Dreamland ICELAND

At the age of nine I lost my heart to a small horse standing lonesome on a Bavarian meadow – one of the first Icelandic horses which had been exported to Germany. I bothered my parents by asking for such a nice horse again and again.
All I got as Christmas present was an illustrated book about Iceland. There my horse was running free and unbound over the mountain hills in its herd. I marveled at sulfur fields, cooled lava towering to rock giants, majestic glaciers and roaring waterfalls. I would have liked to start on an Iceland expedition at once.

Growing up, however, produced new dreams and they displaced the dream of Iceland. And then I had grown up, had children, work and no time for old dreams. Only with the granddaughter the time for dreaming returned.

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