Egilsstadir - Seydisfjördur - Höfn

Egilsstadir - Seydisfjördur

I woke up in the middle of nowhere on a horse ranch next to a river. It was probably the best situation anyone’s ever woken up that way.

I prodded Jodie awake, which is sometimes necessary. She’s not a morning person and will squeeze out every last minute of shut eye without encouragement. Our final destination was Höfn, a fishing village on a peninsula. Before heading there, we decided to visit Seydisfjördur, an even more remote, more idyllic fishing village nestled in the east fjords.

The start of the journey from Egilsstadir was cake, but then we started getting closer to the fjords. It required our little Matchbox to go up steep, slick switchbacks, battling our new nemesis—the wind.

As we climbed to the pinnacle of the road, before descending toward the fjord, the landscape became white. There was snow in every direction, and we both had the exact same thought: It looked exactly like the peaks in Skyrim.

We gradually made our way down the mountain. Others on the road didn’t see any reason to drive like they were sliding down the side of a rock face in the rain—for some goddamn reason. We arrived at Seydisfjördur shortly before noon. Having not eaten breakfast, we stopped at a supermarket—the first business in town you encounter—and bought a couple of breakfast pastries. I can’t resist a croissant, even if it’s a somewhat stale one at a remote Icelandic supermarket.

I should also note we were in desperate need of a bathroom and struck out at the store. We headed down the street to a gas station to fill up—the climb into the mountains had eaten up more fuel than we anticipated—but mostly, we were both about to soak our shorts.

The gas station was a real country number—a place that reminded me of living in North Carolina. It looked to be loosely affiliated with Orkan, but you wouldn’t know it by the interior. There was only one small corner reserved for the customary gas station provisions—candy, chips, pop, etc.

I bought two sparkling waters, a gesture which I felt allowed us to use the bathrooms without guilt—as poorly maintained as they were.

However, the rest of the building was dedicated to a little sit-down diner that the locals frequented. It was the one place in Iceland where our English was actually out of place. Judging by the fervent conversations in Icelandic, this was the place for the residents to get together and discuss the news of the day. I felt self conscious, bordering on guilty, as if I was intruding into their private business.

The restaurant we planned to eat at, Nordic, wasn’t open yet, so we drove around the town to kill time. Eventually noon rolled around, and we walked into a quaint hotel painted dark red. I had read that the attached Nordic was good, but to be honest, I didn’t get my hopes up. Nonetheless, we grabbed a table by the front window.

I was a little suspicious since the entire menu was listed in English on a blackboard, not even a perfunctory nod to Icelandic. Contrasted with the diner we just left, it seemed we were about to pay $40 a person (did I mention that Iceland is expensive?) for pedestrian tourist fare.

On this occasion, I was happily proven wrong. To be fair, I think I was still bitter after the worst sandwich I’ve ever paid for. Jodie ordered the pan-roasted chicken and I ordered the pan-roasted salmon, you know, being in a fishing village and all.

Both dishes were prepared beyond my expectations. Jodie’s chicken had perfectly crispy, rendered skin with a peppercorn sauce. It was accompanied by silky mashed potatoes and salted broccoli that was cooked perfectly.

I had a fresh piece of salmon with a good sear and seasoning, cauliflower puree and roasted cabbage. I don’t know that I could have asked for much more, to be eating that meal—washed down by a cold Einstök—with Jodie in a harbor surrounded by waterfalls and wilderness.

Afterward, we walked outside and marveled at the setting. The water. The mountains. The waterfalls. I wondered how quickly you get desensitized to those things. I’m sure it happens, but in the moment, I couldn’t see how.

Satisfied with lunch, we continued our trek toward Höfn. On the way back from the fjord, we noticed a waterfall that we’d previously missed. The brutal, chilling wind made my photo op short, but I got to enjoy the waterfall for a little bit, which was plenty.

The waterfall that we somehow missed on the way down.

Höfn

The road to Höfn was filled with more oppressive wind, winding roads and shit drivers. Despite it all, we arrived exactly at our appointed check-in time, 5 p.m. Our AirBnB was directly on the harbor. Our host was more than happy to give some travel tips and restaurant recommendations. But what I really appreciated was this 6-foot-plus descendent of Vikings unironically said things like, “winter is coming” and “people around here still believe in the old gods.”

After getting settled, it was time for some langoustine.

We walked to Pakkhus, a restaurant reminiscent of ancient fish fry restaurants on the coast of North Carolina where we visit Jodie’s family. Except, the speciality at those restaurants certainly isn’t a subspecies of lobster.

We were there specifically for the aforementioned langoustine, which makes its home in the north Atlantic. I also had to try the smoked lamb and smoked wild goose because you don’t pass that up when you’re in Iceland.

The langoustine didn’t disappoint. It was simply prepared over the grill with a little bit of spice and butter, plus a squeeze of lemon. I abhor the word “succulent,” but it’s really the only way to describe the langoustine. It was sweet and tender and deserves to be prepared simply with reverence.

Our dinner left us stuffed, but we headed to a nearby restaurant with a little cellar bar. It was a quiet refuge from Pakkhus’ busy dining room. The bar only sat two people (us), and the rest of the cellar was lit by candles and accented with charming vintage touches like a genuine phonograph.

Our stools seemed to be more aesthetic than functional, but I was happy to get away from the crowd. We ordered two Gulls, Iceland’s shitty beer of choice, and relaxed. Gradually, more people streamed in, and I was glad to hear they were locals—or Icelandic at least.

To a country that caters so readily to tourists, especially English-speaking tourists, you can sometimes forget you’re actually in another country. Sitting in a dark bar, hearing no other English speakers was satisfying in a way that’s difficult to explain. It was, probably selfishly, the experience I wanted from the trip.

After our beers, we walked back to the AirBnB to write and drink a cocktail or two from our personal stash.