From Waterfall Mist to Black Sand and Ice
I have been to Iceland twice, but it was my first journey along the south coast that defined the country for me. Nowhere else I had travelled felt so open, so raw and so constantly shaped by water, weather, ice and volcanic ground. From powerful waterfalls to black-sand shores and the stillness of Jökulsárlón, this was a landscape of striking transitions.
Aerial view over South Iceland, where glacier tongues from Vatnajökull flow towards Jökulsárlón and the Atlantic coastline beyond black sand plains.
I have been to Iceland twice. On my first visit, I chose to focus on the entire south coast because it immediately seemed like the most photogenic part of the country. It also felt wilder and more open than I had imagined before arriving. What has stayed with me most from Iceland, more than any single viewpoint or famous stop, is the volcanic energy beneath everything. That is what makes the country feel so different from other places I have travelled. I felt that even more clearly when I returned on my second visit and had the chance to see the aftermath of the 2024 volcanic eruption near Grindavík, where the ground still held warmth and work was underway to rebuild the road the lava had swept away.
Seljalandsfoss was one of the first places where Iceland’s south coast truly announced itself. It was a powerful experience to come so close to such a large and elegant waterfall, but what struck me most was not the composition at first. It was the sound. Standing near it, and especially walking behind the falling water, I was surrounded by the deep, relentless roar of thousands of cubic metres plunging down from the cliffs. The view from behind the waterfall was unforgettable, but before I even began to think seriously about framing the scene, I was simply listening.
Skógafoss gave me a different feeling. Where Seljalandsfoss felt dramatic and immersive, Skógafoss felt more raw. I walked up to the top of the falls, and for me the most spectacular images came from there rather than from below. Looking down from the brink, with the river gathering itself before dropping into the open landscape, gave the place a different kind of scale. It felt less theatrical and more elemental, as if the force of the water mattered even more than the setting around it.
Dyrholaey’s sweeping headland leads the eye along a black-sand curve of surf, out towards isolated sea stacks under clear, wind-bright Atlantic light.
From there, the south coast changed character again. At Dyrhólaey and along the coast, the waterfalls gave way to the sea, black sand and a calmer but no less distinctive landscape. The black beaches were especially striking, not least because of the contrast between the dark shore and the white foam of the waves rolling in. The coast felt quieter than the waterfalls, and there was noticeably less green than further inland. That shift was part of what made the south coast so memorable to photograph. The scenery never stood still in visual terms, yet it still felt connected.
Between the most famous stops, there were also quieter stretches that stayed with me. I remember the sense of calm in the green volcanic landscapes, where moss, grass and flowers softened the terrain while volcanic ground still defined what lay beneath. In several places the purple lupins added an unexpected burst of colour. That contrast between softness on the surface and volcanic force underneath seemed to sum up Iceland particularly well. It was not only a landscape of spectacle, but also one of pauses, textures and quieter transitions.
Svartifoss stood apart from the other waterfalls because of the basalt columns around it. That geological framing gave it a very different identity, and it was one of the places where Iceland’s volcanic origins became visually unmistakable. Further east, Skaftafellsjökull made a major impression on me. I have seen other glaciers before, but here I managed to get high enough to understand the glacier’s full scale, and that changed everything. From above, the dimensions became much more apparent, and the meeting of ice, ash and mountain gave the landscape a weight and complexity that was hard to forget.
Skaftafellsjökull, Iceland — a lone photographer stands above the glacier tongue, where ash-dark crevasses spill into a milky proglacial lagoon beneath snow-dusted peaks.
The journey ended at Jökulsárlón Glacier Lagoon, and it felt like the right ending to the south coast. After the force of the waterfalls, the dark Atlantic shore and the shifting volcanic landscapes, this was a calmer final note. The stillness was almost tangible, broken only by the occasional grinding sound as icebergs moved against one another. The colours also stayed with me: the green-blue water, the pale blue ice and the black traces of volcanic material around it. What makes Iceland’s south coast so exceptional for photography is the sheer range of contrasts packed into relatively short distances. Motifs seemed to queue up one after another, and the rapidly changing light and weather made the conditions both exciting and demanding. For a landscape photographer, Iceland truly is an extraordinary place, and I already know I will return.
