Ísafjörður, Iceland: History, Hiking and Accordions
Ísafjörður, Iceland: History, Hiking and Accordions
By David Eugene Perry
Ahoy! Today we explored Ísafjörður, Iceland: a day full of hiking, history, hitherto unseen vistas and even a collection of accordions. Some days on a journey are so unexpectedly rich that, by evening, they seem as though they contained three or four days’ worth of experiences. Today was one of those. We awoke in Ísafjörður—the unofficial capital of Iceland’s spectacular Westfjords—to brilliant sunshine illuminating one of the most dramatic natural harbors in the North Atlantic. Mountains rose nearly straight from the sea, their ancient basalt faces etched by countless glacial ages, while fishing vessels gently rocked below beneath a sky that somehow managed to be both brilliantly blue and adorned with soft Arctic clouds.
Before we tackled the day’s great adventure, we wandered the charming streets of town, where old timber houses painted black with crisp white trim have stood for centuries against the unforgiving North Atlantic weather. Unlike much of Iceland, which lost many of its oldest wooden structures, Ísafjörður still preserves a remarkable collection of merchant buildings dating back to the eighteenth century, reminders of the era when Danish merchants controlled Icelandic commerce.
One of our first delightful discoveries was a brightly painted rainbow crosswalk and, nearby on a house, a vibrant mural proclaiming “Love is Love.” It was a joyful splash of color against the traditional architecture—a reminder that while this town reveres its history, it also embraces a welcoming and inclusive present. In a place where nature often dominates the conversation, this simple expression of humanity felt especially touching.
Then came the hike. Our destination was Naustahvilft, better known as “The Troll’s Seat.” Every local seems to know the legend. According to Icelandic folklore, a giant troll, hurrying home before sunrise could turn her to stone, stopped here to rest. The enormous bowl-shaped depression carved into the mountainside is said to be the imprint left where she sat, her feet dangling into the fjord below. Geologists, of course, attribute it to glacial erosion during the last Ice Age, but standing there above Ísafjörður, it was easy to prefer the troll’s version.
The trail climbed relentlessly above town, every switchback revealing another breathtaking perspective over the fjord. Soon the colorful roofs of Ísafjörður shrank below us while the surrounding mountains unfolded in every direction. The silence was profound, interrupted only by seabirds riding the updrafts and the distant sounds of fishing boats returning to harbor.
The higher we climbed, the more astonishing the views became. Looking down, the entire town seemed to rest delicately on a narrow spit of land extending into the deep blue waters. Snow still lingered in shaded gullies high above despite the warmth of the summer sun, while waterfalls traced silver ribbons down impossibly steep cliffs. It was one of those hikes where photographs barely hint at the grandeur. Every turn invited another pause simply to absorb the immensity of Iceland’s western frontier.
The climb proved pleasantly challenging—just enough to make us earn every spectacular vista. Apart from one brief slip that bruised nothing more than my pride, we returned to town tired, exhilarated and entirely intact. The celebratory beer awaiting us would prove richly deserved.
Returning happily exhausted to town, we refreshed ourselves with a beer at the LOGN Hotel and Bar, and then wandered over to one of the most fascinating museums we’ve encountered anywhere—in Iceland or anywhere.
Housed in one of the oldest surviving merchant buildings, originally constructed in 1765, the museum itself tells a story before you even step inside. Known as the Factor’s House (Faktorshús), it served as the residence of the Danish trading representative who oversaw commerce in the region. The building has been lovingly restored, allowing visitors to step directly into eighteenth- and nineteenth-century life.
Outside, another chapter of history quietly announces itself. Mounted on the building is a plaque commemorating its origins as the home of the Danish merchant factor during the era of the Danish trade monopoly. Just steps away stands the Honorary Consulate of the Kingdom of Denmark, a subtle reminder that Denmark’s connection with Iceland did not simply disappear when Iceland became a sovereign kingdom in 1918 or a republic in 1944. For centuries, Danish merchants, governors and trading agents administered commerce from buildings like this one. Today, the modern honorary consulate sits almost beside the former merchant’s residence, linking Iceland’s colonial past with its enduring friendship with Denmark.
Before entering the museum, we paused at a striking granite memorial topped by a bronze seabird. Its plaque commemorates the sailors of Arctic Convoy QP-13, who perished off Iceland’s coast on July 5, 1942. During World War II, these tranquil waters became one of the world’s most dangerous shipping lanes. The Arctic convoys carried desperately needed food, fuel, aircraft, tanks and munitions from Britain and North America to the Soviet Union through waters patrolled relentlessly by German U-boats, aircraft and surface raiders. Yet the enemy was not their only danger. In thick fog, while maneuvering to avoid submarine attack, ships of QP-13 inadvertently entered a British defensive minefield laid off Iceland’s northwest coast. Three merchant vessels were lost, scores of Allied sailors perished in the frigid North Atlantic, and the waters surrounding the Westfjords became another tragic battlefield in the Battle of the Atlantic. Standing there before the memorial, with the peaceful harbor sparkling behind it, it was difficult to imagine the terror and sacrifice that unfolded here only eighty-four years ago.
The memorial also serves as a poignant reminder that although Iceland declared neutrality, geography made neutrality impossible. Following Britain’s occupation of Iceland in May 1940—Operation Fork—Ísafjörður was transformed from a remote fishing community into an important Allied naval and aviation outpost. Flying boats patrolled the surrounding seas searching for German submarines, escort vessels sheltered in the fjord, and military personnel suddenly became a common sight in streets that had previously belonged almost exclusively to fishermen, merchants and their families.
Inside, history unfolds room by room. A beautifully recreated kitchen, complete with period stove, pantry, dining table, enamelware and vintage Bosch refrigerator, evokes the daily rhythms of Icelandic family life during the twentieth century. Looking out its small windows, one sees the harbor exactly as generations before would have seen it: fishing boats, mountains and the ever-present sea.
Elsewhere, exhibits chronicle the evolution of Iceland’s fishing industry—the foundation upon which towns like Ísafjörður were built. Detailed engineering drawings illustrate the transition from traditional sailing vessels to powered fishing boats. Charts identify dozens of species harvested from Icelandic waters, from cod and haddock to halibut, wolffish, redfish, Greenland shark, rays and even eel. Fishing wasn’t merely an occupation here; it was survival, prosperity and identity.
One exhibit proved unexpectedly quirky and delightful. The museum houses the remarkable Ásgeir S. Sigurðsson Accordion Collection, assembled over decades by one man whose passion became one of Iceland’s finest collections of the instrument. His first accordion arrived when he was just fifteen years old, and by 1990 he had begun systematically collecting examples from across Iceland and Europe.
Among the dozens on display are exquisitely crafted nineteenth-century instruments, early German and Italian accordions, elaborately decorated models and examples once played by celebrated Icelandic musicians. The accompanying exhibit traces the accordion’s ancestry all the way back to the Chinese sheng, dating roughly to 2700 BC. In 1822, German instrument maker Friedrich Buschmann developed the handoline, followed in 1829 by Austrian Cyril Demian, who refined the design and gave the world the instrument we still call the accordion today. Production flourished in Germany, especially with Matthias Hohner, and later in Castelfidardo, Italy, now affectionately known as the “Mecca of the accordion.” Who knew that one of the world’s finest accordion collections awaited us in a tiny fishing town tucked beneath Arctic mountains?
Another exhibit told a far more sobering story.
Mounted prominently on the wall hangs the original shield of the British Vice Consulate. During Britain’s wartime occupation, all Germans living in Iceland were ordered to surrender to the occupation authorities. One of them, August Lehrmann, instead fled westward into the Westfjords, where sympathetic local residents secretly hid him for nearly a year. Eventually captured in 1941, Lehrmann revealed the identities of everyone who had helped him.
The consequences rippled through this small community. Seven residents of the Westfjords were arrested and transported to Britain. Among them was Tryggvi Jóakimsson, Britain’s own Vice Consul in Ísafjörður. Although he steadfastly maintained his innocence—and historians have found no evidence that he even knew Lehrmann was hiding nearby—he nevertheless lost both his appointment and his reputation. The British removed the consular shield from his residence and carried it away to the Embassy in Reykjavík.
Remarkably, that very shield survived. Preserved by the British Embassy for decades before passing into private hands, it was donated back to the museum in 2024, where it now quietly bears witness to one of the most fascinating—and least-known—episodes of Iceland’s wartime history. Standing only a few yards from the modern Danish Honorary Consulate, it struck me that within the space of a hundred feet one can trace Iceland’s remarkable diplomatic evolution: from Danish colonial administration, to British wartime occupation, to the independent Iceland we know today.
Standing at an upstairs window, we looked back over the harbor through small wooden casements just as merchants, consuls and sailors had done for more than two centuries. Beyond lay fishing boats, colorful kayaks, distant mountains and calm Arctic water sparkling beneath the afternoon sun.
Today’s visit had it all for the “history lover” in me: a British and a Danish consulate; World War II intrigue; the Battle of the Atlantic; Arctic convoy tragedy; the evolution of one of Europe’s most beloved musical instruments; and the enduring power of the sea.
As we left, I bought a book entitled Iceland Invaded: The Allied Occupation in World War II. I have my reading for the night.Small towns like this, and lovingly, locally curated museums such as this one, tell a far richer story than any Wikipedia page can attempt.