When people think of Iceland, they often picture dramatic landscapes—towering waterfalls, steaming geothermal fields, volcanoes, glaciers. And all of that is here, of course. But sometimes it’s the quiet moments, far from the usual tourist spots, that really stay with you. If you have the time and the inclination, heading out into the remote countryside can give you a kind of peace that’s hard to find anywhere else. It’s not always easy to describe, but you know it when you feel it. It’s that calmness that settles in when there’s no traffic, no crowds—just you, the wind, and maybe a few distant sheep grazing on a hillside.

I think the key is allowing yourself to slow down. We’re so used to rushing from one attraction to another, making sure we see all the famous sights. But if you really want to soak in the peacefulness, you have to let go of that checklist. Instead of trying to cover huge distances every day, pick one region—maybe a quiet fjord in the north, a small inland village in the east, or a gently rolling piece of farmland with a single-track road that leads who-knows-where. Give yourself the freedom to linger. If you’re driving and you see a small turnoff that seems intriguing, take it. Explore the side roads. Let curiosity guide you rather than a schedule.

One of my favorite memories was sitting outside a small guesthouse in a tiny village, halfway through a road trip. I’d planned to stay just one night, but I ended up staying for three because there was something about that place. There was a little stream running behind the house, and each evening I’d go sit by it as the sun dipped low, lighting up the sky in pastel shades. I didn’t do much. I just watched the light change. There were no other people around—just the sound of the water, maybe a soft breeze through the grass. That’s the kind of moment you can’t force. You have to let it come to you.

It helps to leave behind the idea that you must be constantly entertained. We’re so wired to check our phones, to find a café with Wi-Fi, to scroll through endless feeds. But in some parts of the Icelandic countryside, your phone signal might be weak or nonexistent. Embrace that. Turn your phone off if you can. Pay attention to what’s in front of you. Notice how the clouds move across the sky, or how the shadows stretch across a hayfield at dusk. Maybe take a short walk down a gravel road just to see where it goes. If you’re patient, you’ll start noticing small details—patterns in the moss, the distant call of a bird, the way the wind can carry scents of grass or distant water. Peace isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s woven into those quiet details you’d miss if you were rushing.

It’s also about your mindset. Sure, Iceland’s famous spots are incredible. But the quiet countryside can offer something equally precious: a sense of stillness that reminds you of how big the world is, and how little you need to feel content. It’s not about finding the most dramatic view or the best photo opportunity—though those might happen anyway. It’s about realizing that you don’t need to fill every moment with stimulation. When you stand alone on a wide plain, no one else in sight, with nothing but a gentle breeze, you start to feel this weight lift. It’s like there’s more space in your mind for your own thoughts, for a kind of gentle reflection.

Even the weather can contribute to this sense of peace. If a light drizzle starts while you’re out walking, instead of rushing back indoors, consider just accepting it. Feel the raindrops on your jacket, listen to how they sound on different surfaces. If a mist rolls in and softens the edges of the landscape, watch how everything changes shape in that hush. Sometimes the weather in Iceland can feel like a gentle reminder that you’re part of something larger—you’re not just a visitor admiring a static scene, you’re experiencing nature as it unfolds, moment by moment.

It can help to engage with the local community, if there is one. Even if you don’t speak Icelandic, a smile and a nod can go a long way. Maybe you’ll find a small farm café where someone is willing to chat for a minute, share a bit about their life out here. It’s often a quieter exchange, not as hurried as in a big city. Just hearing the stories of people who live in these remote areas can add depth to your experience. It makes you appreciate the slow rhythms of a place where daily life is attuned to the land and seasons rather than the clock.

When you do eventually head back to the more populated parts of the country—or back home, wherever that may be—you might notice that you feel lighter. The peace you found out in the countryside doesn’t have to disappear as soon as you leave. It’s something you can carry with you, a kind of calm perspective that comes from knowing that spaces like that exist in the world. Even if you’re stuck in traffic later or scrolling through too many emails, you can remember what it felt like to stand in a quiet field with only the sound of wind for company.

That’s the real gift of Iceland’s remote countryside. It’s not a souvenir you can buy or a photo you can show off. It’s an internal shift. It’s learning to be comfortable with silence and stillness, to appreciate landscapes that aren’t always clamoring for attention. In a world that often feels noisy and demanding, those moments of peace become treasures. They remind you that sometimes, just being there—really being present—is more than enough.

Most people who visit Iceland stick to the ring road and the well-known attractions, and I get why. It’s easy, it’s convenient, and there’s a lot to see. But the Icelandic Highlands…that’s a whole different story. This is a place where roads turn into rough tracks of gravel, where rivers have no bridges, and you feel like you’re walking into an entirely different world. I remember the first time I ventured up there. I was leaving behind the busy spots with tour buses and comfortable parking lots and heading straight into the unpredictable heart of the country.

What struck me immediately was the sense of solitude. It’s not that there’s nothing up there; it’s that the landscape has this raw, powerful silence. You might drive for hours without seeing another car. The mountains are often bare, with their dark volcanic slopes and patches of moss or snow, depending on the season. Rivers snake through the valleys, sometimes gentle, sometimes raging, and you have to be prepared to ford them if you want to keep going. This isn’t the kind of trip you decide on a whim. You need a four-wheel-drive vehicle, good maps, and some solid planning.

One of the highlights for me was stumbling upon geothermal areas that seem to pop out of nowhere. I’d be walking across a landscape that looked like something from a lunar mission—black volcanic gravel everywhere—and suddenly, there’d be a patch of bright orange earth, steaming vents, and bubbling mud pools. It’s as if the ground is alive, whispering about all the volcanic energy underneath your feet. In some places, you can even find natural hot springs that have no sign, no crowds—just a quiet pool of warm water waiting for anyone who’s adventurous enough to get there. Sitting in one of those pools, feeling the warmth of the earth itself while the highland winds swirl around you, is a memory that sticks with you long after you’ve headed back down to civilization.

Hiking in the highlands is a different kind of challenge. Trails are often less marked, weather can shift from sunshine to sleet in an hour, and you have to rely on your own judgment. But that’s part of the appeal. You might find yourself halfway up a ridge, looking over endless expanses of volcanic desert, distant glaciers shimmering in the light, and not another soul around. It’s humbling. It makes you realize just how small we are, and how vast and untamed the world still can be. That feeling is what makes these places so special. You’re not just seeing sights—you’re engaging with the environment on its terms.

Another tip: timing matters. The highland roads aren’t open year-round. They typically open in summer, often late June or July, and close by the first heavy snows in autumn. Even then, conditions can change rapidly. It’s not about ticking off a list of attractions. It’s more about embracing the uncertainty. Maybe you won’t get to your planned campsite because a river’s too high or because a sudden storm forces you to turn back. That’s okay. The highlands teach you to accept nature’s terms and adjust your plans rather than force them.

It’s also important to be respectful. This environment is fragile. Vegetation grows slowly in these harsh conditions, and off-road driving can scar the landscape for decades. Stick to the tracks, leave no trace, and give the place the reverence it deserves. The highlands aren’t a theme park—they’re a reminder that not everything on this earth has been tamed and packaged for easy consumption.

So if you’re looking for something beyond the usual routes, consider heading into the Icelandic Highlands. It won’t be easy. It won’t always be comfortable. But it’ll give you a sense of discovery and awe that’s hard to find anywhere else. It’s the kind of experience that leaves you with dirt under your fingernails, a hint of sulfur in your nose, and memories etched deep enough that, years later, you’ll still feel that quiet thrill when you think back on your time there.