I went to Iceland’s Blue Lagoon the day it reopened – in spite of the lava
The man at the checkpoint seems very relaxed. Too relaxed, maybe. “You’re good to go,” he says. “Just don’t stop on the lava.”
I call after him – “What, sorry?” – but it’s too late, he’s on to the next car, and so, sure enough, I drive on and within a few minutes I find myself rattling over a temporary track thrown up over still-hot rubble.
The lava flow is bitumen black and smoking, piled high with sharply irregular shapes like a field full of burnt-out cars. It smells the way you’d imagine it to smell: like burning plastic with a hint of rotten egg. And then I’m through, come into a strange and beautiful landscape: older, settled, and smothered in a soft-grey moss.
At Grindavík, I turn inland, past a banana yellow digger tidying the edges of the embankments thrown up to shelter the evacuated town from the successive floods of superheated rock that have lapped against the town’s limits.
My destination: the Blue Lagoon, Iceland’s most popular tourist attraction. The geothermal spa is famed for the luminosity of its waters, the skin-soothing qualities of its mineral-rich muds, and its uniquely Icelandic brand of contemporary luxury. Lately, however, it has been a starring role in the region’s earth-shattering theatrics.
The spa owes its balmy temperatures to the Svartsengi power plant next door, which pumps boiling water from underground reservoirs which, after being fed through a heat exchanger, is released into the lagoon. Its high mineral content brings antibacterial properties, eliminating the need for chlorine.
Iceland’s position at the border between separating tectonic plates is what creates its wealth of geothermal power, but also leaves the region vulnerable to natural disasters. Since 2021, the Reykjanes peninsula has been racked by a series of dramatic volcanic events. Unlike the notorious Eyjafjallajökull eruptions of 2010, which caused air travel disruption across Europe, recent eruptions have produced relatively little ash. But lava flows have directly threatened the town of Grindavík, the power plant, the Blue Lagoon, and the main access road to all three – Route 43, which last weekend was swallowed under volcanic flows for the third time. Footage shows a wall of rock tumbling slowly but unstoppably forwards as policemen, dwarfed by its scale, look helplessly on.
Still, the Blue Lagoon has proved remarkably resilient, reopening yet again on Tuesday thanks to the new access route carved through that smoking field to the west, only three days later.
When I arrived in the mid-afternoon, I found the car park perhaps a third full, noisy with construction machinery reinforcing the protective dykes thrown up around the facility. It was a schoolboy’s dream: dumper trunks zipping back and forth, loaded with boulders; excavators pawed busily at black earthworks.
Michelle Taylor, a tourist from Brisbane, was returning to her vehicle after several hours relaxing in the pools. “We’re really happy to be here, honestly,” she said. “There are fewer people here than usual. It’s quiet. But, to us, that’s a good thing. It was beautiful.” The infernal scenes on the journey had only added to her experience, she added: “We couldn’t believe this was allowed. It would have been worth the cost of admission just to drive the road in.”
Tamara Ananic, a smiling staff member, stood waiting to greet new arrivals. “It’s been tough, honestly,” she admitted. “You never know when something might happen.” They’ve been evacuated three times recently due to eruptions, she said. It had been a “stressful” time, but employees would continue to be paid as normal, even when the facilities were closed.
The Blue Lagoon opened in 1992 and fast became one of the world’s most recognisable resorts. By 2019, it was valued at 50 billion ISK (£280m)—although recent events have unquestionably been costly; Icelandic newspaper Morgunblaðið estimated last winter’s seven-week, volcano-related closure to have cost the company in excess of 4 billion ISK (£22m).
Inside the complex itself, the mood was calm. The usual ticket-line scrum had thinned to a mere trickle of guests. The changing rooms felt almost eerily quiet. Outside, the famously ethereal pools billowed with mist; dark figures bobbed in waters of electric blue, some smeared with chalky white facemasks or clutching plastic cups of beer.
From the poolside bar, guests could spy through a gap in the fence pale smoke rising in a shivering plume from the single remaining active crater – only 3km distant – which continued to simmer and churn.
Only a few days previously, the volcano put on a stunning show, fountaining molten, flame-red magma high into the sky. Guests Pam Field and Gwen Gregory, from Oregon and Arkansas, were there to see it. “On Friday, we could see it over the walls, spitting and flaring fairly regularly,” says Pam. It all seemed a little close for comfort, she thought, “and right enough, it closed the next day.”
Early on June 8, when it became clear that the flow would breach the road and approach the complex’s defensive dykes, day visitors were told to stay away, while guests in the Blue Lagoon hotels were allowed to remain until 11am.
Still, the two women decided to return as soon as it next opened its doors. They were reassured by the company’s detailed evacuation plans, published online, and felt comfortable with the risk. “They’re monitoring seismic activity, air quality, lava flows,” shrugs Gwen. “They have good safety protocols.”
Outside, the air shimmers with heat over new-formed lands. Inside, €86 tasting menus are served, champagne poured, and – behind closed doors – anxious eyes check and recheck the latest seismic updates.
How to do it
Day passes for the Blue Lagoon costs ISK14,490 (£81,70). See bluelagoon.com for details.
