I knew nothing about Sky Lagoon Iceland before visiting it. Unlike Blue Lagoon, which was the reason Iceland was on my radar to begin with, Sky Lagoon had never crossed my feed. I only heard about it the night before, when a well-travelled 14-year-old foodie bragged to a local about completing all seven rituals while the rest of us munched on Iceland’s national food, the hot dog. Even then, I didn’t bother to look it up.
It was the next day, on our way to the church, that Fafa asked whether Blue Lagoon and Sky Lagoon were the same thing. I don’t think so, I said, then googled it. The Sky Lagoon on our screen looked so good that we decided to book it. Though not as immediately as it sounds. First we needed to convert ISK to AUD, and then, in my head, to IDR.
There were two packages, one with a private changing room for extra money. If there is one bad takeaway from my Löyly Finnish experience, it is how overcrowded, almost dirty, and the opposite of zen the changing room was. So there was no discussion. We were getting the private.
An hour or so later, we stood in front of a dome-like building with zero foot traffic. But if three days in Iceland taught me anything, it’s that this is pretty normal. Inside, we were greeted. It felt like walking onto a movie set. Time and time again, I had told Fafa that Iceland felt like stepping into a new universe, expanded. This was exactly what I meant.
Our first activity was sharing a generous spring platter (bread, two kinds of cheese, gravlax, and enough chocolate to double as dessert) and chin-chin/skál-ing with a glass of bubbles. Such a good ritual to start with. Though it would have been even better if we had skipped lunch. There’s a tip for you.
The package came with the full seven-step ritual. First, you shower and change into your bathers. Then you walk into the lagoon. Full disclosure: I think this might be the first lagoon I have ever been to in my life. Which I find weird, especially living in Australia and having swum in many a water hole. A lagoon, I learned that afternoon, is not a water hole.
So what is a lagoon then? In this case, a long stretch of geothermal water, 38 to 40 degrees warm, ending in an infinity edge where the pool looks like it pours straight into the North Atlantic. We floated to the edge and stayed. The sun was out (a plot twist, in Iceland) and the sea glittered all the way to the horizon while we sat wrapped up to our necks. Step one of seven, and I already understood what the 14-year-old was bragging about.
The steps have Icelandic names. Officially, the whole thing is the Skjól Ritual, for your googling. After Laug, the lagoon, comes Kuldi, the cold plunge. I went in as one person and came out as another. Then Ylur, a sauna where an entire wall of glass frames the sea. You sit, you sweat, you stare. Then Súld, a cold mist that drifts down over you in a slatted wooden chamber, underneath an actual boulder suspended in mid-air. It sounds gentle. It is not.
Then, the step of the day: Mýkt, the body scrub. You grab a handful of salt scrub and slather it on yourself. Emphasis on yourself. Fafa stood there, waiting, convinced someone would come and scrub him. I LOL-ed so hard I nearly slipped. Sir, this is a self-service ritual.
You wear your scrub into Gufa, the steam room, and let it melt into your skin while the steam does whatever ancient geothermal magic steam does. The last step is Saft, a ceremonial thimble of crowberry elixir (crowberry, angelica, Iceland moss, birch, lemon) served in a tiny silver cup. Skál. Then back into the lagoon you go, brand new.
We floated back to the infinity edge and stayed until our fingertips wrinkled. Somewhere out there, a 14-year-old foodie is still bragging about the seven rituals to anyone who will listen. Kid, I get it now.
A water hole cools you down. A lagoon, it turns out, rearranges you.
Follow me on Instagram @KultureKween for more recent updates.
