Iceland, "the land of ice and fire", is a primal landscape of sea, sky and rock, where the warmth of the sun is tempered by sudden wind and rain, causing indigenous species of flowers, plants and moss to huddle close to the ground. Don't look for a benevolent nature here. Yet, in this improbable setting, I found gardeners who nurture loveliness despite the odds.

The garden of the Lava in Heimaey
I stand in front of a diminutive oasis tucked in the folds of cold lava flow. Its very existence defies climate and environment. Have a look at the picture below, this is Heimaey.

In 1988, it was announced that whoever could sustain a garden in the lava fields for one full year would be granted the parcel they cultivated. One elderly couple barely met the challenge with just one of their plantings surviving. Their perseverance and savvy brought the "Garden in the Lava" to its present landmark status.

Today, 350 plants thrive, the sturdier ones-no taller than two feet-creating a protective curtain around the more fragile flowers. Elsewhere, the garden might go unnoticed. Here, the tightly planted violets, lupines, and foxgloves surrounding a miniature well and chalet are a triumph over the elements, a changing mosaic of color and light against the lava's dull background.

The Garden of Eden in Hveragerdi
At the other end of the spectrum, Bragi Einarsson's "Garden of Eden" is also unique in Iceland. A combination restaurant, souvenir shop and nursery, it is the culmination of a lifelong dream. As we sit in the tropical setting of his restaurant, he tells me that a three-day summer weekend brings in 10,000 visitors. Once an ordinary hothouse nurseryman growing vegetables, Mr Einarsson opted to follow his heart's desire to serve food and sell flowers under one roof. Not only flowers but un-Icelandic flora such as orange, banana and palms trees. Inside his immense greenhouses, there are tables upon tables of bright flowers whose culture and propagation are made possible by the harnessing of geothermal energy readily available in southern Iceland. Every year he travels to Germany, Holland and Belgium to appraise what is new on the horticultural market. But for all the exotic atmosphere of the Garden of Eden, when I ask him to name his favorite, Mr Einarsson admits, "The hydrangea because it reminds me of the garden of my childhood." I buy some postcards, enjoy some smoked salmon, courtesy of my host and feel relieved that the practicalities of travel prevent me from indulging in my favorite splurge, plant buying.

The Garden of Safnasafnid
We travel to the north coast and delight in Iceland's natural life: dolphins nurseries, sleek minke whales and a huge humpback feeding playfully; the dramatic vistas of the Tjornes Peninsula, wild water falls and canyons ; soft washes of white cotton grass, and gardens hidden under boulders; swirls of puffins and irresistible Icelandic horses in butterscotch, honey, and dark cocoa.

On the road back to Reykjavik, just 65 miles south of the Arctic Circle, my traveling companion's eye catches an arresting reception line of life-sized black and white cement sculptures in front of Safnasafnid, the Folk Museum. Inside we find an eclectic collection. However, what mesmerizes me is the show on the window sills: flowering sedum and geraniums and six feet high pink and yellow hibiscus. Despite clear early August skies I am wearing polar fleece and I wonder how they can possibly survive the winter here. The owner/curator/collector, Niels Hafstein, assures me that the long hours of summer light and the warm indoor temperatures in winter suit them just fine. He adds that his wife, Magnhidur, is the gardener. "She is shy in English," warns her husband, but she and I smile and talk a little as we walks through her garden. Passing a whimsical ivy-bound chair that was Niels's grandmother, I stop at the flower beds bursting with Iceland poppies, white yarrow, pink centaurea, small gold-hearted violets, blue budleias, and giant marguerites. Finally, she leads me to her treasures, six perfect hybrid roses, buds bursting at the seams. I ask their names but the answer, in Icelandic, is incomprehensible. They flower just once in middle August before returning to a long dormancy. I think of the ease of growing roses in my own garden in the Nortwest and find Magnhidur's care and enthusiasm immensely appealing. I feel a "gardening connection" which I can't put into words. Eyes and smiles will have to speak for me.

Listiggardurinn, the botanical garden of Akureyri
An hour, and several wrong turns later, we are at the gate of the botanical garden of Akureyri, vaunted in brochures as "the northernmost in the world" which completely fails to prepare visitors for its impact. First of all, it boasts the only groves of trees I saw in Iceland but, for me, its glory is a series of flowerbeds whose beauty rivals Monet's famous garden in Giverny.

After seedlings are transplanted planted in late spring, they grow at a tremendous rate thanks to the constant light between mid-May and mid-July. This explain the extravagant display of annuals. In an hour I barely make it around the flowerbeds stopping along the way to take notes and pictures and nod in agreement with an Englishman who confides, "This may be the most beautiful garden I have ever seen." My notes are a jumble of names: yellow linaria, pink ancorium, deep blue veronica austriaca, burgundy lavatera, lobelia, Dusty Miller, blue and orange poppies, clematis and columbines. . .

Much too soon, it's time to leave and as I walk away, casting a last glance over my shoulder, I easily imagine Monet happily painting this glorious Arctic garden. In his book, "The Botany of Desire", Michael Pollan suggests that some flowers may use our longing for beauty to seduce us in assisting in their reproduction and propagation. Remembering the dedicated gardeners of Iceland, the idea makes perfect sense. How else would arctic gardens boast delphiniums, roses, hibiscus or banana trees?