Sam Wollaston Apologises to the Whole of Iceland

We meant well. As the world's leaders gathered in Johannesburg, we would remind them what they were dealing with, why they were there. So we printed a colour picture spread of some of the most polluted places on the planet; "the ends of the earth" we called it - "images of global pollution". There was a mountain of aluminium cans in Korea, a struggling seabird coated in oil in Brazil, a bleak and bald ex-forest in China, swimming children collecting floating rubbish in the Philippines, a pyre of Spanish tyres billowing black smoke. And the Blue Lagoon in Iceland.

Perhaps we should have spotted the clue in the name: not the Black Lagoon, or the Yellowy Brown Lagoon, but the Blue Lagoon. Anyway, the next day the calls started to come in. And the faxes, and the emails. Not very helpful, said the man from Iceland Air. Someone wrote from the school of environmental sciences at the University of East Anglia. And the Icelandic ambassador in London wrote of the "serious harm" it had caused. The problem, he explained, was that "the Blue Lagoon is one of the best examples in the world of the proper use of renewable natural resources".

The Blue Lagoon is a thermal spa, not far from Reykjavik. There is a power station there, from which the hot water comes, but it is perhaps one of the most environmentally sound sources of power in the world. The energy comes not from oil, coal, or nuclear fission, but from the geothermal field under the ground. As well as providing hot water for the spa, the plant gently and efficiently provides hot water for heating, drinking water and electricity to the local people.

There are no excuses for our cock-up. The pictures did come from a collection organised by the UN environment programme, and included shots of both disasters and success stories, so I suppose we saw the chimneys, the smoke (in fact steam) and assumed it was part of the bad-news lot. And although I've been saying "we", what I really mean is "I" because I was the editor responsible for that page, so I must take the rap.

A correction appeared in the paper the following day, but that hardly seemed sufficient given what we had said about the country's No 1 tourist attraction at a time when, because of dwindling fish stocks, tourism has become not just very important but essential. There was only one thing for it: in order to stop Anglo-Icelandic relations plummeting to the levels of the cod wars, I would have to visit the country as a tourist, test the waters of the Blue Lagoon and either watch my flesh dissolve in front of my eyes or declare it safe for bathing.

On the flight to Reykjavik I meet Gestur Bardarson, a chemical engineer, and Magnus Magnusson. No, not Magnus Magnusson the Mastermind MC, Magnus Magnusson the statistician, returning from a statistics conference in London. Apparently the name is common.

Somewhere over the Faroe Islands I pluck up the courage to show them a copy of the offending G2. Gestur smiles as he recognises his country's most famous landmark, then chokes on his mini pretzels as he clocks the context. "Oh dear, that really is quite serious." I show them the letter from the ambassador, Thorsteinn Palsson, who, they tell me, was once a senior minister. "Hmm," says Magnus. "He was never angry when he was in government. If this has made him upset, then this is a very serious business." It looks like I'm the most hated man in Iceland - by the time we touch down, I'm starting to feel like Osama bin Laden on a minibreak to Manhattan.

Next morning, after a spectacular drive across what appears to be the surface of the moon, I find plenty of cars in the car park of the Blue Lagoon. Thank God for the non-Guardian readers of the world. A group of people are setting off for a run in the crisp, fresh morning air. The place reeks of health. The lagoon itself is blue and steaming and, yes, really quite tempting; it is not long before I am neck-deep in water which is best described as very, very clean. Clean, warm, blue, not at all polluted, just lovely.

Refreshed, relaxed and very, very clean, I go and find Magne Gudmunssdottir, director of sales and marketing. Yes, she has seen what the Guardian did. "I was quite shocked and surprised," she says. "Not just for the Blue Lagoon but for the whole of Iceland, because this is our flagship tourist attraction." She tells me that 315,000 people visit the Blue Lagoon every year, more than the population of the country. And in 1999 it won a prestigious environmental award. But instead of whistling for the lynch mob, she offers to show me round, explaining that there is silicon and algae in the water, but both are very good for you. There is even a clinic for people suffering from psoriasis. And we were comparing it to a Brazilian oil slick.

The power plant is run by Albert Albertsson (He's called Albert, his father's called Albert, he's his father son - they may be environmentally sound, these Icelanders, but they are rubbish at choosing names.) Albert has worked at the place since it opened in 1976.. "My whole career has been harnessing renewable, sustainable sources of energy. When I saw what you did, I almost cried." He's a lovely man, really passionate about his power station, and the guilt is starting to hurt.

Albert explains - in almost too much detail, though I'm hardly in a position to complain - how the whole thing works, before taking me round his beautiful power station. My favourite bit is the little oven in one of the buildings. This, says Albert, is where the workers heat up their rye bread which they eat with butter and herrings for lunch. Of course, the heat comes straight from the ground - no energy is wasted here, even though it's a gift from God.

Kristinn the photographer, who works for Iceland's main paper, is now on the phone to his news editor, suggesting they do a feature on the British idiot who got the Blue Lagoon so wrong. But I have another day in the country and I don't want to spend it avoiding airborne rocks. Time to sneak off, while just ahead.

By the time I leave the country Morgunbladid hasn't run a story. But I wouldn't be surprised if it did. Perhaps they'll give us a taste of our own medicine - a collection of scenes from the Lake District with the caption, "This place gives you cancer." Or a big picture of Tate Modern under the headline, "The next Chernobyl".

In the meantime I'm just waiting for the fax from the Brazilian embassy. Oil? That wasn't oil on that cormorant. It was a sustainable eco-mudpack. All healthy cormorants are doing it. So next weekend Rio. It's a tough life, making cock-ups.

Sam Wollaston is the deputy features editor.