<font color="#9b9b9b">On 23rd August 2025, I travelled to Vík í Mýrdal.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">Vík í Mýrdal, or Vik for short. Perched on the southern coast, this tiny town (population barely 300) feels like the edge of the world. Black sand stretches for miles along its beach, where basalt columns rise from the water like ancient sentinels. The air smells of salt and wind, and even on a sunny day, there's a wildness to it, waves crash hard against the shore, and the sky seems to stretch endlessly over the ocean. It's a place that feels both fragile and unbreakable, a fitting end to a day of chasing Iceland's most dramatic corners.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">By the time I reached the first scenic spot of Vik which is known to be Reynisfjara Beach, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in grey colours: a fitting backdrop for this otherworldly stretch of black sand. The beach is striking from the moment you step onto it: jet-black volcanic sand, smooth and cool underfoot, contrasts sharply with the crashing white waves of the North Atlantic. Beyond the shore, jagged basalt columns rise like a petrified forest, their hexagonal shapes a product of ancient lava flows. It's a landscape that feels both prehistoric and surreal.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">Just steps from Reynisfjara's black sand and crashing waves, I spotted Hálsanefshellir Cave: its dark, jagged mouth carved into the basalt cliffs, like a secret door to the sea.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">I peeked a little way in, my shoes crunching on loose pebbles, and imagined how it must look at sunset: golden light spilling through the entrance, painting the basalt warm. But my watch buzzed, a reminder of the next stop on my list, and I sighed. No time to venture deeper, to see if the back of the cave held more little nooks or better views of the sea. Still, even that quick peek felt special: like I stumbled on a quiet companion to Reynisfjara's drama, a calm, hidden spot that makes this stretch of coast feel even more like a treasure.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">I strolled slowly, keeping a safe distance from the water as our guide had warned. He did indeed mention about "sneaker waves": powerful, unexpected surges that can rush far up the beach, dragging even cautious visitors into the icy, churning sea. Within minutes, I saw why: a wave crashed harder than the rest, sending a frothy surge racing toward the shore, much farther than the ones before it. It retreated just as quickly, but the message was clear. I stayed back, snapping photos of the basalt columns and the way the light turned the waves gold, grateful for the warning.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">After a quiet 15 minutes, just me, the sound of the wind, and the relentless crash of the ocean: it was time to go. As I walked back to the car, I glanced over my shoulder at Reynisfjara, now softening in the fading light. It's a place of raw beauty, but one that demands respect.</font> <font color="#9b9b9b">As I depart from in Vik in the next morning, Morning light softens Vik's rooftops as I load my bag into the car, ready to drive on. Glancing toward the coast, where Reynisfjara black sand meets the sea, I smile I didn't get to linger as long as I wanted, but that's okay. </font> <font color="#9b9b9b">There's always next time, I think, already daydreaming of stepping onto that dark shore again, the wind in my hair and the waves crashing nearby. A little promise to myself, as I pull away.</font>