❄️ The Westfjords Region: Ísafjörður-Súðavík

The towns were still. Mountains leaned in. The fjords didn’t move. Neither did we. We walked slow. Ate slow. Drank beer so cold it numbs your tongue. This is one of the quietest places I’ve ever been. It was the kind of quiet that stays with you but that also makes it feel very lonely.

Our guides were a man and his adult daughter, he of few words, she with plenty to say. Her boots muddy, her hair wild, despite the cold, he stayed shirtless the entire time with guitar slung over his back like a second spine. She knew the names of birds, she knew astronomy, geology, and Icelandic myth. She talked about fermented shark and potatoes-most of her life spent eating both. She knew things, survival things, that most of us wouldn’t.

Not really any crime here, they said. People leave keys in cars. Babies sleep outside in strollers while parents drink coffee inside. No one takes them (the babies or the cars). No one runs. It’s not that kind of place.

The people are hearty. Carved from cold and wind and long dark winters. They speak when it matters laugh at the follies of life. They fish. They farm. They fix things. They play guitar and sing. They don’t waste words or warmth.

I wouldn’t live here. But a few weeks—maybe longer—would be a welcome drift. And who knows. As the fjord does not move, maybe neither would we.