Iceland’s bathing culture has been nominated by Unesco—here's why

Bathed in the morning sun, the Kerlingarfjöll mountain range glows in shades of red and orange, shrouded by plumes of steam escaping from fumaroles. “It’s alive — Hveradalir,” says my guide, Boris Baniar, nodding towards a footpath that descends into the valley below. “Bubbling hot springs, billowing steam, mud pools — and you can already smell the sulphur,” he chuckles, as the overpowering scent of boiled eggs tickles my nose.

“Iceland is dependent on geothermal activity in every sense,” Boris explains, zipping up waterproof overalls over a wool jumper to shield himself from the bitter cold of the central highlands. “Whether baking bread in the hot ground, warming homes with naturally heated water or treating skin diseases in mineral-rich pools, it has a profound effect on daily life here.”

I spend the afternoon soaking in the outdoor baths at Highland Base Kerlingarfjöll, a remote resort in the Ásgarður Valley and my home for the next two nights. Caught between the chill air and the bath’s enveloping warmth, my legs tingle as they break the water’s hazy orange surface.

“The baths are fed with water rich in iron, drawn from deep beneath the valley,” explains Joanna Lagosz, shift manager at Kerlingarfjöll. “The iron gives the water its vibrant hue, while its natural acidity helps soothe skin redness and irritation.” It’s these healing properties that have drawn me here, offering not just relaxation but insight into a bathing culture so integral to daily life it earned a place on Unesco’s 2025 Intangible Cultural Heritage List

Settled beside a wood stove, I learn that while Icelanders value the physical benefits of geothermal bathing — from improved circulation to muscle relaxation — it’s the sense of community that keeps the ritual alive. “Even when bathing naked, Icelanders embrace the tradition of being together in nature,” Joanna says, glancing outside towards the baths, their golden water glowing in the dark.

As I cross Reykjanes Geopark, a harsh breeze whips at my face, its sting urging me back indoors. Dark, ominous clouds hang low overhead and I suddenly feel worlds away from the cobalt skies and still air of the highlands — a reminder of how dramatically Iceland’s landscapes and weather can change.

I’ve travelled 125 miles south west to Silica Hotel, a spa hotel set on the Reykjanes Peninsula that’s part of the Blue Lagoon geothermal complex and a 10-minute walk from the main lagoon. Straddling the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, the area is rich in geothermal energy, harnessed by the Svartsengi Power Plant, which was built in 1976. I’m here to meet Ása Guðmundsdóttir, the Blue Lagoon’s lead research and development scientist, to learn about the composition of the milky-blue water, famed for treating chronic skin conditions such as psoriasis, atopic dermatitis and eczema.

“The lagoon was formed when excess water from the power plant was released into the surrounding lava field,” Ása explains. Rich in silica — a compound that helps strengthen the skin barrier and support anti-ageing proteins — the water pooled into a lagoon, its suspended minerals reflecting light to create the distinctive blue hue. “Employees at the power plant started bathing in it,” she adds. “One worker with severe psoriasis noticed his skin improving, which sparked scientific interest and led to the opening of a dedicated psoriasis clinic in 1994.”

That evening, at Blue Lagoon’s in-water treatment centre, I lie on an inflatable mat, cocooned in a warm, weighted blanket as a masseuse glides her hands across my neck, shoulders and back. Using a body oil enriched with blue-green microalgae — a microorganism known for supporting skin elasticity — the treatment leaves my skin nourished and revitalised.

The following morning, Silica’s lagoon appears even more radiant, perfectly mirroring the sky. The rhythmic ticking of an extraction well — channelling 38C water from 2,000 metres beneath the earth — provides soothing background music for the people floating in the water: a meditative practice, I’m told, that helps alleviate stress and anxiety. “By focusing on staying afloat, people often feel their problems lift,” my flotation therapist says, handing me a cap and leg supports. Rigid with apprehension, I lower myself into the water. “Pretend you’re lying on a pillow and let all the pressure fall away,” she instructs. Succumbing to the water’s buoyancy, every ounce of tension soon releases. Guided gently around a secluded corner of the lagoon by my head, my body curves into a loose ‘C’ shape, light rain drumming against my exposed chest quieting my mind.

“If you’re stressed, the best thing to do is be near water,” my driver, Valdemar Valdemarsson, tells me as we leave Silica, the Svartsengi Power Plant fading from view. “I need it, otherwise I don’t feel right.” It’s this reliance on geothermal water, for both physical and emotional healing, that runs deep through Icelandic culture, enriching daily life with a restorative, elemental power.