Lesser-Known Bird Paradise: Cosplaying David Attenborough At Grímsey

I’m on a boat heading to an island few people have ever set foot on, and even fewer have heard of. Hundreds of clumsy puffins are flapping my way. I’m headed to Grímsey.

Like many places in Iceland with identical names (my favourite example is still Laugavegur — both the main street in downtown Reykjavík and a popular hiking guide in the highlands — remember when a tourist mixed them up and ended up driving to the latter without suspecting a thing?), there are two Grímseys: one is Iceland’s northernmost populated island that straddles the Arctic Circle, and then there’s the other Grímsey — a 10-minute boat ride from Drangsnes in Steingrímsfjörður. One is home to a handful of residents; the other is bursting with life — birdlife. Today, I’m heading to the latter (though you can read about the first one on page 12 — two birds, one stone).

Not many people know that this Grímsey even exists — and neither did I, until, while planning my trip to Strandir, I zoomed in on a small dot off the coast of Drangsnes on Google Maps and saw a tiny island. “There must be a way to get there,” I thought to myself. Just a few days later, wearing the most dorky, birdwatcher-appropriate hat — not for camouflage, but simply because it turned out to be an unexpectedly sunny day — I found myself in a small inflatable boat heading toward the island.

Counting puffins

My captain and guide today is Magnús Ásbjörnsson, a fisherman who also runs Malarhorn Guesthouse together with his wife, Eva Katrín Reynisdóttir. Magnús’s mother owns half of the island, which allows them to organise guided tours there from mid-June to mid-August.

The tours to Grímsey are timed around the life cycles of the birds, and, of course, highly weather-dependent. They don’t begin until June 15 because of the nesting season. In July, humpback whales arrive in the area, so a bit of impromptu whale watching might be on the cards. And if you’re into fishing, that can be arranged too.

Usually, the tours are conducted on a converted fishing boat, Sundhani, but I’m lucky to get a more intimate experience — skimming across the water in a small unstable Zodiac. I grip the safety ropes as salty water splashes into my face, patiently waiting to step on land.

“Not many people know that this Grímsey even exists.”

We pull up to the rocky shore, thick with seaweed. Magnús points to a big rock, signalling that I have to get out. “Hold this,” he says, tossing me a rope. I position myself on a slippery rock, juggling the rope, my phone, and a pair of binoculars. Without a second thought, he jumps into the water to bring the boat closer, his thick rubber fisherman’s overalls keeping him dry.

The island feels far from people, yet Drangsnes is so close I could almost reach out and touch it. The view is absurd — a snowy mountain range in the background, the stillness of the sea shining in the sun, and a lush green oasis bustling with flowers and birds. Just as I step onto the island, a bunch of goofy puffins pop out from their burrows on a nearby cliff, while others clumsily flap their little wings on their way to the sea.

I’ve seen puffins countless times before, but never like this — never at work, never at lunch — beating their wings as fast as they can to snatch food for their kids or lifelong partners.

“They arrive here around the first of April,” Magnús tells me. “They used to come around April 15 many years ago, but now they’re coming sooner — maybe because it’s warmer.”

There are about 60,000 puffin couples on the island. “And maybe the same number of young birds. So it’s around 200,000 puffins in total,” he says, adding that scientists from the Westman Islands did the counting.

In addition to puffins, about 10 to 15 other bird species nest on Grímsey — the ones I can identify being eider ducks (quite chunky; they’re actually the largest duck species), razorbills (in my opinion, fancy-dressed puffins), cormorants (their scary guttural croak will stay with you for a while), and fulmars (I’m told they can puke as a self-defence). Seals are also frequent visitors to the shore, putting on a show for the birds as they sunbathe on the rocks.

A cabin for the marooned and a duckling left behind

Magnús’s uncle built a small cabin on the island — outside, it looks like something straight out of a popular Tiny House coffee table book, inside it’s very modest — with a few beds, a tiny generator and mismatched coffee cups. “He built this so we could stay on the island when we’re picking eiderdown,” Magnús says. These days, the family don’t usually stay there — at best, they pop in for a cup of coffee. “But people can stay here if the boat floats away,” he says mysteriously, and I wonder if that has actually ever happened.

We slowly walk along the shore, stopping to look at eider duck nests. During nesting season, these ducks pluck their undercoat to line the nests and keep the eggs warm. The eiderdown is known for its insulating properties and is used to make duvets, among other things. Magnús and the other island owners take turns each year collecting the down. From the entire island, you can gather between three and 10 kilos of down.

The island is just one kilometre wide, with a photogenic orange lighthouse in the middle. There’s a path along the shore on one side, but you can’t walk the full circle — on the other side, high cliffs make some parts accessible only by boat.

We stop when a curious sight catches our attention — a mother eider duck with three barely walking newborn chicks is wading into the sea. One of the chicks is the slowest, just struggling along. The mom doesn’t pay any attention to it, staying with the ones who just learned to swim moments ago. I watch the scene with both fascination and sadness, as this is the harsh rule of nature — only the strongest survive.

While the mother duck disappears from sight and the struggling chick is still splashing near the shore, another eider duck comes to the rescue. The slow baby will be fine.

But then Magnús notices that the mother duck has abandoned an egg in her nest. “They never come back,” he tells me, thoughtfully considering what to do. He carefully observes the egg, saying it’s probably dead — that’s likely why the mother abandoned it. He decides to take the egg home and observe it for a few days. If a chick hatches, he’ll just bring it back to the island.

Unwelcome guest

As we continue, Magnús stops to pick up a few circular-shaped objects from the ground. Years ago, a humpback whale stranded on the shore, and though it has long since rotted away, you can still occasionally find its spinal discs on the island. Magnús mentions that for some people, these make interesting souvenirs to bring home. I just hope that during the official tours — which are usually led by a dedicated guide, not Magnús — visitors are reminded that removing these bones from Iceland is actually prohibited.

“If a mink shows up around here, it means ten birds will be dead.”

We reach the opposite side of the island from where our boat docked. Below, a gang of noisy seagulls sits on rocks whitened by their own droppings. A bit behind, cormorants have nested on the cliff, their long necks and loud creaks making them look like tiny dragons.

“Mink!” screams Magnús. “Did you see it?”

Not at first, but then I spot it — not just any mink, but a large one: a tiny brown head with a surprisingly long frame. Minks are the biggest threat to the wildlife on this paradise island.

“If a mink shows up around here, it means ten birds will be dead,” Magnús says, adding that the minks swim over from the mainland.

“Too bad I don’t have a gun with me,” he says. “Should I kill it with my hands?”

His words make me a bit nervous, but he adds, “I’ve done this before.”

Luckily for the birds — who might have become mink prey — and for me, who wasn’t eager to watch Magnús fight a wild animal barehanded, the mink disappears within minutes, and we don’t see it again.

We settle onto the grass, gazing at the horizon and listening to the waves mixed with a cacophony of birds. “It’s so nice to be here,” says Magnús. “Quiet. Except for the birds.”

This is the fourth and last piece in our series of articles from a recent trip to Strandir. Thanks to Malarhorn Guesthouse for the tour and Go Car Rental for the wheels. Visit malarhornguesthouse.is for details on tours to Grímsey and book your car at gocarrental.is.