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Ever come across an incredible hotel that stops you mid-scroll and makes you think, Wow, wouldn’t it be something to stay there? We do, too—all the time. Welcome to Friday Fantasy, where we highlight amazing hotels, lodges, cabins, tents, campsites, and other places perched in perfect outdoor settings. Read on for the intel you need to book an upcoming adventure here. Or at least dream about it.

Standing on the black-sand shore at the edge of Iceland’s Troll Peninsula, Jay Sweet tapped the top of his head twice and laughed when I stood up and returned the gesture, signaling I was fine after being walloped by a little wave I’d attempted to surf in the Arctic Ocean. Actually, I was much more than fine—for the second day in a row, in February, I was surfing (or, you know, trying) a dozen miles beneath the Arctic Circle. I was ecstatic.

Back in the States, Sweet is the executive director of the , the vaunted American institution where, yes, Dylan went electric six decades ago but has also long worked to expand the definition of what American folk can entail. But on the north shore of Iceland a few weeks per year, Sweet is also a de facto surfing instructor for , a 15th-century sheep farm that’s been converted into a boutique luxury resort and extreme adventure outpost 15 miles inland from where we sought our break.

Shuffling out of the water, with my entire body blanketed in borrowed neoprene, I could see , the Arctic recording outpost owned by Deplar’s parent company and the space I’d come to tour. (Sweet is a consultant there.) It is an isolated artist retreat where musicians look to go inward. My wife, Tina, and I clambered into a Toyota truck with Sweet, heat cranked and our boards hanging out of the back. We headed to the studio to prepare for the next journey. We had, after all, come to Iceland to go outward.

Indeed, during the 48 hours since our party of six had arrived, our lives had become a toggle between indoor comfort and outdoor escapades. As soon as we’d stopped surfing the day before, we’d retreated to a massive hearth in the recording studio’s lounge with warm bowls of soup. We’d then toured the valley on small but sturdy Icelandic horses renowned for their idiosyncratic and smooth gait know as the .

When that was over, we returned to the Farm itself, an unassuming black house with a living roof planted with tundra grass that unfolds in several levels and wings of luxury that are almost impossible to see from the road. I showered in my room, which instantly felt like home and headed for an enormous geothermal pool, slipping like a harbor seal beneath a glass wall to the heated outdoor half. I cycled between the pool, a sauna, and a hot tub for hours—or until it was time for dinner—a three-course meal of elegant updates to classic Icelandic fare like cod, lamb, and Icelandic Happy Marriage cake, all at a communal dining table that seated two-dozen. During those two hours, strangers from several countries became friends, the mood collectively enhanced by the realization that we were in a corner of wintry heaven, here at the end of the earth. As everyone drifted to the bar or their bedrooms, I stepped on our little porch and looked up, waiting for the Northern Lights to dance.

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When that second day of surfing was done, we had an appointment to keep—a group sauna session in a round house built into the side of the hill, the roof covered with towering grasses. Inside, a tattooed sauna keeper with muscles that looked like bundles of paracord talked us through the history of the Icelandic sauna, then snapped a towel in front of each of our faces to direct the heat toward us like a fireplace bellows. One by one, she marched us outside to a cold plunge pool dug into the hillside, with a spotlight aiming up from the bottom. She timed us before returning us to the sauna, repeating the process until we all relented.

That was supposed to be the end of our adventures, after the horses and the surfs and the hikes, and after we’d turned down chances to take fat bikes onto frozen lakes and go ice fishing. But ever since we’d arrived, Tina and I had eyed the tall ridges that surrounded Deplar Farm and talked (furtively, at first) of climbing one. When we finally broached the subject with Sólrún—the knowledgeable and funny guide for our group, who insists you call her Maria if her real name is too difficult—she enthusiastically agreed we should give it a go. And since we’d be leaving in less than 16 hours, we knew this was our last chance. So we met her in Deplar’s gear barn, a cathedral of skis and poles and paddles and clothes and crampons. She would be watching us by GPS, she said, but we were free to go on our own with the help of the ice axes and spikes she’d supplied.

We ascended the steep face 2,000 feet until we realized we’d soon lose the battle with daylight, especially since the farm below had already disappeared behind a whiteout. We picked our way back down the slick faces, glissading the last few hundred feet on the banks of a frozen river. We returned to Deplar, covered in a little mud and bleeding from at least one knee and feeling totally victorious. It was my favorite moment at the Farm, the sensation that comes with the satisfaction of doing something about which the other guests weren’t so sure.

That flexibility and scope are key at Deplar. They will take you heli-skiing (for the price of the fuel) in aggressive terrain, or they will lead you on cross-country meanders. They will cut you loose to test your own skills on unknown slopes and trust that you will be back by dinner, or they will join you on a slow horseback trot along unpaved roads. Each morning, your guide presents some options and then lets you plot the course of your adventure, however heavy or light you hope to make it.

Eat and Drink

“Did you see those lights up the road, on the top of the hill?” the chef asked the table during our first night at Deplar Farm. “That’s where the lamb comes from.” He was talking about the lamb shank that stood on each plate like an obelisk, surrounded by a sea of blood-red beet puree, perfectly tender potatoes, and succulent mushrooms. It was the night’s main course and emblematic of the place’s culinary approach—take the standard fare of Iceland, source it as locally as possible, and then apply techniques imported from classic French cuisine. Dinner, then, was always full of surprises, where ingredients you came to anticipate, like cod, were recast in unexpected roles, as when the fish was diced so that it looked more like rice. Eating was a protracted and social process, too, each of the three courses patiently revealed and explained by the chef and sommelier.

But the true standouts were simpler. There was the ever-present table butter, so soft it seemed to spread itself over sourdough. There was the breakfast, dominated by crepe-like Icelandic pancakes and massive bowls of Skyr, Iceland’s wonderfully acidic and protein-loaded yogurt, piled generously with granola and fruit. And there were the blessed snacks, from the in-room refrigerator replenished each morning to standing spreads of nuts, trail mixes, and dried fruits, ready to be bagged before you headed out the door.

I should say that I stopped drinking years ago. But the drinks were so generous for everyone—and the non-alcoholic options so plentiful for everyone else—that I found myself playing bass during an impromptu karaoke jam with three women older than my mother on the final night as my successful, professional friends played beer pong nearby. When I woke up the next morning, the bar resembled the remains of a college party, and Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky was still playing. There were, suffice it to say, a lot of Icelandic pancakes at breakfast.

Choice Cabins

In my first few days on the Appalachian Trail, I became Gunner, an ignominious trail name bestowed upon me by someone who has somehow become a best friend because I looked like Elmer Fudd. It felt a little like fate, then, when we arrived at our room to see “Gunnar” painted across the white door in a tight, black hand. It was presumably a reference to Gunnar Hámundarson, a warring Icelandic leader a millennium ago. Each of the 13 rooms at Deplar has its own historic name, and they all share a deeply cozy design, from king beds piled high with sheepskin blankets to a slate shower with water hot enough to toast you after escaping the Icelandic winter. Each room is meant to be personalized, too, from separate sound systems in the bathroom and bedroom you can adjust yourself to a refrigerator that is constantly restocked with house-made hummus, jerky, and drinks.

But you’ll want to leave your room for the common spaces, too—a library with mountain views, a media room with deep couches, multiple gyms, and, my favorite, a hearthside hangout zone equipped with towering hi-fi speakers, a fancy turntable, and an assortment of very good records. (, the company that owns Deplar and a string of properties on several continents, is named for .) Each morning in Iceland, I woke up very early to write a profile about the singer . The record perched by the turntable when I arrived? Panda Bear’s masterpiece, Person Pitch. It was a coincidence (I think) by studio engineer Wade Koeman, but it wasn’t the only bit of magic I encountered at Deplar, where the tall troll hill feet from the front door is treated as sacred space.

When to Go

As we left Reykjavik, our small Icelandair plane shuddered when it broke through the clouds, pushing through the gray of the day in the capital city. But an hour later, we landed in Akureyri—a town of 20,000 at the edge of one of Iceland’s longest fjords—amid a blue-bird day, the sky so bright and the ground so free of snow you might not have guessed it was winter in Iceland. The two-hour drive to Deplar Farm was all horizon, cliffs tumbling into oceans into infinity. By the next morning, though, our valley was a mix of ocean air and white, a strange snow globe with no visibility. The conditions shifted constantly between these two states.

All this to say: Go anytime. Every person I spoke to at Deplar Farm recommended a summer return, when the hiking, biking, and fishing were as endless as the green of the valley. They also suggested being there with more snow, so that the barn of DPS skis and the stable of snowmobiles could take us far and fast.

How To Get There

Two airports serve Reykjavik. In all likelihood, you’ll fly into Keflavík International, a hub for Icelandair, which has 20 direct stateside destinations. A Deplar emissary will scoop you there, shuttling you either to a quaint guesthouse they keep near the city’s harbor for the night or straight to the second airport, Reykjavik Domestic. You’ll fly to Akureyri, at the country’s northern edge, and again be picked up by a Deplar representative, your adventure guide for your stay. Sit on the right side of the van for the best scenery, and don’t fret too much about the one-lane tunnels that cut beneath mountains. Deplar isn’t the easiest place to reach, but Akureyri is working to expand its international flights. And the remoteness, after all, is part of the reward.

Don’t Miss

As an American, it is tempting to look at Iceland as a speck of sparsely populated lava rock between two oceans, smaller than the state of Tennessee, and assume you can see it all quickly. If you’re spending major money to go stay at a luxe spot where your every wish becomes someone else’s task, isn’t that enough? How much can there really be to see? Don’t make that mistake.

As exceptional as my stay at Deplar Farm was, my time outside of it might have been my favorite part of my first Icelandic visit. After we returned to Reykjavik, Tina and I grabbed some pastries from the incredible bakery and a tiny rented Kia and headed for , where a volcano and glacier lord over a peninsula with a coastline so rugged it makes the crags of Maine look like a small-scale model. We climbed atop and drove into craters, waded into water loaded with seals, and stood on a beach where the tide lurched in and out of smooth lava rocks, creating one of the most psychedelic sound experiences of my life. There were hot springs, commanding columns of basalt, and, at the cheap motel we found halfway back to Reykjavik, the best Northern Lights of our trip. (Many hotels have a sign-up sheet; when the Lights appear, they call you, no matter the hour.) Don’t let guided adventures, however great, replace a self-guided one, especially in a country with as many uncanny spectacles as Iceland.

Details

Price: From $3,970 (winter) or $4,377 (summer), three-night stay required

Address: 570 Fljot, Ólafsfjörður, Iceland

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Why was �����ԹϺ��� hiking columnist and Backpacker contributor Grayson Haver Currin touring a music studio in Iceland? Long before he had finished the Triple Crown of Hiking, ever since he was a teenager in North Carolina, he was a music journalist. He continues to write about music for GQ, The New York Times, Pitchfork, and many more.