There is one thing that no one tells you before you go to Iceland. They really, really, really, REALLY hate Gordon Brown. They despise him. That Viking Thunder Clap? That's Icelanders showing what they would like to do to his balls. Brits may vaguely remember something about an Icelandic ISA account, Martin Lewis getting ripped apart on Channel 4 news for encouraging people to use it, and Brown muttering darkly (and erroneously) about a domino financial crash starting in Iceland. In the years after it faded away from the headlines, and we Brits forgot about it. And then you step foot onto the shores of Iceland. The massive spike in unemployment, the terrorism act used to freeze their assets in London, the rebellion against accepting an unfair loan arranged by Demon Brown, the rotating governments that still continue to this day. It's left a massive scar to the point where it entered the conversation every single day. I'm surprised they let us in at the border.

The barely disguised grumpiness towards tourists is more evident in Reykjavik, and who can blame them. Walking along the beautiful harbour between the shimmering Harpa concert hall and the Sun Voyager sculpture, there were various deposits of litter wedged between the large rocks on the shore. Couples had spelt out their initials with pebbles, others put swear words. Hateable children climbed all over the Sun Voyager, encouraged by their shitty parents. Welcome to Reykjavik, Now Fuck Off to Your Tour Bus and Leave us Alone.

The tour bus terminal is the portal to a warmer welcome and friendlier people. A hive of buses transport us tourists from hotel to portal in a well rehearsed evacuation, then on to our adventures.

A freezing cold field at 11pm, pitch black. A hazy row of what looked like smoke slowly rose up over the Big Dipper. Those with all the pro camera gear got excited, they knew what it meant. A white ghost appeared in the sky, then dissolved into a rippled curtain. And finally the green hue registered on our acclimatised gaze, the Northern Lights floating and dancing away.

Our days are filled with volcanic formations, boiling water streaming through the fields, the glaciers on the horizon that are melting and feeding those streams. Waterfalls with picture perfect rainbows guided us to the black shore of the South Coast. It really is black too. Lava that has long broken down into sand resembling burnt toast crumbs. A stop off at a thermal pool starts as a nightmare (compulsory communal shower before getting in, no swimming suit allowed) and ends in heaven (every care in the world soaked away by the geothermal water).

One has to be careful not to try and have someone else's holiday in Iceland, trying to get the same feeling  that you've read someone else gushing about. You might end up missing out on your own sense of wonderment over what you see and do.