The conversation seemed to be developing rather like an Icelandic Saga. "There was a man called Bjarni Siggurdson. He was a great warrior and liked nothing better than to go a-Viking every spring. Every autumn he would return laden with loot. He had a great house near Sognefjord and kept many fighting men. This story is not about him."

Our host, the warden, no less, of the hut at Landmannalauga in which we were staying, could see that we needed more help. Landmannalauga is situated in the centre of an area of volcanic activity in southern Iceland. There is a natural warm pool nearby at the confluence of a hot and cold stream in which you can bathe. In April the general area is covered in snow and there is wonderful ski-touring to be had in the nearby mountains. This has nothing to do with this part of the story but then Iceland is like that.

"You know how everyone in Iceland has three jobs?" We all nodded. We didn't know but we did now and we believed him. He himself was clearly in charge of the national lottery and his third job must be story-teller for Iceland's answer to Jackanory. "It was the girl in McDonald's," he continued. "She was very pretty but had blisters on her hands. I asked about that." He paused dramatically and then delivered the punch line. "She said she was also a stripper. You know. In a strip-show. Dancing with a pole."

Our luck was in. The Glasgow and Heathrow flights landed within minutes of each other. The luggage was through quickly. Eight would-be skiers, who had booked through Waymark, met in the arrival hall of Keflavik airport and found their bus without difficulty. We made our acquaintances on the way to our guesthouse. A cold rain was falling and it was turning to snow. Our guide from Iceland Safari arrived and introduced himself as "Hjörli". He reassured us about the weather forecast. He made arrangements to meet us the next morning and recommended a restaurant. We were soon enjoying beer, soup and fish. Despite the fact that it was late on a Saturday evening, we were able to find a shop that sold maps and were soon discussing the possible route for Sunday.

Hjörli proved to be a most amiable and skilful guide. The stops were ordered at just the right intervals and we arrived at the hut at about 18:30 feeling both fresh and elated. The first thing to try was the pool. This turned out to be more of an ordeal than we expected. Once you were in, it was wonderful, but the distance to the hut was 200m. Getting in was painful. Getting out was excruciating but once back in the hut, consuming duty free and consuming Hjörli 's excellent cooking, a most pleasing glow developed.

At lunchtime we built a snow-shelter. Hjörli was both critical and demanding. The way we cut the blocks was just about adequate but he didn't think much of our stacking. Then the unpleasant part of the day started. What had been a tailwind became a headwind. We soon understood why Hjörli had insisted on turning around so early. Coming back across the plateau was a struggle but the views were magnificent and there was a fine, if brief, descent at the end and in any case, the cold we felt skiing was nothing compared to that getting out of the pool later.

Evening involved the usual hot pool ritual before supper. We never seemed to spend less than an hour bathing, partly because once you were in a terrible fear of getting out developed, and partly because Hjörli 's third job (after guide and cook) turned out to be student of philosophy. He spent his summers at university in Berlin. Discussing the value, if any, of French post-modernist philosophy, or Rene Descartes' mistake, in a hot natural pool after a day's skiing in the surrounding mountains was a surprisingly agreeable, if unexpected, experience.

What can I say about the last day? It started well but in the end it had to be endured. The snow had been blown away and all that remained was ice. Our wax did not grip well and although the wind was only moderate to start with it strengthened throughout the day. I don't known about the others, each was in his private hell, but I was swearing and cursing at the conditions by kilometre 17 at the latest. On the last and final decent the wind was so strong that I did not even dare to stop to take the skins off that I had put on to get over the last pass.

But the bus was reached safely by all and once in our high spirits returned. We all agreed that it had been an amazing holiday.

No doubt she was used to middle-aged men staring at her but I wonder if she realised that I was trying to catch a glimpse of her palms.