A road trip around Iceland’s Westfjords

The spindly northwestern antennae peninsula of Iceland’s Westfjords has slipped through the tourist net. Back in 2008, Iceland’s financial crisis stoked a tourism boom that meant visitor numbers had swelled by 39 per cent at its peak in 2016 – with tourists topping 2.3 million in 2019, despite a petite 360,000 population.

Jutting out towards Greenland, detached from the ring road that encircles Iceland, the Westfjords only net seven per cent of visitors to the country. My visit was my second time in Iceland; the first was a checklist of the Blue Lagoon, tour buses around the Golden Circle and squinting up at the blackness for a glimpse of the aurora borealis against Reykjavik’s glare.

As the propeller plane sweeps into the fjord town of Isafjordur – the region’s largest town – it feels like venturing to the frost-fringed edge of the earth: hulking grey elephant-ribbed mountains dusted with snow loom into view and the wind rocks the plane upon landing. In winter, only 50 per cent of flights land – otherwise it’s a seven-hour drive from Reykjavik.

Isafjordur consists of a cluster of tin-clad houses in paint box hues and my first stop is living-room hipster cafe Heimabyggo which serves chunky vegetable soup to red-cheeked hikers. You won’t find any Renaissance masters down the road at the whimsically named Museum of Everyday Life – but instead the intimate details of Westfjords locals documented on film and postcards from village residents: small stories of lives well lived. Just a five-minute drive down the road, The Arctic Fox Centre is a research and rehabilitation centre for the Westfjords’ fluffy, doe-eyed residents. If you’re lucky, you can even pet some of them outside.

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You do, however, need a car to get around, and the region makes for pretty much the ideal road trip. Tiny grey capillary roads etched into the landscape loop around fjords and make for a wide-eyed view every few minutes. My driver, Birna Jonasdottir, has lived here all of her life. “I still have to stop multiple times to take photos,” she laughs, flicking through her iPhone to show me a sunset picture taken a few days ago. “And then we have the Northern Lights. I never used to think anything of them when I was a little girl,” she shrugs “but now we have people who come from China and Australia just to see them. They’re the best up here, far from Reykjavik, where there’s no light pollution at all.”

I stop for the night in Flateyri at a chic, design mag-worthy guesthouse. Once the town’s hospital, it’s now available to rent on Airbnb. It’s a short walk along the harbour to the public baths and I end the day up to my neck in a steaming hot outdoor pool, my face being whipped with bitter Arctic wind and sleet.

The next day, we’re back on the road again, driving through village towns dwarfed by ghostly mountains hugged with cloud. We stop off at the quirky Musical Instrument Museum in Thingeyri and Dynjandi waterfall, one of the most awe-inspiring sights in the region, with wide streams of water fanning out from the rock like strings of pearls, you can hike to the base of it and hear the thundering torrents above your head. That night’s lodging is at Harbour Inn guesthouse run by smiley couple Frioa and Gummi in Bildudalur (population: 200). There you can visit the fantastical Sea Monster Museum, a cabin packed with spooky tales of sightings, blending storytelling and fact. Locals will happily recount tales of trolls and elves over dinner in the same breath they mention family members and neighbours. I start skeptical, but then get swept up in the magic of the place. Was that a sea monster I just glimpsed from my window, or just a seal?

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After dinner across the road at Vegamot that serves hearty plates of Icelandic lamb and burgers cheffed by Jon (also the owner of the town’s Sea Monster Museum) the restaurant clears and I’m the only one left with the group of locals. “We want people to visit,” insists Jon, who is singing Icelandic songs in rehearsal for a funeral in the village tomorrow. “But there’s a fine line. If we don’t get more visitors, our businesses will struggle, but as busy as Reykjavik and the Golden Circle? No, we wouldn’t want that. It’s just too hectic there.”

The next day, I wake early to a pastel pink sunrise and glassy fjord clustered with trawlers, their porthole lights glowing on the water. Gummi, in his chunky pattered lopapeysa jumper, is taking us whale watching on the fjord, a tour by their company Westfjords Adventures. We’ve hardly blasted out onto the water when he spots a puff of water – a humpback whale and her calf. We huddle on the boat in the icy morning air, and I keep my camera firmly in my pocket. After all, I don’t want too many people to visit.

For more information about Iceland, see https://visiticeland.com/.

Iceland is currently only accepting British visitors who are fully vaccinated. For more information about entry requirements, see the UK’s Foreign Office website.