Silence at the Edge of the World: Our 11-Day Journey to the Lakes of Iceland's Westfjords

Going Off the Radar: Why We Chose the Rugged Romance of the North

The idea to visit Iceland took shape for Alina and me back in early 2025, when the urban grind had finally drained our batteries. We didn't just want a change of scenery; we wanted to literally disappear from the radar for a couple of weeks. The Golden Circle and the Blue Lagoon were immediately ruled out—too many people, too many selfie sticks, and too much commerce. Instead, we dreamed of something truly secluded, where the silence rings in your ears and the landscapes resemble the set of a film about a prehistoric Earth. Our choice fell on the Westfjords. It is the oldest part of the island, visited by barely ten percent of all tourists. We were looking for a place where mountains meet the ocean, with deep lakes and tiny fishing villages hidden in between.

Preparation was serious. May in Iceland is a lottery. Late spring here can greet you with bright sunshine or a snow blizzard, so our wardrobe was built on the onion principle: thermal layers, fleece, and membrane shells. We decided the format should be as autonomous as possible but with comfortable nights in authentic locations. No tent camping for us—we wanted coziness after long treks. I spent hours googling road maps, checking mountain pass accessibility, and searching for guesthouses that stood in isolation. We chose Djupavik—a place with a population of two people in winter and a couple of dozen in summer. It was the perfect gateway to a world of abandoned factories and mirrored lakes.

The mood before the start was mixed: a bit of nerves due to the unpredictable weather and a sense of anticipation for something grand. We downloaded offline maps, stocked up on Icelandic post-rock playlists, and made a list of local farm shops for fresh fish. The plan was simple: a minimal schedule, maximum contemplation. We weren't there to conquer peaks; we just wanted to breathe the cold air and watch the clouds catch on the edges of the fjords. 11 days seemed like the perfect amount of time to feel the rhythm without rushing.

Day 1. Arrival in the Silence of Djupavik

The first impression of the Westfjords is a scale that photos simply cannot capture. When we finally drove into Djupavik, we were greeted by the massive shell of an old herring factory, rising over the bay like a monument to a bygone era. We stayed at Hotel Djupavik—not just a hotel, but former worker housing converted into a cozy sanctuary. The walls here literally breathe history, filled with old photographs, vintage furniture, and creaky floorboards. The room was small, but the window offered a view of a rusting shipwreck in the water and sheer cliffs draped with waterfalls.

Lunch was in the same building. We tried the traditional Icelandic lamb soup—hearty, with potatoes and carrots. It was exactly what we needed after a long journey over gravel roads. After eating, we set off for our first walk along the shore. The late May air was crisp, around 6 degrees Celsius, but the sun felt unexpectedly strong. We sat on the rocks for a long time, watching the tide slowly hide the coastal seaweed. In Djupavik, time seems to stand still.

In the evening, we decided to explore the factory itself. It’s open to visitors, and the atmosphere inside is pure cyberpunk: huge empty tanks that once held fish oil are now used as concert venues due to their unique acoustics. We googled the history—it turns out that in the 1930s, this was the most modern factory in Europe, but the herring left these waters and the village emptied. We decided to have dinner in our room, having bought local cheese, smoked trout, and traditional rugbraud—the rye bread baked in the ground—at a supermarket earlier.

Before bed, we stepped outside once more. Twilight at this time of year barely arrives; the sky remains a pale blue. We listened to the roar of the waterfall falling right behind the hotel. The silence was absolute—no sound of cars or voices. Only nature. This was exactly why we came here. We fell asleep instantly the moment our heads hit the pillows.

Day 2. Reykjavikurfjordur Lakes and the First Thermal Baths

The morning began with breakfast at the hotel: homemade bread, plenty of butter, and strong coffee. Our plan for today was a trek to the lakes toward Reykjavikurfjordur. We packed a thermos of tea and some sandwiches. The road wound along the coastline, revealing endless fjords. We were looking for a specific spot—a small lake hidden behind a pass that I had read about on a photographer's blog.

The hike took about three hours. The climb wasn't difficult, but the ground was spongy with moss and melting snow. When we reached the plateau, an absolutely circular lake appeared before us, reflecting the snow-capped mountain peaks. No paths, no signs—just us and this rugged beauty. We spent two hours there, wandering the shore and looking for interesting stones. Alina found several pieces of quartz that sparkled in the sun.

Heading back to the car, we drove further to Gjogur. There lies one of Iceland's most remote outdoor pools—Krossneslaug. It is situated right on the ocean shore. Imagine sitting in hot water (38 degrees) while icy waves of the Greenland Sea crash just ten meters away. The entry fee was pennies, but the experience was worth a million. We were practically alone, save for a couple of locals discussing their catch.

After the soak, we felt incredibly light. We returned to Djupavik by evening. Dinner at the hotel featured cod baked with vegetables. The fish was so fresh it literally melted in our mouths. We talked about what we had seen and marveled at how little one needs for happiness: hot water, mountains, and silence. We checked the weather forecast—it predicted strengthening winds, so we decided not to plan any long treks for the next day.

Day 3. Abandoned Farms and the Legends of Strandir

The wind did indeed pick up, and the ocean turned a leaden gray. We decided to spend the day exploring abandoned farms along the Strandir coast. This is the wildest stretch of the Westfjords. The road here turns into a narrow strip of gravel between the cliffs and the abyss. We drove slowly, looking at the massive logs of driftwood washed ashore—they are carried here by currents from Siberia and were the locals' only source of timber for centuries.

We stopped at a crumbling stone house that looked like part of the landscape. Inside, the remnants of daily life remained: a rusty stove, fragments of newspapers from thirty years ago. It feels a bit eerie imagining how people lived here in winter, cut off from the entire world. We googled "Strandir folklore"—the region is famous for stories of witches and sorcerers. In such a landscape, it’s easy to believe in the supernatural.

We ate lunch in the car, sheltering from the wind gusts. We had supplies of skyr—the thick Icelandic yogurt that’s almost like curd cheese. It’s very filling and convenient. The wind rocked our SUV, making it feel like we were on a ship. By mid-day, we reached the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft in the village of Holmavik. The museum is specific and occasionally shocking (especially the necropants made of human skin), but very educational regarding the history of survival.

We spent the evening in the hotel library. It's a small room with books in various languages and an old record player. We found a classical music vinyl and drank herbal tea. Alina sketched in her book while I tried to figure out the maps for the coming days. We decided it was time to move deeper into the fjords toward Lake Hopavatn. We stayed one last night in Djupavik, which had started to feel like home after three days.

Day 4. Through the Clouds to Lake Hopavatn

We checked out of the hotel in the morning. It was a bit sad to leave Djupavik, but Lake Hopavatn was waiting. This place is known for its quiet shores and abundant birdlife. The road took us over a high mountain pass. At one point, we drove into a cloud: visibility dropped to five meters, with nothing but a gray shroud and the road markers. It was a test of nerves, but the car handled it well.

As we descended from the pass, the landscape changed dramatically. Harsh cliffs gave way to gentler hills covered in yellowed grass from the previous year. Lake Hopavatn appeared suddenly—a massive mirror without a single ripple. We stayed at a small guesthouse on a nearby farm. The host, an elderly Icelander named Gunnar, welcomed us warmly and immediately offered coffee and homemade cookies.

Our room was decorated in a rustic style: lots of wood, warm knitted blankets (the famous lopapeysa), and a view of the pasture where Icelandic horses roamed. These horses are a special kind of love: short, fluffy, and very curious. We went to meet them immediately. They aren't afraid of people and happily approach to be petted. Alina was thrilled, taking a hundred photos of these "punk rockers" with their long manes.

For dinner, Gunnar prepared lamb that he had raised himself. The meat had a subtle hint of herbs and moss—I’ve never tasted anything better. We sat in the kitchen for a long time, listening to Gunnar's stories about the changing climate and why the youth are moving to Reykjavik. He said we chose the best time: the tourists haven't arrived yet, but nature is waking up. At night, we walked to the lake. The sky was clear, and we stared at the stars, which seem incredibly close here.

Day 5. Bird Paradise and Seal Spotting

We dedicated the fifth day to observation. Lake Hopavatn is an ornithologist's dream. We aren't professionals, but we enjoyed watching loons, puffins (though there are fewer here than on the cliffs), and whooper swans through binoculars. We googled Icelandic bird species to identify what we were seeing. It turns out that in spring, this is a major hub for migration.

After our walk by the lake, we drove to the shores of Hunafloi Bay. This area is famous for seals resting on the rocks. We found a small parking lot with a "Seal watching" sign. It required a one-kilometer walk along the stony shore. Sure enough, dozens of gray shapes lay on the flat boulders. They looked like large, lazy stones until one lifted its head and yawned. We tried to stay quiet so as not to spook them. The seals glanced at us lazily but didn't swim away.

We had lunch at a tiny cafe in the nearest village. They served Fish and Chips made from freshly caught haddock. The batter was crispy and the fish was juicy inside. We noticed that in Iceland, even in the middle of nowhere, the food quality is top-notch. After lunch, we simply wandered through the village, looking at small gardens with dwarf birches and troll figurines. Icelanders love decorating their homes with little details.

By evening, we returned to our guesthouse. Gunnar offered us the use of his home sauna and outdoor hot tub. Sitting in hot water and watching the sun (which never truly set) over the lake was the ultimate relaxation. We talked about how, in these five days, we hadn't opened a work email or scrolled through social media once. Iceland pulls you into its slow rhythm.

Day 6. The Roar of Waterfalls and the Silence of Vidadalur Valley

The sixth day began with rain, but here, that’s no reason to stay indoors. We decided to head toward Vidadalur Valley. This place is famous for its canyons and waterfalls that aren't as hyped as Skogafoss or Gullfoss. We were looking for Kolufossar. It’s right by the road, but because it isn't on the main tourist route, there wasn't a single tour bus in sight.

The waterfall impresses not with height, but with power and the way it carves a deep canyon into the rock. We climbed down lower to feel the spray on our faces. The rocks were slippery, so we had to be careful. Alina found a great angle for a photo where the water flow looks endless. We googled the legend of the giantess Kola, who supposedly dug this canyon to make herself a bed. In places like this, legends seem like a perfectly logical explanation of reality.

Then we drove deeper into the valley, where there are farms specializing in horse breeding. We stopped at one to buy farm-made ice cream. It was a small self-service shop: you take a tub from the freezer and leave money in a box or pay by card at a terminal. The salted caramel ice cream was divine. We ate it while watching the horses graze, ignoring the rain with true Icelandic composure.

In the evening, we returned to Lake Hopavatn. The rain subsided, leaving behind a sharp freshness and mist that crawled in patches over the water. We decided to cook dinner ourselves in the guesthouse's shared kitchen. We bought langoustines at a local shop and fried them with garlic. The smell filled the whole house. Other guests—a couple from Germany—shared some local craft beer with us. We spent the evening talking about travel and the importance of just slowing down.

Day 7. Mystical Shores and the Stone Mammoth of Hvitserkur

On the seventh day, we decided to take a small detour to see Hvitserkur—a massive sea stack that resembles a mammoth or a drinking dragon. The road there was quite bumpy, but our SUV swallowed the potholes confidently. When we reached the shore, the tide was out. This allowed us to walk almost to the very base of the rock across the black sand.

The stack looks unreal. It is covered in white bird droppings (hence the name "White Shirt"), which gives it an even more bizarre appearance. We walked around it for a long time, collecting beautiful shells and smooth black stones. The beach here is vast, and if you step away from the "mammoth," it feels like you're on another planet. We googled its geological origin—it's the remains of an ancient volcano gradually eroded by the sea.

Lunch was a roadside affair with a view of the bay. We had sandwiches bought in the morning and hot tea. We preferred this format to restaurants—no ties to time or place. After lunch, we stopped at Thingeyrar, home to one of Iceland's most beautiful stone churches. It stands in the middle of a field, and the interior is incredibly peaceful. We caught a local organist practicing—the music filled the space, and it was goosebump-inducing.

We returned to Gunnar’s for the night. This was our last night at Lake Hopavatn. We had grown used to the view from the window and the farm sounds. We packed our things, as tomorrow we were headed further west toward the small fishing village of Flateyri. Gunnar gave us a jar of homemade rhubarb jam as a parting gift. Such moments make a trip truly human and warm.

Day 8. Flateyri: Life in the Shadow of Mountains

The move to Flateyri took nearly half the day. The road passed through endless tunnels, one of which was single-lane with passing bays—a rather extreme experience when a truck is coming at you in the dark. The village of Flateyri itself sits on a narrow spit reaching into the fjord, with massive mountains looming over it. The place feels very protected yet vulnerable at the same time.

We rented a room in an old house that once belonged to a fishing boat captain. The host, a young artist, had turned it into an art space. There were paintings everywhere, installations made of driftwood, and old fishing nets. We loved it. We had lunch at the local bookstore, which doubles as a cafe and a museum. It’s the oldest store in Iceland, preserving its 19th-century interior. We bought a book of Icelandic folktales in English and ate homemade blueberry pie.

After lunch, we walked along the spit. The wind here was so strong we had to lean forward just to walk. We saw the old pier where boats dock and a small fish processing factory. Flateyri lives by the sea; you can feel it in every smell and sound. We googled the village history—in 1995, a massive avalanche hit here, and since then, huge A-shaped defense dams have been built above the village. We climbed one; it offers the best view of the town and the fjord.

In the evening, Alina decided to have a sketching session on the shore while I sat nearby, listening to the seagulls. We cooked dinner at the house: we bought fresh flounder directly from a boat at the harbor. It cost next to nothing and tasted incredible. We drank wine, watched the lights go out in the houses across the way, and realized that the Westfjords aren't about sightseeing; they are about a state of mind. It’s impossible to hurry here.

Day 9. Lake Sudurvikurvatn and the Search for Dynjandi

We dedicated the ninth day to a trip to Lake Sudurvikurvatn. It’s located high in the mountains, and the road there is a steep serpentine. The lake was still partially covered in ice, even though it was late May. The sight was fantastic: bright blue water and white ice floes drifting slowly in the wind. We were absolutely alone. We walked a few kilometers along the shore, crunching through snow that hadn't melted yet.

Then our path led to the region's most famous waterfall—Dynjandi. Although I said we avoid the mainstream, missing the "Bride of the Westfjords" would have been a crime. It is a cascade of seven waterfalls, the main one widening at the bottom like a bridal veil. When we reached its base, the roar of the water was deafening. The air was thick with mist, and within five minutes, we were soaked despite our waterproof jackets.

We hiked up the trail alongside all seven cascades. Each has its own name and beauty. From the top, you get a panoramic view of Arnarfjordur. It’s one of those places where you feel like a grain of sand in a vast world. We googled how much water falls every second—the numbers are impressive, but the vibration of the earth under your feet says much more than any data could.

We had lunch right in the parking lot at the waterfall, using the car hood as a table. The menu consisted of canned meatballs (traditional local hiking food) and hot chocolate. By evening, we were back in Flateyri. Our legs ached from fatigue, but it was a pleasant kind of tired. We spent the evening looking through photos, trying to pick the best one—a nearly impossible task when every shot looks like a masterpiece.

Day 10. Village Life and Quiet Backwaters

We decided to spend our penultimate day as lazily as possible. We stayed in Flateyri to just live like locals. In the morning, we went to the local pool. In Iceland, the pool is a social center. People go there not just to swim, but to sit in the "hot pots" and discuss the news. We sat in the water for about an hour, listening to the slow murmur of Icelandic speech. It’s very relaxing.

After the pool, we visited the local bakery. The smell of fresh bread and cinnamon wafted down the street. We bought "snudur"—huge Icelandic cinnamon rolls with icing. We walked along the shore, fed the birds with some bread, and watched fishermen mending their nets. Life here is simple and clear; there’s no room for unnecessary noise. We googled if it was possible to buy a house here—the prices were steep, but the thought of living here for a few months was very tempting.

Lunch was at a small restaurant called "Vagninn"—a legendary spot in Flateyri that occasionally hosts concerts. We ate mussels harvested that morning from the same fjord. They were small but incredibly sweet and smelled of the sea. After lunch, we just sat on the pier with our legs dangling, watching the light change. In Iceland, the light is a character of its own: sometimes harsh and high-contrast, other times soft and golden.

In the evening, we decided to have a farewell dinner. We invited our artist host and opened a bottle of wine. She told us about winter storms, how the village gets buried in snow up to the roofs, and how people help one another. It was a very warm and sincere evening. We realized that Iceland isn't just about nature, but also about the people who have learned to live in harmony with its rugged character.

Day 11. Farewell to the Shores of Mists

On the final day, we woke up early. We had a long drive back over the passes. The weather decided to show its true colors one last time: the sky clouded over, and a fine, stinging rain began to fall. We stopped at our favorite spot by the fjord to toss a coin into the water—a silly tradition, but we really wanted to return. Lake Sudurvikurvatn was hidden behind thick fog this time, as if nature had decided to close the curtain.

On the way, we made one more stop in Isafjordur—the largest town in the region (though by our standards, it's a small village). We bought souvenirs: handmade wool socks and salt with Icelandic herbs. We had lunch at a local soup bar where you can get as many refills as you like. It was a perfect final chord—hot, spicy soup on a cold day. We didn't want to get back in the car for a long time, just standing on the quay and breathing.

On the drive back, we hardly spoke, each processing our own impressions. We passed the same mountains and lakes, but now they felt familiar, almost like family. We recognized the turns, the cliffs, and even the individual farmhouses. Inside was a feeling of fullness and a new, quiet strength. Iceland doesn't take your energy; it gives it to you, but only if you are ready to listen to its silence.

By evening, we reached the end of our route. We returned the car, which had become our second home over these 11 days. It was covered in dust and dirt, but it never let us down once. Our last night was in a small roadside hotel. We went to sleep with a sense of a completed mission: we had seen Iceland without filters, without crowds, and without rushing. It was the best journey of our lives.

The Aftertaste of the North: Why This May Will Stay in Our Hearts

Now that we are home, Iceland feels like an incredible dream. What did we like most? Perhaps it was that sense of isolation. In the Westfjords, you feel like a pioneer even if you're walking on a trail. The lack of tourist polish makes the experience honest. May of 2026 became a time of reset for us. We learned to appreciate simple things: the warmth of a sweater, the taste of fresh bread, and the beauty of a harsh landscape that doesn't try to flirt with you, but simply exists.

What didn't we like? Perhaps only the prices for fuel and car rentals—Iceland remains one of the most expensive countries. But every krona was worth the emotions we received. If you are planning a trip, my advice is this: don't try to drive around the whole island in one go. Pick one region and immerse yourself in it. The Westfjords and their lakes are a place for those seeking silence and meaning, not just pretty pictures for a feed. We will definitely return, perhaps in winter, to see these same places under a blanket of snow and by the light of the Aurora Borealis.

Our future plans are now inevitably tied to the North. We’ve started looking into Greenland or the Faroe Islands. After Iceland, it’s hard to go back to a standard beach holiday—it feels bland. We will always miss this piercing wind and the feeling of freedom at the edge of the world. This trip changed us, made us calmer and more attentive to detail. And that is perhaps the most important result of our 11-day escape.