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It was our penultimate night in Iceland, and like many a traveller to this extraordinary landscape before us, our hopes of seeing the elusive Northern Lights were beginning to fade. Furtive, hopeful glances at both the weather forecast and the sky above bore unpromising results. Either heavy grey clouds, laden with snow, or barren night sky stared back at us - utterly unmoved by our craned necks and silent entreaties. On the second night of our trip, drunk with excitement from a day exploring glorious icy vistas, playing chicken with simmering geysers and being battered by sea spray on ominous black sand beaches, we'd spilled onto the deck of our remote cabin. From the inside, noses pressed up against the window, we’d been convinced that the murky green glow in the distance was the real deal. Eventually, chilled to the bone, we grudgingly admitted it was actually the haze of city lights from far-off Reykjavik. News from the UK that a rare and spectacular display of the Aurora Borealis had inexplicably showed up there overnight, entertaining unsuspecting Brits from Devon to the Scottish borders with a veritable rainbow of lights, from vibrant pinks to neon greens, did nothing to improve our mood. Now we walked through the streets of the city, seeking out our newest vice - the famed Icelandic hot dog (if it’s good enough for Bill Clinton, we’ll take four each thank you very much). The salty, sweet snacks, sold from carts, came with array of tantalising toppings, from crispy fried onion to tangy Icelandic mustard. They were also the cheapest dinner around, which probably wasn’t why old Bill liked them, but it went down well with us. The glances skyward were less frequent now, our shoulders increasingly slumped as we resigned ourselves to failure and turned instead to comfort food and exploring the quiet graffiti-adorned walkways of the city. But then, as we retraced our steps to the hot dog stand, whispers of activity began to catch our attention. A person dashing here, frenzied chatter into a walkie talkie there. Down at the docks, it was action stations: people running around, boats competing to pile tourists on and speed out to sea, everybody shooting glances upwards as they went. We overheard a man in a high-vis jacket exclaim: ‘We’ve got them!’ into his phone as he rushed past. And, barely daring to hope, we looked up. There - faint, flickering, but very definitely there - a single green streak danced across the sky. For a moment, we simply stared in sheer wonder and delight. Partly in awe of the view, though also secretly relieved that we wouldn’t have return home empty-handed and admit the closest we got to seeing anything was Icelandair’s novelty cabin lighting system. Then, the dilemma set in. Should we stay where we were and enjoy the moment, or try to get out of town for a better view. What if they were gone by the time we made it out? Minutes passed in agonised indecision, the city clearing out around us as fellow tourists made their choice. Buoyed by the extra ribbons of green coming into view, and the continued presence of that first glowing trail, we took our chances and sped out of the city. No set destination, just away - somewhere dark. We peered out of the window as we drove, frantically checking the lights were still there and relishing the twin feelings of panic and thrills that accompanied the ride. Eventually, and somewhat inelegantly, we skidded into a layby a few miles out of the city, along with a couple of fellow amateur aurora hunters. Tumbling out of the car, we looked anxiously up, and there they were – the ethereal, elusive Northern Lights. Much brighter and more distinct now they were framed by snow and mountain shadows instead of the glare of streetlamps. We probably only got 10 minutes’ worth before the clouds rolled back in, blanketing the sky, and the snow began to fall again. But standing there silently, in the middle of nowhere, gazing up at the Northern Lights, was still just as magical as I’d always hoped it would be.