“My sister and I attended school on the other side of the mountain,” recalls Héðinn Birnir Ásbjörnsson, gesturing across the fjord. “When the roads would close around October or November, we’d stay there for a week. In those early years, we relied on a boat to navigate to the other side, but eventually, we adapted and got snowmobiles.”
Where am I this time? Back in the remote and enchanting Strandir, in the storied village of Djúpavík. Today, Héðinn is my guide through the remnants of the old herring factory — a site his parents, Ásbjörn Þorgilsson and Eva Sigurbjörnsdóttir, revitalized when they moved to this isolated fjord in the 1980s.
If Djúpavík is not on your travel radar, picture this: a scattering of wooden houses, a gentle waterfall cascading down the mountain behind, a cozy hotel run solely by its two year-round residents, and the skeletal remains of a rusty ship. What’s left of the herring factory stands as a testament to a once-flourishing enterprise. Across the fjord, a mountain draped in snow with dark rocks peeking through resembles a scoop of Oreo ice cream. In this serene landscape, the peace is only shattered by the flutter of birds. Having grown up in a bustling city, I find this place irresistibly magical. Héðinn, however, offers a different perspective. As a teenager, he often yearned for escape. “I didn’t appreciate what I had here,” he admits.
Photo by Art Bicnick
The Gold Rush
When Héðinn’s parents acquired the factory, their plan was to initiate fish breeding in the old fish oil tanks. However, faced with financial challenges, they pivoted towards tourism while still brainstorming creative uses for the factory, like hosting annual art exhibitions (more on that in Issue 8, 2025).
“For its time, this was a surprisingly large building,” Héðinn explains as he leads me into the processing section, which still harbors relics of bygone machinery. “At 6,500 square meters, it was about half the size of the Smáralind shopping mall, which measures roughly 14,000 square meters.”
“But it wasn’t just a massive concrete box. It was the most advanced factory of its kind in Europe when it opened in 1935,” he continues, highlighting the cutting-edge equipment and high level of automation.
“Every house had electricity, there was a doctor, a bakery, a shop — you could even fly in directly from Reykjavík on a seaplane. What began as a ghost town transformed into a bustling community. You could say it was a sort of gold rush.”
Djúpavík blossomed around the factory, attracting an influx of workers. “In no time, it boasted the infrastructure of a modern town for its era,” Héðinn notes. “It was a vibrant hub.”
Now, almost ninety years later, the factory celebrated its anniversary on July 7, and most of those amenities have vanished. The Westfjords remain unconnected to Iceland’s main power grid, and while electricity is available, outages are common. Today, the family-run hotel, factory tours, and the occasional film shoot keep Djúpavík alive.
Interestingly, what we now recognize as Hotel Djúpavík was originally the factory’s women’s quarters. At its peak, each room housed up to eight women, accommodating around 100 in total. Women played an essential role in factory operations, predominantly salting herring for export.
“At one point, about 250 people called Djúpavík home,” Héðinn recalls, noting that some records suggest that number may have swelled to as high as 450 during peak construction.
Heavy Lifting
Héðinn guides us through the factory, his storytelling so engaging that even the most history-wary among us are spellbound. We pause by a ceiling-high, 60-ton boiler that once powered the entire operation.
“The greatest engineering challenge was getting this monstrosity here,” he explains. “No crane in Iceland was capable of lifting a 60-ton piece, not even in Reykjavík. They had to get creative.”
Rather than purchasing a new boiler, the factory opted to procure a shipwreck marooned on the southern coast, its sole purpose being to salvage the boiler.
Transporting the ship took about four months — first to Reykjavík harbor and then up to the Westfjords. But upon its arrival in Djúpavík, another dilemma arose: how to hoist a 60-ton boiler from the sea into the factory? With construction underway, only three men were available for the task. They cleverly rolled it out like a barrel, navigating around a massive steam valve that obstructed its path. Each turn required digging a new hole for the valve, and after nearly three weeks, they succeeded. Whether it’s a tale of ingenuity or a tourist-favorite story, it speaks volumes about Westfjords engineering prowess.
Another intriguing tale centers around a now-decaying coaster slowly surrendering to the elements along the Djúpavík shore. During the factory’s peak years, housing was scarce, struggling to keep pace with the influx of workers. To solve this, management acquired the MS Suðurland, a vessel that could accommodate about 30 factory workers. Fun fact: originally built for Swedish lakes, the ship was mistakenly bought by the Icelandic state, as it was never intended for the open sea.
Photo by Art Bicnick
Photo by Art Bicnick
A Basque-Icelandic Connection
Upon stepping outside the factory, Héðinn amusingly points to one of the tanks. “This is the one that won the BAFTA last year,” he quips, referring to composer Atli Örvarsson, who recorded sounds right inside the tank for the TV series Silo.
Next to this tank stands a new initiative by Héðinn’s family: the Basque Centre, which opened its first phase last summer. You might wonder what a Basque connection has to such a remote corner of Iceland. The answer lies in history — the Basques were among the first nations to engage in commercial whaling, operating in the Westfjords since the 17th century. In 1615, a tempest wrecked their ships, leading to a violent conflict with local inhabitants, a dark chapter known as Spánverjavígin, or The Slaying of the Spaniards, resulting in the deaths of at least 32 Basques.
“I wanted to highlight that history,” Héðinn explains, “but rather than dwelling on the tragedy, we aim to explore the relationship between the two nations, each speaking languages few understand.” Currently, the centre’s main exhibit features a half-finished hull of a Basque boat constructed by Icelandic carpenters. Héðinn admires the skill of Basque boat builders, stating, “They were unparalleled, crafting ships capable of crossing the Atlantic, backed by knowledge unmatched by their contemporaries.” He expresses hope that one day the boat will be completed, envisioning a partnership where Icelandic and Basque rowers sail the fjord together, just for the joy of it.
As our conversation wraps up, Héðinn heads off to attend to his duties around the factory. I take the afternoon to settle into a camping chair, binoculars in hand, counting eider ducks bobbing in the bay and watching their ducklings take their first swims. I can’t recall a place exuding such tranquility. A thought lingers from earlier: “It’s about delaying the inevitable decline of this building. It will happen eventually. But we believe this structure has stories yet to tell.”
This article is the second in a series chronicling my recent journey to Strandir. Special thanks to Hotel Djúpavík for the lodging and Go Car Rental for the transportation. To arrange your car rental, visit gocarrental.is and be sure to join Héðinn for a tour of the factory when you visit Djúpavík.
