As I embark on a boat journey to an island few have ever visited and even fewer have heard of, I’m greeted by the sight of hundreds of clumsy puffins flapping towards me. My destination? Grímsey.
In Iceland, duplicated place names are not uncommon, creating amusing mix-ups. A notable example is Laugavegur, which refers both to a bustling street in downtown Reykjavík and a renowned hiking trail in the highlands. I still chuckle thinking about a tourist who confused the two and found themselves driving to the hiking trail, blissfully unaware of their blunder. Following suit, there are two Grímseys: one is the northernmost inhabited island in Iceland straddling the Arctic Circle; the other, a mere 10-minute boat ride from Drangsnes in Steingrímsfjörður. While the first is home to a handful of residents, the latter is teeming with avian life — and it’s this lively Grímsey I’m visiting today (though if you’re curious about the first one, you can find details on page 12 — two birds, one stone).
This particular Grímsey is a hidden gem, one I was unaware of until my trip planning led me to zoom in on a small dot just off the coast of Drangsnes on Google Maps. “Surely there’s a way to get there,” I mused. Just a few days later, donning an undeniably dorky birdwatching hat — not for camouflage, but for sun protection on this unexpectedly bright day — I found myself aboard a small inflatable boat, bobbing toward the island.
Counting Puffins
Today’s captain and guide is Magnús Ásbjörnsson, a fisherman who co-manages Malarhorn Guesthouse with his wife, Eva Katrín Reynisdóttir. Magnús’s family has deep roots here; his mother owns half of the island, enabling them to offer guided tours from mid-June to mid-August.
These excursions are meticulously timed with the birds’ life cycles and are, of course, contingent on weather conditions. Tours commence only after June 15, coinciding with the nesting season. By July, the arrival of humpback whales in the area might add an impromptu whale watching opportunity. Fishing enthusiasts will find that adventure is readily available too.
While the usual tours are held on a modified fishing boat named Sundhani, I am fortunate to have a more intimate experience aboard a small, buoyant Zodiac. I grip the safety ropes tightly as salty spray splashes my face, eagerly awaiting my first step onto solid ground.
“Not many people know that this Grímsey even exists.”
As we pull up to the rocky shore thick with seaweed, Magnús indicates a large rock where I need to disembark. “Hold this,” he instructs, tossing me a rope. I find myself precariously positioned, juggling the rope, my phone, and binoculars. Without hesitation, he leaps into the water, expertly maneuvering the boat closer while his thick rubber overalls keep him dry.
The island feels delightfully remote, yet Drangsnes is so nearby that I could almost reach out and touch it. The vista is breathtaking — a backdrop of snowy mountains stands guard, the sea sparkles under the sun, and a lush green paradise bursts with flowers and the songs of birds. Just as I step onto Grímsey, a troupe of joyful puffins emerge from their burrows on a nearby cliff, while others awkwardly flap their wings, darting toward the sea.
Though I’ve seen puffins countless times, this encounter feels entirely different — they’re busy at work and feeding their young, their wings beating rapidly as they dash for food.
“They arrive here around the first of April,” Magnús informs me. “Years ago, they used to show up around April 15, but now they’re coming earlier, likely due to rising temperatures.”
An estimated 60,000 puffin couples call this island home, along with a comparable number of fledglings. “So, in total, that’s around 200,000 puffins,” he explains, referencing counts conducted by scientists from the Westman Islands.
In addition to the puffins, 10 to 15 other bird species nest on Grímsey. I can identify a few: the eider ducks, plump and prominent; razorbills, which are like puffins in fancy attire; cormorants, whose guttural calls linger in the air; and fulmars, with a reputation for an unpleasant defense mechanism, regurgitation. Seals, too, are frequent visitors, sunbathing on the rocks and putting on mini shows for their feathered neighbors.
A Cabin for the Marooned and a Duckling Left Behind
A small cabin, built by Magnús’s uncle, stands on the island, resembling something out of a popular Tiny House coffee table book. Inside, it’s modest — fitted with a few beds, a tiny generator, and a mismatched assortment of coffee cups. “He built it so we could stay while gathering eiderdown,” Magnús explains. These days, the family uses it infrequently, stopping by occasionally for a coffee. “But people can stay here if the boat drifts away,” he adds mysteriously, prompting me to wonder if such an event has ever occurred.
We stroll along the shore, pausing to admire the eider duck nests. During nesting season, these ducks pluck their underfeathers to create a warm lining for their eggs. Eiderdown, sought after for its exceptional insulating properties, is harvested and used in various products, including cozy duvets. Every year, Magnús and the other island proprietors take turns collecting the down, yielding between three and ten kilos from the entire island.
Grímsey spans just one kilometer in width and boasts a picturesque orange lighthouse at its center. While a path along one shore allows for leisurely walks, the opposite side is riddled with high cliffs, rendering parts only accessible by boat.
Our exploration halts when a curious scene unfolds before us: a mother eider duck wades into the sea, accompanied by three barely walking chicks. One of the little ones lags behind, struggling to keep up. The mother is oblivious, tending to her faster learners while I watch, torn between fascination and sadness — a poignant reminder of nature’s ruthless laws: only the strongest prevail.
As the mother duck fades from sight and the struggling chick continues its splashing near the shore, a different eider appears, seemingly ready to help the lagging baby. It seems the chick will be alright after all.
However, Magnús notices the mother duck has abandoned an egg in her nest. “They rarely return,” he reflects, carefully observing the egg. After discerning that it is likely dead — which is why the mother left it behind — he decides to take it home for a few days. If a chick hatches, he can simply bring it back to the island.
An Unwelcome Guest
As we venture further, Magnús picks up a few circular objects from the ground, remnants of a humpback whale that once beached itself here. Though long since decomposed, its vertebrae remain as curiosities. Magnús mentions that for some, these pieces make for eccentric mementos to take home. I silently hope that during official tours — usually led by a dedicated guide rather than Magnús — visitors are reminded that removing any organic remains from Iceland is against the law.
“If a mink shows up around here, it means ten birds will be dead.”
We reach the opposite side of the island where our boat docked. Below, a noisy group of seagulls occupies the rocks, their droppings decorating the surroundings. Nearby, cormorants have made their nests, resembling tiny, angry dragons with their long necks and abrasive calls.
“Mink!” Magnús suddenly exclaims. “Did you see it?”
At first, I don’t, but then I spot it — not just any mink, but a robust one with a tiny brown head atop a surprisingly elongated body. Minks pose the most significant threat to the wildlife of this island paradise.
“If a mink shows up around here, it means ten birds will be dead,” Magnús asserts, explaining that these predators swim over from the mainland.
“Too bad I don’t have a gun,” he mutters. “Should I try to kill it with my bare hands?”
His comment sends a shiver down my spine, but he reassures me, “I’ve done this before.”
Fortunately for both the birds, who might have fallen victim to the mink, and for me, who had no desire to witness Magnús battle a wild animal, the mink vanishes in moments, leaving us undisturbed.
We settle on the grass, gazing at the horizon where waves mingle with a symphony of bird calls. “It’s so nice to be here,” Magnús remarks. “Quiet. Except for the birds.”
This piece is the final installment in our series from a recent expedition to Strandir. Our gratitude goes to Malarhorn Guesthouse for the tour and Go Car Rental for the wheels. For more details on tours to Grímsey, visit malarhornguesthouse.is and book your car at gocarrental.is.
