Life

It was around about the time when we had to deflate the tyres to float over the icy track that it got exciting. We were not completely stuck, but stuck enough for it to cause great excitement to the occupants of the Jeep that we were driving across Iceland's uninhabited interior in midwinter. It must be said that Arnar, our guide, did not seem terribly worried. But for the children and myself this was now a truly validated adventure.

We stopped for a walk and a spot of caving and I found myself sliding on my backside down a slope into a magical cave of ice, stuccoed with stalagmites and stalactites. If the thrill of feeling like a proper caver was not enough, thanks to my fabulous headgear I even looked like one (although my ruinously expensive Harvey Nichols leather gloves may have given the game away, if my rather indelicate entrance into the cave had not already done so).

Down in the darkness, the entire cave glowed with reflected blue icy light. In those few seconds when the children were not furiously trying to dig their way deeper into the lava hole, it was very quiet. Eventual exit was via a snow hole, something that required manual dexterity and skill - neither of which I possessed, so I had to be dragged out instead. Nevertheless, this too was thrilling. "No time to spare," said Arnar, who deflated the tyres some more and drove us to the middle of a forest for lunch.

Iceland's appearance is slightly lunar. Habitation is rare and miles of empty snow fringed by black rock and coastlines bitten by blue, icy waves are presided over by white volcanic peaks. The city of Reykjavik may give the impression of an almost warm island but the reason no ice lies on its streets is that all pavements are heated underground from geothermic water. A dozen miles outside the city, a thick coating of snow topped everything in sight.

At Geysir, the geothermic hub of Iceland, the wisps of steam in the distance brought with them a distinctive sulphurous smell and the persistent sound of gloopy bubbling. And then, an almighty rush: Strokkur, the most active Icelandic geyser, bursts on to the scene, 30 metres high. The water that emerges from it runs downhill and is roasting. The original Geysir (by which the area is named, meaning "spectacular") erupted up to 60 metres high but stopped regularly gushing several decades ago and now only gives the occasional "sneeze" but the area - alive with hot springs, turquoise pools of steaming mineral water and prehistoric-looking mud baths simmering with glee - still seethes with vigour. Much of this unsettling, primeval place is roped off, as a nod to safety, but the surrounding area is so alive with underground activity that those wanting to get even closer easily can: several gardens in the area have hot springs as an unusual lawn feature.

The geological pyrotechnics do not end here. At the vast Thingvellar National Park, a World Heritage site almost 50km from Reykjavik, we crossed a footbridge that divides tectonic plates: American on one side, European on the other. The cracks in the earth are staggering; gouged volcanic rips that make the surface look like shredded paper. And the plates continue to move - at a rate of around 2cm a year, increasing the size of Iceland by a few centimetres in the process. (As Arnar said: it is a sneaky way to world domination.) Beneath, the rocks are filled with clear water shimmering with coins tossed in for luck: still, frozen air sealed the scene.

In so many ways, Iceland seems to offer the best possible kind of outdoors experience. But the best thing about being outside is the fact that you can heat up in one of many bathing pools. Under a darkening sky, back on the outskirts of Reykjavik, I lay on my back baking in sulphurous water, admiring the peaks of dormant volcanoes. Just how idiotic was it to take two children under five to explore Iceland in deepest winter? Quite idiotic. But also fabulous fun.

Some may like it hot - but many of us prefer it very, very cold.

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