Driving somewhere in the neighbourhood of a few hundred kilometres on a morning I knew would be filled with Iceland's smack-you-across-the-face kind of beauty, I kept waiting for the weather to break. In the midst of every fjord, coming out the other side of every tunnel, turn after turn, I'd pull myself right up against the steering wheel, look skyward and reevaluate, as if it was ultimately going to make a difference. It took me back to some nights of extremely low auroral activity in a place I'll soon call home; looking so intently to the horizon to see that band of the faintest green, and after a few minutes, your eyes lose any credibility of being able to differentiate midnight blue, to green, to red.This was the same. Is it brightening? Yep. Definitely brightening. Or was it just the gap between the windscreen wipers shooting across the glass, measured in microseconds? It wasn't the break between the windscreen wipers, it was the unbelievable amount of light reflecting off completely spectacular amounts of glacial ice up in the mountains. It was still pouring, and we drove deeper and deeper into it for the next few days, which we could have joyfully turned into months. Not that any rain or wind really mattered in places to the likes of Jökulsárlón, Skaftafellsjökull, and Vík.