Reykjavík Grapevine - 10.08.2007, Blaðsíða 25
kindergarten. “It’s a great place to come if you
don’t want to spend money,” she replies when
I ask her about her choice. She’s right. There
are no expensive boutique clothing stores,
cinemas, or anything that remotely resembles
nightlife on the island. “There are a lot of
people my age here […] and everyone is very
friendly and relaxed,” she adds. Hanna tells us
that the kids occasionally order a pizza from
the mainland, have it delivered to the airport
in Akureyri and flown over on the next flight.
“The flight is only 25 minutes so it isn’t that
cold when it gets here,” she says. Gulli, the
photographer, pre-orders a meal of roasted
puffin breast served in red wine sauce for the
dinner the next day.
Puffin-hunting
Only the hum of the town generator and the
cries of the seagulls break the mid-morning
silence. The whole town is still asleep. Sverrir
and his friend Reynir are standing outside the
guesthouse smoking cigarettes and gazing
down at the harbour. Sverrir tells us that he
moved to the island from Akureyri in January
to work on a fishing boat. Like Héðinn, he
worked on a huge trawler that would stay out
at sea for weeks on end. “You don’t see land
for up to 40 days – I wanted a change. Here
we go out for 5 to 18 hours and come back
every night. And, I can go back to Akureyri
every weekend if I want,” he explains.
It’s approaching midday so I wonder why
he’s not out at sea now. Sverrir explains that
they’ve used up their fishing quota and have
to wait until they are allocated some more
before they can go back to sea. The twenty-
four year old tells us that because he is out
of work for the next few weeks, he plans to
head back to the mainland the following day.
But before he does, he wants to collect a few
puffins to take home to his family. They invite
us to go hunting with them. Before setting
off, we drive down to the harbour to pick up
the long hunting nets, which the guys fasten
to the side of their SUV.
Thankfully we’re not walking – the kría
are out in full force. Even travelling by car is
more difficult than you would think. We drive
slowly as they surround the vehicle, occasion-
ally swooping it. Why is it the puffin and not
the kría that we’re off to hunt, I jokingly ask.
Apart from the obvious fact that they are ag-
gressive, they carry little meat, I’m told. But,
the islanders are known to collect their eggs,
which are considered a local delicacy.
The car swings violently from side to side
as Reynir drives the car over the rough, bumpy
track that winds by the edge of the steep cliff,
home to the puffin. Despite the movement
of the car, puffins, instantly recognizable for
their white face, big colourful beak and red
legs, stand motionless. Although, the birds
have been harvested for centuries they are an
easy target. Puffins are not shy, and while they
have advanced swimming skills (they feed by
diving) their poor flying ability puts them at
risk by hunters. Every April, puffins migrate
to Iceland’s shores to breed and raise their
young before flying south again on August
20 – apparently they leave on the same day
every year. Because of the abundance of the
species – Iceland is home to the largest puffin
colonies in the world – it is legal to both hunt
the birds and collect their eggs.
We arrive at the spot where Sverrir and
Reynir have been told by the locals they can
hunt – the men on the island are apparently
territorial too. The guys don’t hesitate to abseil
down the dangerously steep cliffs. We use a
rope to abseil down the first few metres. To
reach the rocky shoreline below, we must then
take our chances and walk unaided the rest
of the way. To make matters worse, the nar-
row and eroded path is lined with a slippery
plant. The sound of the waves crashing on
the rocks below act as a constant reminder
that the short journey for this unseasoned
puffin hunter is perilous.
By the time I make it to the shoreline, Sver-
rir and Reynir are already setting up for some
serious hunting. Hundreds, if not thousands,
of puffins glide over us.
Reynir walks on to find a spot further
away. We stay with Sverrir, who positions
himself low to the ground behind the large
rocks by the water. He is dressed in a full-
length water-proof jumpsuit and large green
gumboots. He waits until the birds fly low
enough over his head before jumping to his
feet and swinging his long net in the air to
try to catch one of the birds. His first attempt
is unsuccessful – the bird darts away at the
last second. But soon he gets into the swing
of things, catching bird after bird. The deep
squawking sound of the puffin when it has
been caught is agonising to listen to. And,
catching the bird is not enough, first you
have to untie it and, well, kill it. The methods
of killing the birds (the details of which I’ll
spare you) are brutal, but the men are keen
to convince us that they are not as barbaric
as they may appear. They adhere to certain
morals while hunting; they let the bird free
if it is carrying fish in its beak – a sign that if
it is on its way back to feed its young – or if
it is not yet mature. They also assure us that
they only catch the birds for themselves and
their families. They freeze their catch for the
winter months when they eat them roasted,
smoked or boiled. “I’m not a great cook, so
I give them to my mum and she takes care
of them,” Sverrir says. And no, apparently
puffin doesn’t taste like chicken; the dark
meat tastes like nothing else, we’re told.
Life on the island is tough – well it doesn’t
come with all the conveniences, like huge
supermarkets, most of us on the mainland are
used to, so any food that the locals can col-
lect themselves, such as fish, puffins, and bird
eggs, is a bonus in their eyes. And it’s not just
about providing a valuable additional source
of food, it’s also about tradition. The people
of Iceland and its surrounding islands have
been practicing such hunting for centuries.
Not that it’s always passed down through the
generations. Reynir, who is on his second
puffin-hunting trip, learnt it from watching
television. “I saw it on TV and just tried to do
the same,” he says.
The guys tell us that successful hunting
is all about speed. It also helps if it’s windy.
“The more wind there is the more of them fly
around,” Sverrir says. So, with no real inten-
tion of catching, or certainly not killing, one of
our little clown-faced feathered friends, I take
the net. I find it difficult to judge the length of
the long and quite heavy net, and whether it
will actually reach the birds flying above. After
several half-hearted attempts, I concede, ac-
cepting that I’m probably just not cut out to
be a hunter.
Although both Sverrir and Reynir only learnt
to catch the bird days earlier, within a few hours
they manage to catch over 50 (and they catch
an additional 170 later in the day). They gather
their catch, which is lying on the rocks, and stuff
them into a sack. Reynir hoists the bag over his
shoulder and begins the ascent up the cliff. The
sun blares down reflecting off the glistening
ocean. They’ve been standing in the sun for
hours and the sweat is beginning to run down
their faces.
After what seems like an eternity spent on
Grímsey, we fly back to the mainland. In reality
we’ve only spent 24 hours on the tiny island,
but that was enough to meet many of the locals
and get a sense of life on the island. There is
something quite special about this place – the
islanders’ refreshing sense of community and
closeness to nature, and the island’s unspoilt
landscape are among the reasons I’ll return.
On our arrival back to the capital, Reykjavík
seems like a large, unfamiliar city – and Grímsey
a world away. Sure, there may not be much to
do on Grímsey, and the slow-paced lifestyle may
not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m pretty sure
I could get used to it.
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The thought of spending the weekend on a
tiny island with nothing to do is enough to
send some people running. Instead, Gulli, the
photographer, and I thought of some creative
ways to keep ourselves occupied during our 24
hour stay. These included meeting as many of
the locals (pop. 95) as possible, trying to defend
ourselves from the aggressive arctic terns, and
last but not least, scaling the dangerously steep
coastal cliffs trying to catch puffins. While
these may not be the most obvious tourist
activities, our trip to Grímsey turned out to
be full of adventure.
The Island
Situated on the Arctic Circle north of Iceland,
Grímsey is a small island home to just 95 peo-
ple, but dozens of large bird colonies. The
island is characterised by both its flatness and
the contrasting dramatic basalt cliffs (reach-
ing up to 100 metres) which plunge into the
ocean. Grímsey is just over 5 km² in size and
lies 40 kilometres from the mainland. It can
be reached by both sea and air; visitors can
either catch the ferry from Dalvík near Akureyri,
which takes around 3 ½ hours, or take a flight
from Akureyri. We opted for the plane. While
an experience in itself and a great way to take
in the view of the coastline and ocean below,
the 25 minute flight on the 10-seater aircraft
is not for the faint-hearted.
There are but two guesthouses on the
island – one at the airport and the other near
the harbour of the island’s (only) community
of Sandvík. Travellers looking for a five-star-all-
included holiday beware; Grímsey may not be
your kind of place. While you will get plenty
of peace and quiet, there is virtually no tourist
infrastructure on the island. The sole facilities
consist of a restaurant, a small grocery store, a
swimming pool, a community centre, a church
and a gallery/souvenir shop.
Attack of the Kría
There are around 60 species of bird on Grím-
sey and the one you’re most likely to form a
special bond with first is the kría or arctic tern.
My only guess as to why the locals chose this
aggressive and overly protective bird to be the
symbol of the island is that it was meant as
a sick joke. The kría are notoriously territorial
and, during the breeding season, not a force
to be messed with. These not-so-friendly birds’
habit of forming an aggressive gang-like group,
prepared to swoop anything that comes within
a hundred metres of their nesting ground,
makes travelling on the island by foot impos-
sible. At first, when the locals offered us vari-
ous household tools to defend ourselves, we
thought it was all a practical joke, their way of
amusing themselves. Still, we courageously set
out for a walk around the island. But, within
a couple of minutes, dozens of birds began
trying to attack us. Swinging pieces of plastic
pipe (much to the amusement of the locals)
in the air was humiliating, not to mention
tiring, and obviously not enough to prevent
the birds from attacking us. What we needed
were helmets. Each of the locals had a story
of the kría attacking either themselves or an
unfortunate tourist. I was determined not to
become another statistic.
Meet the locals
Our first real encounter with the locals was
with the frightfully talkative and knowledge-
able nine-going-on-40-year old Ingólfur and
his baby sister. Ingólfur told us that his parents
own the local restaurant and store, and that his
father also works as a fisherman. After shoot-
ing out the abridged version of the island’s
history (“Did you know that Grímsey is the
only part of Iceland that wasn’t occupied by
Denmark?”), we ask Ingólfur what a nine year
old does for fun on an island the size of some
people’s backyards. “I go out on the boat with
my dad, or just go for a walk,” he replies.
Talking about boats we decide to check
out the harbour. Colourful fishing boats sit
anchored in the small harbour after a long
day at sea. Not surprisingly, the main source of
income for the locals is the fishing industry.
One of these locals is Héðinn. We meet
him inside the fish processing plant where he
effortlessly guts and sorts the catch of the day
– huge yellowish-grey slippery cod – that fall
from the revolving belt, occasionally splattering
blood and salt water in all directions. I can’t
help flinching at the sight. If the locals needed
any further affirmation that we’re from The Big
Smoke, we roll up our pants and tippy-toe in
between the pools of bloody water. Héðinn’s
sun and wind-burnt face tells of years at sea.
He tells us that he wasn’t born on Grímsey.
He was simply fed up with working on large
fishing boats from the mainland, so he packed
up his things and moved to the island. Thirty
years later he’s still here and, judging by his
enthusiasm, loves the place.
Two teenage girls are working out the
back of the factory. Rebekka and Hildur tell
us they have come from Akureyri to spend
the summer with their grandmother, who
lives on the island, and to earn some pocket
money working in the factory. What do they
do to pass the time, I ask them. “Nothing,”
replies Hildur, the older of the two sisters,
while Rebekka says she spends her free time
playing on the trampoline. Remember, there
isn’t a lot to do around here.
But there is a swimming pool, though it’s
only open for a few hours a week. “It doesn’t
take that long for 90 people to go for a swim,
you know,” one woman explains. But like
everything else on the island – from the shop
to the bank – opening hours can easily be ar-
ranged by appointment.
Later we meet up with Magnús who’s
offered to take us for a boat trip around the
island. He tells us that his is the only boat
without quota since he started renting all of
his out to the other fisherman on the island.
Thousands of puffins are perched on the steep
cliffs of the island. Magnús unexpectedly fires
his pistol into the air causing the sky to turn
black with the birds fleeing the cliffs. He shows
us the steep vertical cliffs where he and his
father collect the birds’ eggs. The air tempera-
ture is around 20ºC and the clear blue-green
water is inviting. The locals occasionally swim
in the ocean, but it happens rarely, Magnús
tells us.
Shortly after pulling into the harbour, we
head off to the restaurant/bar aptly named
‘Restaurant Kría’. Hanna, the waitress/bar ten-
der, explains that business is slow as everyone
is still recovering from a party held the previous
night. The bubbly twenty-something tells us
that she is just on Grímsey for the summer.
She has come from Akureyri to spend several
months working at the island’s restaurant and
Island Life: 24 hours on Grímsey
Text by Zoë Robert Photos by Gulli
Catching the bird is not
enough, first you have to
untie it and, well, kill it.
The methods of killing
the birds are brutal.
REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 1_007_TRAVEL/GRÍMSEY_33
My only guess as to why
the locals chose this ag-
gressive and overly pro-
tective bird to be the
symbol of the island is
that it was meant as a
sick joke.
Flight provided by