January in Iceland fucking sucks. Here’s why.
AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!
This shit suuuuuuuuuuuucks.
OK. *deep breaths*
Before I get into this I should probably clarify some things. I genuinely love living in Iceland. It feels more like home than anywhere else I’ve lived.* It is truly, and in all senses of the word, home. I’m very very very happy here.
When I think of Iceland during the majority of the year, I think of all the cool shit:
- World class nature. I look out my window and see the sea, mountains and Northern Lights
- Socialism! Like, actual, honest-to-God socialism.
- There’s no class structure. You can be anything!**
- The coolest job I’ve ever had. I get to tell stories for money!
- Exceptional hiking. Love me a circular walk!
- Lack of predators: both human and animal.
- The 6th highest wages in the world (according to the Wage Centre)
- We’re the 3rd happiest nation in the world (as of 2022)
- We have paprika flavour crisps (Will, you’ve converted me).
- There’s no military here. I don’t have to pretend anyone is a hero!
I could go on. Maybe one day I will. But today, I had to agonise over every one of those bullet points. Because I have nothing good to say about Iceland in January.
Here’s the thing. Statistically, January in Iceland doesn’t sound so bad. The average temperature in Reykjavík is -0.5°C (31.1°F). Which doesn’t sound too bad, right? You hear Iceland and you assume it must be negative a billion, but it’s really not that cold. Similarly, precipitation is 76mm (3in). That’s no big deal. I’s literally less than the average of 109mm my hometown of Newcastle upon Tyne receives in the average January. Maybe my point is a little stronger when we talk about daylight. In January, the sun rises for about 4–5 hours a day. The sun doesn’t rise until much after 11am and sets well before 5pm. Which sounds bad, but doesn’t convey the true horror that is Icelandic January.
I can’t make a logical case that January in Iceland sucks. I don’t think the numbers show it. I genuinely don’t think that the ‘facts’ are on my side. I can’t persuade you that Icelandic January sucks with data.
But, I can describe how Icelandic January feels to me. You can make your own inferences from there.
Cool? On board with the premise? A loose collection of hyperbolic venting about living in Iceland in January? Sounds good, right? Right! Like and subscribe.
So where was I? Oh, right!
AAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!
This shit suuuuuuuuuuuucks. Why? Well…
January in Iceland feel like: You will never be the temperature you want.
Let’s start with the obvious. It’s cold. Like, fucking cold. Like, ‘I-am-concerned-for-the-wellbeing-of-my-organs’ cold. Like, ‘if-I-take-a-deep-breath-outside-too-deeply-I’m worried-my-lungs-will-freeze cold. Like, ‘I-wonder-if-the-amount-I’m-shivering-counts-as-exercise’ cold. I know the average temperatures aren’t crazy cold but with the darkness, wind chill and the sea air, it’s fucking cold.
So every time you go outside you (very sensibly) layer up. You’ve got the woollen underlayers. You’ve got the hat, scarf and gloves. You’ve got the fashionable floor length puffer jacket.*** And as you’re walking around outside, you are almost comfortable. Life is almost good.
But, then you go into a shop, café or office and suddenly you are on fire. All your astute cold weather measures are great for the snow and wind, but as soon as you enter a heated room: Boom! Inferno. Sweat pours down your back. You’ve got super rosy cheeks. It’s an instant bollock-swamp.**** You toy with taking off your jumper and coat. And hat. And gloves. And scarf. And buff. That seems like a lot of work…. and you tell yourself you’re popping in. It’s not that bad. You’ll just suffer through.
You leave the store as a puddle of sweat. As you re-enter the frozen outdoors your sweat quickly begins to cool. It shoots directly past your body temperature straight to freezing cold. Sometimes I worry it’ll freeze. You know, like your boogers do. Either way, you’re walking home with ice cold sweat clinging to all the areas you wish it wouldn’t.
So instead of attempting to go outside at all, you stay in. You say you’ll nest. You’ll do all the things you keep putting off at home. You’ll thrive in domestic bliss. Well…
January in Iceland feels like: All Motivation Has Died
Remember the Lion King?***** I’ve always thought it was weird that when*spoiler alert* Mufasa dies that the Pride Lands also just die. Over the course of one ‘Hakuna Matata’ they go from lush African savanna to complete uninhabitable wasteland. Like, sure their leader died, but why is there no grass? Where are the trees? Why is everything dead because one lion died? It doesn’t make any sense.
So, I can’t answer that but I can tell you that this is exactly how it feels in Iceland in January. January in Iceland feels like Mufasa died.****** And I’m not really talking about the nature dying. Iceland has basically no vegetation at the best of times. It’s not like we usually live in lush green surroundings. That’s emphatically not the case. It’s just a bunch of rocks and moss.
It’s more of a spiritual issue. January is more of a psychological wasteland than an ecological one. You go to do things and there’s just no energy. Here’s an example: I wanted to see the new Matilda film while it was in cinemas. I decided I was going to go on January 13th. Then I just didn’t. And now it’s the 30th. Nothing stopped me. Time just passed and it didn’t happen. It just felt like a lot, you know? Sure, I feel a bit shitty about it. But I’m not going to do anything about it.
Now imagine the entire country feels like that. About everything. For the entire month.
In January, the Icelandic Motivation-Mufasa is dead. We live in a motivational wasteland. The kingdom doesn’t mourn his loss but that actually feels like quite a lot of effort, and I’m quite tired.
Speaking of which…
January in Iceland feels like: You want to worship the Sun
I hadn’t really thought about the Sun much growing up. There’s a joke to be made that because I grew up in England, that’s because I’d barely seen it. Which is, admittedly, quite a funny joke.
Here’s the thing. I actually didn’t realise how spoiled I was. I didn’t realise how much Vitamin D I got growing up in the North East of England. I didn’t realise how much I loved the fucking Sun.
Let me explain. On January first each year, the Sun rises at 11:20am. It then sets at 3:43pm. That’s four and a half hours of sunlight. Maybe. You know, unless it’s cloudy. Which it is most days.
I hadn’t realised how much this would affect me. I had been told to take Vitamin D but I’d always sort of assumed that was just playful banter. You know, ‘Oh, you’re going to Iceland in winter? Better take Vitamin D!’. Like being told to take anything with flavour on a trip to the British Isles. Yeah, it turns out, that this was more like essential medical advice. You want the Vitamin D. You need the Vitamin D.
Because, I don’t know if you know, but your body needs sunlight. The Sun wakes you up and helps you go to sleep. According to Healthline, it promotes weightloss, reduces stress and strengthens our immune system. It has also been shown to fight depression by boosting your serotonin levels. IT LITERALLY MAKES YOU LIVE LONGER! *ahem* It literally makes you live longer. But yeah we don’t have it. Instead we get Vitamin D tablets and slightly bright lamps. Which are *checks notes* not as good. At all.
Every January, I’m with my boy Akhenaten. There is only one true power in this Universe: the Sun.*******
Yes, sometimes the jokes are just for me.
January in Iceland feels like: Feeling Quite Sick but Not Quite Sick Enough for Proper Sympathy. Permanently.
So we’ve covered the basics. It’s fucking cold. Motivation is dead. The giver of life has abandoned you. Standard. Now let’s dig into the details:
Everyone gets sick in January in Iceland. Everyone. Every year. Without fail. That makes sense, right? It’s the same the world over. That’s just how winter works. It’s flu season. That’s normal.
What is not normal is that the times when you’re not sick in Iceland in January, you’re also sick. But not, like, properly sick. You know, you’re not sick enough to take a day off, to put off chores or to gain sympathy. You’re just a bit ill. Permanently. Specifically:
- Your throat is always a bit sore and gunky. You know, not enough to see a doctor, but just enough to make you do a little cough every few minutes or for everything to taste off.
- Your nose is always a bit clogged. You know, not enough to need a day in bed, but just enough to mean you have to breath through your mouth. Oh, and just enough that you’re constantly rocking a little nose dribble. Sexy.
- You constantly ache a bit. You know, not enough that it’s obviously a problem, but just enough that it’s really hard to be comfortable.
I could keep going. In fact, I’m tempted to but this article is already waaaay too long (yay for being on brand!) so I’ll summarise. You know the feeling you get when you’re getting sick. You know, just before you’re about to get properly sick. You’re not quite sick but you can feel it coming? The Illness Intro? The Pro-Lurge?******** Iceland in January means living in the Pro-Lurge. You’re never sure if something is coming or going. Illness lurks like an acquaintance that is either awkwardly early to a party or stays way past their welcome. Just always kinda there. It sucks.
January in Iceland feels like: An assault on your skin
You know when you have a little piece of skin loose next to your fingernails? The internet is telling me to call me a hangnail, but I grew up calling it a ‘wick’ I think. Either way, when you have a little bit of skin loose like that, you know you should leave it alone. You know you shouldn’t pick it. So, of course you pick it. What is left behind is the most painful little thing ever. Some raw skin in a high use area of your body. Even though you know you just need to ignore it, you can’t help but fixate on this tiny red point of persistent pain on your hand.
The dry air combined with the freezing cold means that January in Iceland is a nightmare for your skin. Your whole body is crying out for moisture. Your skin gets dry. Everything cracks. And, in my case, nothing cracks more than my hands. For the entire month of January I have tiny cuts all over my hands that reeeeeeeally hurt. It feels like both hands are just dozens of hangnails I should have left alone and didn’t. It’s genuinely really painful. And that’s before we talk about the constantly chapped and cracking lips. It’s enough to ruin your day.
Now, you might be saying, ‘Matt, you should moisturise!’. Let me tell you, I am plenty fucking moist. I currently have 5 moisturising products in rotation and I moisturise at least twice a day. This is not an issue of my own moistness. I am moist enough.
The issue is that my skin isn’t built for January in Iceland. Noone’s is.
January in Iceland feels like: The wind has made you its personal enemy
I always forget I live by the sea. I live in downtown Reykjavík and it really doesn’t feel coastal. But it is technically a seaside city. My apartment is literally 2–3 stones throws away from the North Atlantic Ocean. And the wind that comes from the ocean is breathtaking. Literally.
To explain how the wind feels, I need to explain something I learned when growing up. I used to play football for a local youth team and one thing I learned from my experience was that there are two ways to get hurt during a football match. Sometimes, when you play a contact sport, you’re tackled a little late or receive an errant shoulder. It happens. It hurts but there’s nothing to it. You walk it off. No big deal. Sometimes, however, you feel the malice. The other player wanted to hurt you, set out to hurt you and then hurt you. The pain is greater because there was intention to cause pain.
I fully believe that the wind in Iceland is January is trying to hurt me. Well not just me, but all of us people trying to live on this frigid rock in January.
It has to be. I’m not even talking about the crazy winds that cause weather warnings. Literally as I type this there is a warning of gusts over 100kph (62mph). No, I mean the regular wind. Cold enough to make you shiver, strong enough to knock you off balance and inconsistent enough that it is impossible to get used to, the wind directly off the North Atlantic seems like it is actively trying to make my life worse in every possible way. It’s vicious and it’s a public menace.
It has to be deliberate.
January in Iceland feels like: Walking down the street might kill you. Because it might.
You know when you see an elderly person walking down a rickety or icy street and you can’t help but think, ‘Oh shit, they’re definitely going to fall and really hurt themselves’? If you were raised with similar values to me, you might even think of going over and offering an arm to assist them on their journey.
In Iceland in January, we are all that elderly person. And there’s no ‘nice young man’ in sight. At all times we are one unfortunate step away from slipping and breaking every bone in our body.
Now, I can already hear some of you saying ‘Matt, you just need better shoes’. Listen. My shoes are as good as shoes get. I’m an Icelandic mountain guide. I am literally a professional walker. And as a professional walker, let me tell you, it’s not the shoes. Meindls and crampons won’t save you here.
What happens is that the snow on the paths compacts down into ice. The ice will kill you. Later, more snow falls on the ice. Snow is easier to walk on than ice. You gain confidence. But the ice is still there. Lurking. Ready to kill you. Along with your hubris. The ice melts. You feel safe and then…. Surprise motherfucker! It’s black ice. The melted snow froze overnight and, no surprise, it will kill you. Even in the city centre. That’s not even talking about the slush…
I know for a fact that Icelanders will say that the paths aren’t that dangerous. I also know that literally will know someone personally that fell and broke something this winter.
Because, in January, paths in Iceland aren’t really paths. They’re poorly regulated ice rinks.
In conclusion
Like I said in the Intro, I truly love living in Iceland. It’s an amazing place to live. I’m proud to call it home.
But, honestly? January sucks. January sucks so much. Every single year. For so many reasons. Like, imagine the most something can suck. It’s not quite that bad, but it’s really flipping close.
As a tour guide, I was often asked what the best time to visit Iceland is. That’s really hard to say. If you come in the summer, you can hike in the highlands. The equinoxes are best for Northern Lights. I think there’s something wonderful about Iceland at Christmastime. There’s no right answer. There are many excellent times to visit Iceland.
However, when asked when is the worst time to visit, there is absolutely only one right answer. That answer is January. The worst month to live, visit or experience Iceland is January. It suuuuuuuuuuucks.
Bring on February! Thanks for reading lovelies. Until next time!
Hi everyone, thanks for reading this loosely structured rant!
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You’re the best. You make me want to be a better man. Yep, all of you.
Talk to someone you love today.
* Except you New Zealand. You’re the one who got away. Or, more accurately, you’re the one waaaay too fucking far away.
** Exceptions may apply.
*** Can we talk for a second about this new trend in coats? I know I’m function over fashion but how do these people bend? Like if they need to pick something off the floor do they need to do a slut drop? If you’re rocking these giant coats this season, let me know if it’s working for you. Because this feels like fashion that we’ll see for a single season.
**** I do not know if there is an equivalent vaginal phenomenon. Let me know if there is AND what you’d name it.
***** If you’re thinking I wonder if he means the original animated film or the live action remake, there is a correct answer. And I will be judging you on your choice.
****** Can you imagine if the same thing happened in England last year? Lizzie pops her clogs and suddenly all the crops fail? Fuck, now I write this I imagine a Conservative politician seeing this and using it as a smokescreen for being and acting like an evil unfeeling cunt. I see you Tories!
******* This technically counts as me using my degree!!! That was worth the *checks student loans statement*… No. No, it wasn’t.
******** Where I grew up we called illness the ‘lurgy’ (pronounced with a hard ‘g’). So, to me, the ‘pro-lurge’ (like prologue) is excellent wordplay. I acknowledge our opinions on this way differ substantially.
