The boat is barely clear of the dock when the puffins appear — hundreds of them, wings hammering the air in that gloriously inefficient way they have, heading straight for us. My destination is Grímsey, and the welcoming committee has already assembled.
Iceland has a habit of reusing place names, and the confusion this causes is genuinely entertaining. Laugavegur, for instance, is both a busy shopping street in downtown Reykjavík and a celebrated hiking trail in the highlands — a fact that has sent more than one bewildered tourist driving deep into the interior when they meant to browse for sweaters. Grímsey has the same problem. There are two of them: one is the northernmost inhabited island in Iceland, straddling the Arctic Circle; the other sits a mere 10-minute boat ride from Drangsnes in Steingrímsfjörður. The first has a handful of residents. The second is almost entirely given over to birds — 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).
I only discovered this particular Grímsey while planning the trip, when I zoomed in on a small dot just off the coast of Drangsnes on Google Maps and thought: surely there’s a way to get there. A few days later I was aboard a small inflatable boat, wearing an undeniably dorky birdwatching hat — not for camouflage, but because the day had turned unexpectedly bright — bobbing toward the island.
Counting Puffins
Our captain and guide is Magnús Ásbjörnsson, a fisherman who co-manages Malarhorn Guesthouse with his wife, Eva Katrín Reynisdóttir. His family has deep roots here — his mother owns half the island — which is what allows them to run guided tours from mid-June to mid-August.
The timing is deliberate, tied to the birds’ breeding cycle and, of course, whatever the weather decides to do. Tours don’t start before June 15, which lines up with nesting season. By July, humpback whales sometimes move into the area and an impromptu whale-watching detour becomes possible. There’s fishing on offer too, if that’s your thing.
Regular tours run on a modified fishing boat called Sundhani, but today I’m on a small, buoyant Zodiac — a more intimate arrangement that involves gripping the safety ropes while saltwater sprays my face.
“Not many people know that this Grímsey even exists.”
We pull up to a rocky shore thick with seaweed and Magnús points to a large rock where I should step off. “Hold this,” he says, tossing me a rope. I stand there juggling the rope, my phone, and binoculars, trying to look competent. Without a word he jumps into the water and manoeuvres the boat closer, thick rubber overalls keeping him dry while I flail on the rock.
Drangsnes is close enough to feel like you could shout across to it, yet the island feels completely removed from everything. Snowy mountains rise behind the village, the sea catches the sun, and the whole island seems to be humming — flowers everywhere, bird calls layered on top of each other. The moment I step ashore, a group of puffins bursts from burrows in a nearby cliff, others flapping awkwardly and launching themselves toward the sea.
I’ve seen puffins plenty of times, but usually posing for cameras on clifftops. Here they’re working — feeding chicks, wings a blur as they sprint for the water. It’s a different thing entirely.
“They arrive here around the first of April,” Magnús tells 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 nest on the island, plus a comparable number of fledglings. “So, in total, that’s around 200,000 puffins,” he says — figures based on counts carried out by scientists from the Westman Islands.
Ten to 15 other bird species nest on Grímsey alongside the puffins. I can pick out a few: eider ducks, round and self-important; razorbills, which look like puffins who got dressed up; cormorants, all guttural calls and angular necks; and fulmars, whose main claim to fame is projectile regurgitation. Seals show up too, stretched out on the rocks like they own the place.
A Cabin for the Marooned and a Duckling Left Behind
There’s a small cabin on the island, built by Magnús’s uncle, the kind of thing that could walk straight into a Tiny House coffee table book. Inside: a few beds, a tiny generator, and a collection of mismatched coffee cups. “He built it so we could stay while gathering eiderdown,” Magnús explains. These days the family rarely uses it — a coffee stop now and then. “But people can stay here if the boat drifts away,” he adds, in a tone that makes me wonder whether that has actually happened.
We walk along the shore and stop to look at the eider duck nests. During nesting season the ducks pull feathers from their own bellies to line the eggs. That down — eiderdown — is prized for its insulating properties and ends up in duvets and other products. Every year Magnús and the other island owners take turns collecting it, pulling between three and ten kilos from the whole island.
Grímsey is just one kilometer wide and has a pretty orange lighthouse at its centre. A path runs along one shore and makes for a pleasant walk; the other side is all high cliffs and only reachable by boat.
We stop when a scene plays out in front of us: a mother eider duck heads into the sea with three barely-walking chicks in tow. One of them falls behind, struggling. The mother doesn’t seem to notice, moving ahead with the other two while the straggler splashes near the shore. It’s the kind of thing nature does constantly, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.
Then another eider appears, moves toward the struggling chick, and seems to take it under her wing. The little one will probably be fine.
Magnús, meanwhile, has spotted an abandoned egg in the nest. “They rarely return,” he says, studying it. He concludes the egg is likely dead — that’s probably why the mother left it — but he decides to take it home for a few days anyway. If a chick hatches, he can always bring it back.
An Unwelcome Guest
Further along, Magnús crouches to pick up a few circular objects from the ground — vertebrae from a humpback whale that beached here some time ago. Long decomposed, but the bones remain. He mentions some visitors want to take pieces home as souvenirs. I find myself hoping that whoever leads the official tours — usually a dedicated guide rather than Magnús himself — makes clear 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 far side of the island where a colony of seagulls has taken over the rocks, their droppings covering every available surface. Nearby, cormorants sit on their nests, necks stretched, looking like small angry dragons.
“Mink!” Magnús says sharply. “Did you see it?”
I don’t at first, then I do — a solid animal, small brown head on an improbably long body, moving fast between the rocks. Mink are the biggest threat to the wildlife out here.
“If a mink shows up around here, it means ten birds will be dead,” Magnús says. They swim over from the mainland, apparently unconcerned about the crossing.
“Too bad I don’t have a gun,” he mutters. “Should I try to kill it with my bare hands?”
Something in his voice suggests this is not entirely a joke. “I’ve done this before,” he adds.
Fortunately for the birds, for the mink, and for me, the animal slips away between the rocks before anything dramatic has a chance to unfold.
We sit down on the grass and look out at the water. Bird calls come in from every direction. “It’s so nice to be here,” Magnús says. “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.
