They come galloping out of the volcanic storm, hooves muffled in the ash, manes flying.
Shutting the last of his 17 horses into an old barn, Ingi Sveinbjoernsson, 56, breathes a sigh of relief.
Only 24 hours earlier he had lost the shaggy Icelandic horses in an ash cloud that turned day into terrifying night, blanketing the wild landscape in glutinous grey mud.
“I went out to fetch them and realised I couldn’t see my own hand. That’s how dark it was,” he said, shaken. “I never imagined anything like it.”
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