The first time I saw an Icelandic horse, it was laying on the ground, on its side. “Horses don’t lay down,” I thought. “It must be dead!” And then it rolled onto its back, all the way over onto its other side, and stood up in one semi-fluid movement. “It must be insane!”
Most of Iceland’s horses spend their time free in the highlands, instead of on farms. Like sheep, they roam at their whim, with neither supervision nor control, able to graze wherever they choose. But once a year, toward the end of summer, they’re brought down from the mountains.