Iceland is a land of contrasts: behemoth glaciers sliding slowly past actively smoking volcanoes. The tranquility of the aurora borealis was interrupted by the roar of the deadly waves crashing against the black cliffs of the southern coast.
Driving through the winding village roads, past white-washed houses and pubs with gilt-edged windows and the rolling hills covered in a patchwork quilt of rye and barley fields, it feels like an illustration from a child’s story book. There is beauty in Northern Ireland’s apparent simplicity.
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