On 25th August 2025, I travelled to Grundarfjarðarbær. Grundarfjörður, a small fishing town tucked into a fjord on Iceland's Snaefellsnes Peninsula, feels like a postcard come to life, even if you're just passing through. With a population of around 1,000, it's a quiet spot where colourful wooden houses cling to the shore, their roofs red and green against the deep blue of the fjord. Locals here live by the rhythm of the sea, fishing boats dot the harbor, and the air carries a faint tang of salt. There's a handful of cafes and a small museum, but mostly, Grundarfjörður is a place to pause, breathe in the mountain air, and soak in the quiet beauty of a town that feels perfectly in sync with its surroundings. Even without staying long, it leaves an impression: a peaceful, unassuming gem, fitting for the final stop of a journey. In Grundarfjörður, I visited two scenic spots. The first one is Kirkjufell. It is actually the town's claim to fame. Kirkjufell, that cone-shaped giant rising behind Grundarfjörður, isn't just a mountain, it's a presence. Up close, its slopes are streaked with patches of moss and rock, green and grey blending like a watercolour left out in the rain. The morning light hit it just right, turning the peaks a soft gold, while below, the fjord's surface was so still that the mountain's reflection looked like a twin, submerged in glass. I stood there for longer than I intended, watching as a few seagulls wheeled between the mountain and its mirror image, tiny against the vastness. There's a quiet power to it: no jagged edges, no dramatic cliffs, just a smooth, steady ascent that feels both ancient and alive. No wonder it's the town's heart; even from a distance, it anchors the landscape, a reminder of how small we are, and how beautiful the world can be when it slows down. By the time I climbed back into the bus, I found myself glancing in the rear-view mirror, as if saying goodbye to an old friend. A short drive away, Búðakirkja came into view: a little black church, its steep roof and wooden walls looking like something out of a storybook, set against a backdrop of rolling green hills. It's tiny, almost dollhouse-like, with a weathered charm that makes it feel both well-loved and timeless. Stepping inside, I was struck by how cosy it is. Simple wooden pews line the walls, and sunlight streams through small, unadorned windows, casting warm patches on the floor. There's no grandeur here: just a quiet serenity, the kind that makes you lower your voice without thinking. I ran a hand over the smooth wood of a pew, imagining the generations that have sat here, and snapped a photo of the altar, its plain cross catching the light. Outside, it's even more photogenic: the bright white walls pop against the green hills, and the grass around it is dotted with wildflowers. I circled it once, taking shots from every angle: the way the roof dips, the small bell tower, the way it seems to nestle into the landscape as if it's always been there. It's a humble spot, but that's part of its magic: a reminder that beauty doesn't need to be big to leave a mark. By the time I walked back to the bus, I smiled, tucking my phone away. Kirkjufell's grandeur, Búðakirkja's quiet charm: two sides of Grundarfjörður, both perfect in their own way.