On every holiday you should leave a few things undone, so you can come back again. So we didn’t visit every swimming pool in Reykjavík, just half of them. We didn’t travel much beyond the city and the Golden Circle. I didn't buy any Icelandic music, although I wish I had picked up something by the exquisite Ólöf Arnalds. I didn't venture into many of the tempting knick-knack shops and craft galleries, not because I didn’t want to, but because of my two artful dodgers and their octopus arms. I could have parked them outside the shop, I suppose, like the locals do.

It wasn't that I didn't trust the locals; I didn't quite trust my boys not to do a runner, and I'm not sure what the Icelandic is for "They were just here a moment ago."

This sleeping baby and its big brother sheltered quietly from the rain outside a kidswear boutique while their mother shopped:



James and I did pop into a gift shop on our last evening to buy a little snowglobe. I know schadenfreude means pleasure taken in another’s misfortune. But what is the word for the slightly smug sense of relief when something really expensive crashes to the floor and it wasn’t your kid that did it? We quickly bought our cheap plastic snowglobe and left the sheepish drunk Dutch guys to settle up for the ugly and costly porcelain Viking drinking horn that lay in pieces on the floor. Whoopsie-daisy!

What else didn’t we do? We didn’t eat any really fancy local cuisine. The really high-end stuff – fish delicacies, puffin cheeks, smoked lamb –is served in the sort of swanky places you’d only bring children to if you had a vendetta against the restaurant. The middle of the price spectrum seems to be occupied by all-you-can-eat fish buffets for the tourists; not such a bargain when two of your party will only eat seafood at the point of a harpoon. And the closest we came to tasting Icelandic lamb was some slightly dodgy Turkish takeaways. Maybe next time.

But beside the deferred pleasure of things left undone, there’s the reassuring delight of finding things to do again and again, like the scooter ramps in Ingólfstorg square. Twice we got burgers from the dinky little art-deco burger joint Hamborgarabúllan (pictured above). Just down the road from our lodgings, it offered decent value for the whole family and something for the mums: flirty guys behind the counter.

Of course we couldn’t get enough of the kökö mjölk, but there was also the beer-like (but alcohol-free) Maltextrakt. Bottoms up!



We also went back again and again for mixed lollies (watch out for the ultra-salty licorice ones!). In one little shop just down from Hallgrímskirkja, James must have sampled half a pound while filling his bag. He was indulgently egged on by the strikingly pretty woman behind the counter (whom I’m guessing was Miss Iceland 1995, but was probably only the third runner-up, so good-looking are the locals in general).



And on the last day we headed back out to Laugardalur for one final indulgence for everyone. It was raining -- not the sort of gentle drizzle that drifts away leaving rainbows in its wake, but proper rain. The best summer in 35 years couldn’t last forever. Karen and I went back to the spa for the massage we’d missed out on the other day, while the boys trudged manfully off to the Family Fun Park -- the third visit, if you're counting -- for some very damp fun.  When honour was satisfied for both parties, we all met at Café Flora in the botanical gardens to warm up over soup.



James was grouchy about not getting one last swim at the Laugardalur pool, especially since we’d brought the swimming gear just in case. We bought him off with cocoa and cheesecake, and lingered over a second round of hot coffee. Soon enough we’d have to catch the bus back to town and pack our suitcases, but none of us was in a hurry to get going. The rain thundered on the roof, but it was tropical and lovely inside the greenhouse café. The kids watched the fish in the pond, and we chatted and watched the kids, especially when they were running up and over the Japanese bridge with no sides on it. It was a miracle that none of them fell in.

Until of course one of them did. Go on, guess which one.



I didn’t see it happen. I heard the splash, and the collective gasp from the entire café. First I looked for Toby – he’s a speedy, reckless little guy -- but he was dry. It must have been one of the cute little girls in the pink boots.

And then I looked at the pond and saw my big lad sitting there, up to his tummy in pond muck and not very happy about it at all.

What can you do? We hauled him out, poured the water out of his shoes, and scrambled for a towel - thank goodness we’d brought the swimming gear after all! He went home in a borrowed T-shirt, a spare jersey, swimming shorts, and bare feet, still unable to explain how he’d toppled in while patrolling the perimeter of the pond.

We ran uphill through the rain to catch the bus back to town, James piggybacked by his Dad. It was ridiculously exhilarating. We grinned all the way back in the bus, grinned as we told Thor (who kindly washed and dried the clothes in time for us to pack them), grinned as we re-enacted the event over dinner.

And we grinned again in the plane the next day, as we flew over Greenland, spotting icebergs and making plans to return.

The boy had asked for one last Icelandic swim, after all. As that great Scandinavian philosopher Pippi Longstocking once said, “Is there a law that children should always be dry?”