Visiting Mr Iceland Farm in South Iceland: What It's Like

Some trips you enjoy and forget. Others change something in you. My day and night at Efri-Úlfsstaðir farmstead, home of Mr Iceland Farm in the Austur-Landeyjar countryside south of Hvolsvöllur town, landed firmly in the second category. By the time I drove back to Reykjavík the following morning, I’d ridden an Icelandic stallion named Hávar along a salmon river, eaten fermented shark by candlelight while a well-known Icelandic actor recited Viking sagas, and had a long conversation about what it actually means to slow down.

Mr Iceland Farm is about a 1.5-hour drive from Reykjavík, following Route 1 through Selfoss, Hella and Hvolsvöllur towns before turning south into the Landeyjar countryside. On a clear August day, it’s one of the best drives in the country. The sky was wide and blue, the light sharp. My first stop was Selfoss, about 58 km (36 miles) from Reykjavík on Route 1, and I had a specific mission there: the hot dog stand.

I ordered what I’d call one of Iceland’s most underestimated meals: a deep-fried take on the Icelandic hot dog, served in a bun with French fries tucked inside and a layer of melted cheese on top. On the side, an ice-cold Appelsín, Iceland’s beloved orange soda, in the sugar-free version, which, given the rest of the meal, was arguably a symbolic gesture. None of it disappointed. My cardiologist may disagree with my priorities, but that hot dog was the correct decision.

Past Selfoss, the road passes through Hella and then into Hvolsvöllur. Peak travel season and road construction tend to overlap in Iceland, and this stretch was busy with roadworks during my August drive, so allow a little extra time. Before you set out, check Umferðin’s live traffic info for roadworks, closures, and winter conditions along Route 1.

A few kilometers past Hvolsvöllur, I turned right onto the road toward Bakkaflugvöllur, a small airfield used for flights to the Westman Islands. The archipelago is home to around 4,500 people, steep puffin cliffs, and Eldfell, the volcano that erupted beside the island’s town in 1973. That turn felt like leaving one Iceland and entering another.

The farm revealed itself in stages. An Icelandic flag waving on a small grass island along the approach path. Then the buildings: barn, stable, and guest accommodation in weathered gray tones, rustic and deliberately so. Everything felt simple and very much part of the landscape. On a brilliantly sunny August afternoon, with open South Iceland plains spreading in every direction, the effect was striking.

The views alone justified the drive. Looking south over the sea, I could make out the Westman Islands and the houses of Heimaey, the only inhabited island, on the horizon. Inland, two glaciers filled the view: Eyjafjallajökull glacier to the east, with the Mýrdalsjökull ice cap farther east beyond it. The sense of space, of genuine unobstructed landscape, was immediate.

The farm manager, Alina, met me at the entrance. She was wearing the farm’s signature woolen sweater, a beautifully made garment with traditional Icelandic graphics. She showed me around, offered coffee, and gave me a sense of how the farm works and what the day would look like.

A few minutes later, Hörður Bender walked across the yard. Mr Iceland himself. He’s a large man, tall with long brown hair and an impressive beard, the kind of face that would look entirely at home in the Icelandic sagas written about the land he lives on. His presence is substantial. He’s the sort of person who makes a first impression not by trying to, but simply by being there. He walked the property with me, explaining the concept he’s built.

Hörður talked about the farm not as a business with a product, but as a framework for a certain kind of experience. The horse tours, communal dinners, and storytelling evenings all follow the same idea: give people space to be present. Guests are encouraged to put their phones away during the ride, move through the day without rushing, and simply pay attention to where they are.

He also spoke about the farm’s relationship with the land. The team is planting 50,000 trees to create shelter and restore natural cover, while proceeds from the farm’s activities are reinvested into the land itself. Growth at Mr Iceland is meant to stay deliberate and controlled, allowing more people to take part without changing the character of the experience.

His decision at 50 to leave a career in business and finance and build something he considered meaningful helps explain why the farm feels the way it does. The hospitality and warmth don’t feel staged or designed for effect. They’re a natural part of the place and the people behind it.

At 1:00 PM, the guests gathered in the stable. The group that afternoon was small: two Belgian women and a family from Vermont, with Canadian connections. Hörður addressed us before anyone went near a horse. 

What followed was unlike any riding briefing I've experienced. He went deep into the history of the Icelandic horse: how the Norse settlers brought the finest animals with them over a thousand years ago, how the breed has remained isolated and unmixed since, how what stands in this stable is genetically unchanged from the horses that carried the saga heroes across these same plains. He talked about how to communicate with a horse: eye contact, breathing, the quality of your attention. He described the relationship between horse and rider as a form of leadership: warm, clear, and calm. Not domination. Connection. 

The stable session was part horsemanship, part mindfulness practice, part management seminar. His core message sounded abstract to me until I was actually in the saddle.

Each guest was introduced to their horse individually. Mine was Hávar, a strong, well-built stallion, son of Skýr, the celebrated stallion from multi-generational family horse breeding farm Skálakot. We spent time in the stable simply being present with the horses: petting them, talking to them, letting them get used to us. Then a practice session in a fenced enclosure, where Hörður walked us through basic direction, stopping, and pace. Once everyone was comfortable, we headed out.

The route followed a salmon river, one of the great Atlantic salmon rivers of South Iceland named Affall, through a landscape that made you repeatedly question whether it was real. The mountains behind, the glaciers above them, Vestmannaeyjar out on the horizon ahead. Tinna, Hörður’s dog, ran alongside the entire ride, sprinting into the river every so often and climbing back out in a state of pure satisfaction, then trotting back to her place beside Hörður’s horse.

We rode slowly at first, then picked up pace as everyone settled. Crossing the river multiple times, watching the water clear enough to count stones on the bottom. The group was quiet in a good way, the kind of quiet that happens when people are actually paying attention to where they are rather than narrating it. 

We returned to the farm at around 4:00 PM. We walked the horses to their grazing area and said goodbye to them before heading to the accommodation.

My room was Jakob's villa, a standalone space with a full kitchen, a generous dining area, a spacious bathroom, and the kind of considered rusticity that takes real effort to pull off. It looked like what you’d get if a Viking had attended a Scandinavian design school: the feel of a 5-star suite, built from honest materials, with real warmth and no pretension. Walking away from it for dinner was genuinely difficult.

Hörður had set up a separate outbuilding for the evening meal. He cooked himself: a roasted leg of lamb, potatoes, and kale, all locally produced, most of it from the farm. The presentation was generous and unfussy, in the style of an Icelandic Sunday roast: a tradition built around family gathering, long tables, and the kind of conversation that follows a good meal. The red wine, Hörður noted with a smile, was the one element that wasn't local. 

Over dinner, everyone shared a story. Hörður talked about the road from finance to this kitchen, the Belgians shared theirs, and the family from Vermont explained what had brought them to Iceland. The conversation moved easily between people who had arrived as strangers. 

Dessert was a home-baked cake. The evening closed with a full table and a warm room, then an hour of free time before the night's main event.

At 9:00 PM, I walked back to the stable. The space had been transformed: a table laid beautifully with candles, and on it, spread across plates and boards, a full display of traditional Icelandic þorramatur, the preserved, fermented, and smoked foods that sustained Icelanders through long winters for centuries.

Into the stable walked Valdimar Örn Flygenring, a well-known Icelandic actor who lives on the neighboring farm and who was our storyteller that night. He settled at the head of the table and began to talk.

Over the next two hours, he walked us through the history of Iceland, from the first Norse settlers and their hard early winters to the modern country. He spoke about Njáls saga, known in Icelandic as Brennu-Njáls saga and one of the best-known Icelandic sagas, much of which unfolds in this part of South Iceland. Njáll Þorgeirsson, the chieftain the saga is named for, farmed at Bergþórshvoll in the Landeyjar district. Saga country wasn’t somewhere nearby. We were sitting in it.

As Valdimar talked, he moved us through the spread, much of it the same traditional Icelandic food still served at midwinter Þorrablót feasts. Smoked lamb. Dried fish. Hákarl, Iceland’s fermented Greenland shark, sharp and challenging, washed down with Brennivín. Then, at the end, smoked horse meat. Some of the group hesitated. Valdimar put it into the context he’d just spent two hours building: in the centuries when Icelanders survived on whatever the land provided through months of darkness and cold, every resource mattered. The hesitation didn’t disappear, but it transformed into something closer to respect.

The storytelling was extraordinary. I’ve lived in Iceland my entire life. I’ve heard the sagas. That evening taught me things I hadn’t known about the land I grew up on.

The session ended around 11:00 PM. The sun had set, but the sky over the farm still held an amber glow, and I stood outside for a long time before going to bed. Sleep came easily.

Hörður invited me for coffee at the farmhouse the next morning. We talked about how a place built around slow travel, Icelandic horses, and genuine storytelling might connect with the travelers we work with.

The drive back to Reykjavík was 90 minutes of farmland, glacier views, and flat-topped mountains. My only regret was not staying for the beach ride. The farm has access to one of South Iceland’s black sand beaches, and a ride there would have been something. A good reason to return.

Not many travel experiences earn the word “life-changing.” This one came close. At minimum, I learned something about how to lead: with breathing, with ease, with attention. Hávar taught me that.

A farm visit like this is a different kind of trip from a classic sightseeing day on the South Coast of Iceland: fewer stops, more time in one place, and more time with the horses and the people who keep them. To ride Icelandic horses yourself, browse our Icelandic horse riding tours. To spend an evening at Mr Iceland Farm with traditional food and saga storytelling, join the Viking Story Night.

A note about my visit: I spent a full day and night at Mr Iceland Farm, so my experience included horse riding, dinner, and an overnight stay. The Viking Story Night is the evening storytelling experience with a stable visit and traditional food tastings. The article describes my wider stay at the farm.

Yes. Icelandic horses are small, sure-footed, and known for an easygoing temperament, which makes them a common first ride for visitors. On my ride at Mr Iceland Farm, first-time riders and experienced guests went out together after a stable briefing and a practice session in a fenced enclosure. Riding isn’t part of the Viking Story Night, though. For a guided beginner ride in South Iceland, the one-hour classic option of our black sand beach horse riding tour on Víkurfjara beach near Vík is suitable for first-time riders.

Njáls saga is set mainly around Hvolsvöllur and the Landeyjar district in South Iceland, the countryside where Mr Iceland Farm stands. Njáll Þorgeirsson, the chieftain the saga is named for, lived at Bergþórshvoll in the Landeyjar district. The events span roughly 950 to 1020, but the saga wasn’t written down until around 1280. In English, it’s also known as the Story of Burnt Njáll.

Viking Story Night is a 90-minute evening at Mr Iceland Farm that starts at 8:00 PM with a short stable visit to meet the Icelandic horses, with no riding. Guests then move into the old barn hall, sit together at one long candlelit table, and pass around small tastings of hákarl, dried fish, smoked lamb, and Brennivín while a local storyteller covers Njáls saga and Icelandic folklore. Everything is in English, groups are capped at 15, and no background knowledge is needed. Guests drive themselves, since it’s a meet-on-location experience with no pickup, and the tastings aren’t a full meal, so eat beforehand.