Unexpected lessons from an Icelandic horse

The first Icelandic horse I met was nearly dead. 

Well, it certainly looked like it was. I was so concerned for the creature that my convoluted scheme to save the thing was fully fleshed out – with at least two backup plans – by the time I’d completed the 10-minute stumble over pot-hole-ridden grass mounds to inspect it.

I don’t usually like to approach unknown farm animals out of respect, but if some misfortune had befallen this one, perhaps I could let someone know. 

My husband and I had paused our roadtrip for a beach stroll near Knarraros Lighthouse, about 20 minutes south of Selfoss, when we spotted the flat horse off to one side of the trail. There were no other people around, no apparent owners.

Though I was barely a metre away, the horse hadn’t shown any signs of movement at my approach, further confirming my grave suspicions about its state of health.

All previous experiences with horses had solidified my belief that they are, by nature, easily-startled animals. They are herbivorous prey, after all, with a strong instinct to run at the slightest sign of stranger-danger.

They generally don’t just lay around remote fields and nap all day, carefree and nonchalant, like a poolside vacationer after a few piña coladas.

Anxiety rising, I stared intensely at the horizontal lump’s fluffy chestnut coat, bobbing stiffly in the erratic Icelandic wind, trying to decide if the wearer was breathing or not. I turned to my husband, who was doing exactly the same thing. 

“The other ones don’t look worried. Would they be freaked out if their friend was dying?” he asked.

As I looked over at the nearby herd of five stumpy horses, I noticed four were standing around calmly, while one was lazing in a half-propped-up position, chewing on grass as if it were watching a mildly interesting TV show from a comfortable chaise lounge. 

“That one’s kinda laying down… maybe it’s normal for them?” 

I turned back towards the suspected-dead horse to find myself face to face with a mop of chestnut hair and fluffy nostrils flaring gently towards my nose. 

“Ahh!” I was far more startled than the herbivorous prey. 

The definitely not-dead chestnut proceeded to sniff my hand, perhaps hoping for food. I gave it a cautious pat on its chunky neck, which it accepted graciously.

The rest of the herd then proceeded to stroll over and check out what was going on, poking their equally hair-covered eyes into our faces and nuzzling at our hands.

This kind of laid-back, confident and slightly sassy nature persisted in many of the horses we came across in Iceland over the next few weeks.

It turns out they lay down more than the average horse for a couple of suspected reasons: one is that their short, thick legs are quite flexible, so it’s easier for them to make the journey down and up again than it is for taller, leggier breeds.

The second is they’ve gone at least a thousand years without any natural predators on their island, so they’re just not as worried about being ambushed.

Anna, a German seasonal stablehand who led us on an icy sunrise horseback ride from a farmstead near the northern town of Sauðárkrókur, explained the effort that goes into preserving this uniquely evolved breed of horse.

“No other horses are allowed to be imported into Iceland, to keep the bloodline pure,” she said.

“It’s an ancient law. They also don’t need to get vaccines like other horses, since the diseases aren’t here. If Icelandic horses leave, they aren’t allowed back in again.”