's international airport is really not one that gets the proverbial juices flowing. A barren, rocky plane canopied by an unyielding grey, motionless sky. It felt like I had escaped the Rapture of England's EU storms for a bland, sobering purgatory.

I should probably caveat my previous coach tirade by making it clear that it's only British mass transit that gets it so colossally wrong so much of the time. Other countries manage just fine. Iranian and Colombian coaches were fabulously comfortable, cheap and often ahead of schedule. Why can't Britain do any better?

We invented just about everything associated with a mass transit network and yet we completely fail to make it at all pleasant, reliable or affordable.

I think that's about enough on that subject for the moment. Rant over. Blame Brexit.

Our (absolutely lovely) coach from the airport deposited us somewhere that looked like a business park on the outskirts of Reading. Sheepishly, I approached the nearest Icelandic looking person. "Sorry, when does this bus get to downtown Reykjavik?"
He shot me a hurt look.
"We are in downtown Reykjavik."
"But there's an airport there." I said, gesturing towards a plane taking off about 200 metres away from me.
He shrugged as though I was an idiot for suggesting that this was in any way out of the ordinary.

I got my Google Maps going and made my way past a phalanx of some of the most poignantly bland school, hotel and office buildings I had ever seen. It looked like a city built by someone with a lobotomy.

The Airbnb apartment was in a peach grey pebble dash cube of a building that was as uninspiring as it was indistinguishable. But then again, so much of Reykjavik had felt that way so far so that I wasn't really disappointed.

I was greeted by Kristine, a dusky blonde in her early 50s wearing head to toe Lycra. It all felt very Icelandic Mrs Robinson. She casually informed me that there was no need for a flat key. "People don't really 'do' crime here, It's not like London." I was more than a little skeptical.

Bernat, my soon to be travelling companion, had agreed to meet at the Hallgrimskirkja, one of the only notable tourists sites in Reykjavik. A modern white church in the city centre with a spire that looked like an enormous Disney pipe organ. It took only a few moments to find the only slightly lost looking Spaniard in the area.

On first impressions he seemed very much unlike a person who was several weeks into a solo hitchhiking adventure around Europe. His conversation, initially, felt distant and cagey. Like he had some bad news that he was wanted to tell me, but felt ashamed to speak.

He had recently qualified as a mechanical engineer and was from a mountain town around an hour from Barcelona. Jobs weren't exactly growing on trees in Spain so he decided to buy a tent and go travelling for a few months around Scandinavia and the Balkans before knuckling down.

'Shit' I thought. 'What have I gotten myself into?' Thankfully, the forced interactions of a number of App facilitated blind dates had given me a half decent grasp of how to make idle small talk.

After an hour walking around the streets together the awkwardness had melted away and we became a little more at ease with one another. We caught sight of a poster that informed us that one of the city's hot spots was a museum completely dedicated to whale penises. It was then that we realised that Reykjavik really did not have a great deal to offer and we needed to get out as soon as possible.

We made a quick detour around the harbour and stumbled across the most architecturally gratifying building on Reykjavik. The Reykjavik opera house or Harpa was one of the finest buildings I had ever seen. Walls of green three dimensional rhomboid glass and a mirrored curving ceiling that looked like protruding scales on a snake's back.

It was designed to reflect the shape of eroded basalt cliffs, one of Iceland's most salient features. And in truth it actually does a good job of it. It's just a shame that it hasn't inspired more daring architecture in the nation's capital.

The Harpa's existence was something of a hangover from the pre-2008 age of Iceland. It was originally part of a much larger complex of luxury flats and hotels.

These plans were unceremoniously scuttled post crash and the government had to foot the remainder of the €165m bill. From 2008 to 2011 it was the only building under construction in Iceland.

We concluded that this was about as good as it gets and went shopping for our camping trip. On our way to the supermarket we noticed a sign for a Burt Bacharach gig. Enough said.

There's a particular joy to a pre-campimg shopping trip. As you walk past all the powdered soups, pastas and rice you can't help letting your imagination fill in the void. You imagine yourself lying on a thick moss near a mountain's edge with a gas stove warming your hands and your soup, the sun gently cresting the horizon, sharing a laugh with your mates. Much like a Carling advert.

Shopping done, we retired to a bar where a French girl with forgiving aquamarine eyes and a thick, dark ponytail poured us reassuringly expensive Icelandic beer. She seemed to have been inflected with the gentle, joyless sensibility of many of the people here. I suppose that's what you get with 4 months of near perpetual darkness each year.

We also became friendly with a strikingly beautiful blonde lesbian who showed us her vast canvas of tattoos. Iceland became one of the first countries in the world to legalise gay marriage and same sex partnerships (1996). Not quite the rural backwater that one might suppose it is.

The main shopping strip was something of an improvement over the area near the coach station. But that's not saying a great deal. Iceland was one of the last places on earth settled by human beings and you can see why. The conditions here enforce a function over form architecture that doesn't lend itself to frippery.

When corrugated iron, concrete and pebble dash are the cornerstones of most buildings, you're not really off to a racing start.

Back at my Airbnb my host's, her 23 year old son had pitched up with his 2 year old and we got talking. It turns out that in Iceland you are not allowed to give your child a first name that isn't on a list pre-approved by a sort of Elf council. Apparently the majority people actually believe in Elves here, which is rather wonderful.

There is also an app in Iceland where you can find out whether the person you are shagging is a blood relative. Certainly quite useful when there are only about five names to chose from. Judging by a few of the people I've seen here, it's not being consulted nearly enough.

Kristina came home and we all settled into a traditional Icelandic dinner of beef tacos. It was all very friendly and it was great fun learning about Iceland and its many quirks.

Soon it was time to head across town and run the midnight marathon. Although it had been revised down to a slightly more realistic 10k. As we weren't trying to break any records a few quick shots of bourbon were had before the start to keep us sharp.

Despite being called the midnight marathon the race actually started at 10pm. It was probably the last thing we felt like doing. 4 hours of sleep and a fair amount of neat spirits does not make for a personal best.

The overall experience wasn't as dreadful as expected and the reward for finishing was a trip to the nearby geothermal pools. These were a set of open air pools powered by geothermal springs. A well deserved treat after a very, very long day.

After the pools a triumphant beer was shared at Bernat's camp and I made my way home. It was now 2am and the hour long walk to my flat wasn't ideal given the day I'd had. Fortunately two young Icelandic chaps gave me a lift all the way to my front door.

As we passed the downtown airport I asked them if it seemed a little odd having an airport in the centre of a city.
"Actually I've never thought about it, but yes... it is a little strange actually."