By Lucas Raven, Editor-in-Chief
Photography: Chris Flanagan
There are places where stories outlast the stone they were told on. The North Atlantic is full of them. Three countries, three seasons, and one thread running through all of it: the belief that the land is alive, and that it remembers. In Iceland, winter turned the sagas into something you could feel on your skin. In Scotland, summer lit the Highlands from a mahogany carriage window. In Ireland, autumn gilded the island and left the spirits to do the rest. This is my journey, told in the order I lived it.
SAGA: Iceland
Iceland does not do subtle. It is a country built from fire and finished with ice, and it is rather proud of the result.
The Retreat
The hotel is set into an 800-year-old lava flow, all dark volcanic stone, glass and moss, with milky turquoise water lapping at the balconies. It is as architecturally confident as it is quiet. The real revelation, though, was the massage. I lay on a floating mat in a secluded corner of the lagoon while a therapist worked in the warm, weightless silence. Every few minutes she lowered me a little deeper into the water, as if tucking me in. I have rarely surrendered to anything. I surrendered to this.
Then there is the water itself, which is as functional as it is beautiful. It holds silica, algae and minerals, long prized for calming and restoring the skin. Everything in the spa is built around that trio, so you leave feeling both pampered and repaired.
The Lights
A country hotel out in open countryside is where the dark is properly dark. You can spot the northern lights almost anywhere in Iceland, but they perform best far from the glow of towns, where there is little to no light pollution. Mine arrived in the small hours, rippling green across a still lake, with a telescope for company and a robe for dignity.
The North
At Lake Mývatn, a team of Siberian huskies decided I was their new favorite person. They have blue eyes, opinions, and absolutely no sense of personal space. For those who prefer a faster descent, the heli-skiing happens on the Troll Peninsula in the north. Runs drop from the summits straight down to the Arctic Ocean, with a helicopter as your chairlift.
Ice and Fire
Then the fire. I stood on a black sand beach with a roaring sea behind me, and I did what any sensible person would do: I climbed on top of a monster-wheeled buggy. It is the right machine for this landscape, a lunar shore that needs something with a little drama. The sand is black, the waves are white, and the grin is entirely unprofessional.
SELKIE: Scotland
Photography: Jon Tyson
Scotland is charming in any season, but it saves its best performance for summer. That is when the light stays late, the hills turn heather-purple, and the best way to see it is from a mahogany-paneled carriage with a glass of champagne in hand.
The Train
Images courtesy of Belmond Royal Scotsman
The train slid out of Edinburgh, past the Gothic spires and the clock tower keeping its own counsel, and for three nights I forgot what a schedule was. The carriages are a study in old-world craft: gleaming wood, floral damask curtains, brass lamps, and a rear observation car made for doing absolutely nothing with great style. I had flown in from Dubai, where the only thing that rolls past the window is more sand. Somewhere past the first glen, I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in hours.
The Table
Dinner is black tie, tartan optional, though I’d say mandatory in spirit. The sea does the heavy lifting here. Plump Scottish scallops arrive in their shells with a flourish of chive and a little caviar, followed by whisky poured with the reverence of a sacrament. Do not rush it. Nobody does.
The Land
Myself aboard The Royal Scotsman – Photography: Chris Flanagan
Out the window, the Highlands unspooled in lochs as still as mirrors, ruined castles keeping watch over the water, and shaggy Highland cattle with fringes that would make a Vogue editor weep. It is the best experiential train journey in the country, and the stops mean you actually step into the scenery rather than just watching it.
The Tales
At night, the music did the storytelling. Pipes and fiddles carry forgotten lore the way other cultures carry scripture. There is the legend of the Merry Men of Mey, the churning waves of the Pentland Firth that sailors blamed on sea spirits. And there are the selkies, seals who shed their skins on the shore to walk among us as men and women. In the old tales, a fisherman steals a skin and takes a bride, but she always finds it in the end and returns to the sea. I listened to the fiddle and understood why.
Scotland has never lost the sense that the water is watching.
SPIRITS: Ireland
Photography: Chris Flanagan
Ireland doesn’t shout the way Iceland does. It murmurs. The Wild Atlantic Way unspools in green cliffs, bruised skies and sea spray, and somewhere between the second castle and the third drizzle, you realize you’ve stopped checking the time. The old tales say the veil between worlds is thinnest here. After a few days, I believed them.
The Castles
I know one of these personally: I was married at a lakeside castle in Donegal, and it remains one of the most romantic venues I have ever seen. Turrets, lawns the color of emeralds, and a lake that does half the decorating for you. Down in Galway, a grand abbey keeps a lovely surprise on its grounds: original Orient Express carriages, turned into a restaurant. I’ve ridden the real train, and this was a charming nod to it. Then there’s the K Club, where the horses, the falconry and the fairways make you feel like landed gentry, minus the paperwork. In Dublin, a polished hotel makes a good base for a day or two before you head west.
The Menu
Order the whiskey, and order the oysters. The whiskey comes with a story at every bar, and the oysters taste of cold Atlantic brine. Fair warning on the menus: across the country’s best hotels, you will meet beef, a fish of the day, and often lamb, in endless variations. It’s less a menu than a national question. Beef or fish?
The Look
I dressed for the part. Celtic Tweed, with a shop right on Grafton Street (must visit this part of Dublin in the holidays, you can thank me later) , is my pick for a good Irish tailor. Navy velvet, black braiding and plaid trousers feel entirely at home against the stone and the grass.
Home
The truth is that Ireland stopped being a destination for me a while ago. I’ve had a house at Lough Rynn for two years now, surrounded by lakes. My golden retriever, Willow, patrols them every morning like a tiny, shaggy landowner. We walk the open country, and the quiet reminds me why I fell for the place.
The Season
Ireland is wet for most of the year, but recent summers have been kind. My favorite stretch is late October into November, when the leaves turn gold and rust and the whole island looks like an old oil painting. Add a fiddle in a corner pub, a few leprechaun legends, and the gods of Celtic myth lingering in every stone circle, and it’s easy to see why the Irish never stopped telling stories.
Iceland in winter, Scotland in summer, Ireland in autumn. Three seasons, three tales, and one very full passport.
