Discovering the Infinity Pool at the Edge of the World

The Strandir region gives up its secrets slowly, and only to those willing to sit with the silence long enough. Maybe it’s the isolation. Maybe it’s just how life moves here. Tucked between Djúpavík and Norðurfjörður is Trékyllisvík, a quiet cove in Árneshreppur — the northernmost corner of Iceland’s northernmost municipality. A handful of houses line the shore, and the loudest thing around is the shrieking of arctic terns cutting through the air.

This far-flung spot is said to be where the Westfjords witch-hunts began, with three women reportedly burned at the stake in the 17th century. That history hangs in the air. There’s a school here, a small museum, and then something that catches you off guard: two churches, Árneskirkja and Árneskirkja II, standing face to face across the road.

There’s no priest in the area anymore, and nobody seems entirely sure why both churches exist. “I was confirmed in one but got married in the other,” a local says with a shrug — and leaves it at that.

Grandpa’s Little Museum

In the middle of Trékyllisvík, I come across Kört — a tiny museum behind a gate that barely reaches my knees. A sign tells visitors to ring the bell. I do, and a teenage girl comes out from the house behind to let me in. When I ask if she can walk me through the collection and tell me something about it, she looks uncertain. “Let me call my grandpa,” she says.

A few minutes later, Valgeir Benediktsson appears — the museum’s founder and my guide for the afternoon. A farmer by trade, he’s spent years collecting crafts and everyday objects: old tools, textiles, things made from stone and driftwood. The collection grew, people started stopping to look, and in 1996 he built a proper space for it.

Kört exists, Valgeir says simply, to preserve “the stories of interesting lives that have since passed.”

As we move through the museum, his granddaughter translates steadily beside us. Valgeir tells me about a fisherman who fathered 18 children, a man who read the weather from a tobacco case, and a walrus tooth he believes to be between 10,000 and 12,000 years old — a figure he looked into himself.

His favourite object shifts around, he admits, but right now it’s an askur — a traditional Icelandic wooden bowl with a lid, once used as a personal lunch container. In the cramped turf houses of the past, tables were a luxury, so everyone had their own. When proper houses came along in the 20th century, the askur was set aside. “It’s fascinating that this one has remained intact,” he says. “Usually, they get damaged.”

He also shows me a centuries-old candleholder carved from stone, built to hold lýsi, the traditional oil used for lighting. “The wick was made from cotton grass. These lights stopped being used in Iceland after 1400,” he tells me.

The museum also sells local knitwear and some of Valgeir’s own woodwork — carved birds from the region among them. On my way out, I watch his granddaughter lower the flag. Enough visitors for one day, clearly.

Krossnes, Finally

Driving through this landscape on a day like this, it’s hard to imagine what could make it better. As it turns out, one thing can: a pool. Not just any pool — Krossneslaug has been on my list since a 2022 interview with Jón Karl Helgason, the director of Pool Stories, a documentary about Iceland’s bathing culture.

He’d visited pools all over the country for the film, and when I pushed him to name a favourite, he didn’t hesitate: “Krossnes is breathtaking. When you’re in there, you can see the horizon, the ocean — and feel like you’re alone in the world.”

Krossneslaug sits at the very end of the road. To go further north from here you’d need to hike, take a rugged jeep track that reaches only a few more fjords, or double back to Norðurfjörður — the last place to buy food and supplies, now run by Hotel Djúpavík. Last year I got close, only to find the pool drained when I arrived. (Worth knowing: there’s a mud football championship every Verslunarmannahelgi, the first weekend in August, and the muddy players tend to pile into the pool straight after — which means a day or two of closure for cleaning.)

This time it’s open. A cheerful Kristín is at the cash register. She winters in Austria, she tells me, but Strandir keeps pulling her back. “I heard there are young farmers around here,” I say. “Do you know them?” She laughs. “Those are my parents.”

Krossneslaug is celebrating its 70th anniversary this year, and it holds real meaning for the community — this is where local children learned to swim. Two hot tubs, warmer than the pool itself, have recently been added. But it’s really the view that steals the show: a dramatic cliff on one side and an endless stretch of ocean on the other.

A few other people are in the water and we chat idly. Someone jokes that only the adventurous choose to live out here. There might be something to that. But if “adventurous” means soaking in a place like this every day, that sounds less like a hardship and more like a very good deal.

This is the third piece in a series of articles documenting our recent journey to Strandir. Grateful to Hotel Djúpavik for their hospitality and Go Car Rental for providing the wheels. Book your car at gocarrental.is.