The Old Ways: A Road Trip Along The Historied Southwest Coast

When people talk about road tripping along the south coast, they’re most often referring to a certain dramatic stretch of Route One. You probably know which one. It starts at the slender torrent of Seljalandsfoss, and from there it’s a solid 300km of sea stacks, boulder-strewn mountain slopes, turf-houses built into dramatic outcrops, and the floodplains streaked with intertwining meltwater rivers. In summer, the glaciers are lit bright pink by the endless sun, and in winter the icy shoreline is lined with waterfalls that have frozen midair.

Compared to all that majesty and drama, it’s understandable that we hear less about the 100km inland drive it takes to get there. This part of Route One passes sleepy villages and horse farms with riding paths through the mossy foothills and tundra. Salmon fishing rivers wend their way towards the ocean, and a succession of discreet roads trail off temptingly towards the southern coastline.

The long spit

It’s around noon on a late summer day when we head out from Reykjavík to explore this calm and sleepy area. We turn off Route One at Hveragerði, leaving the steady flow of tourist traffic behind. The skies are blue with hardly a cloud to be seen, and it’s warm enough to roll down the windows and blast some music as we streak down Route 38 towards the coastline. The road winds through a forested area dotted with cabins before crossing some wild, wide-open flatlands, and soon after turning onto Route 34 we’re rocketing along the coastline.

“It seems like there are glittering waves crashing down around us from every direction.”

On the way towards Eyrarbakki, the road crosses an improbable spot — a long, sandy spit that forms a natural land bridge with a lagoon on one side and the roiling ocean on the other. Shrieking gulls fly alongside us, briny sea air fills the car, and it seems for a moment like there are glittering waves crashing down around us in every direction. It’s a sensorily overwhelming spot, in the best way.

It’s also the home of Hafið Bláa, a café at the apex of the land bar. It sits on a small hill marked by a giant lobster statue, and has huge windows that look out in all directions for a panoramic view of the area. There’s a bar and indoor seating under its hull-shaped roof, with a sun trap balcony looking out over the black sand beach behind. The speciality of the house is delicious local langoustine, served simple as can be with salad, buttered bread, and a wedge of lemon. It’s a perfect lunch spot enveloped by the surrounding nature.

Ancient and recent history

A short drive away lies the village of Eyrarbakki, population 604. It’s a small network of seaside streets with a long history, visible in the well-maintained old town, a local museum, and an old store called Laugabúð. Its doors were first opened in 1917 by famous shopkeeper Guðlaugur Pálssonar, who lived and worked there until he died in 1985.

“The shallows are littered with tens of tiny black islands holding a network of gleaming tide pools.”

The building has been renovated several times, and today holds photo albums, documents and memorabilia from its lengthy run as the village everything-store. Guðlaug’s records reveal countless fascinating details, including his first customer — a local priest called Rev. Gísli Skúlason, who bought a small notebook — and his first day earnings of a princely 28 krónur.

Just a few minutes down the coast is Stokkseyri, where we hop out of the car and climb up the sea wall for a look at the beach. The shallows are littered with tens of tiny black islands holding a network of gleaming tide pools. A sign tells us this is the terminus of Þjórsárhraun, Iceland’s largest lava field, which rolled here all the way from Hekla over 11.000 years ago. It took the Atlantic ocean to stop the lava’s flow.

Cream and caves

Our next stop is the Baugsstaðir Creamery. Only open in the summer months, this neat little house was built to produce butter and cheese in 1905, and still holds the original milk churns and butter moulds. The waterwheel that powered the place rumbles and grinds away on the building’s side, sending shimmering splashes high into the warm air, like a flashback to life before industrialisation.

Eventually the road hits the wide expanse of the Þjórsá river, and we turn north to reconnect with Route One. There’s time for one more stop on this potted history tour — The Caves of Hella. This mysterious series of man-made caves are located on a local farm, where they were used as storage rooms as late as the 1980s.

“Stefán joins the dots between Irish cross carvings, historic factlettes, and tall tales to weave a tempting speculative history.”

The caves are much older, dating all the way back to the Viking era. Centuries of wear and tear has left only tantalising clues as to their nature. Our guide Stefán takes pleasure in joining the dots between Irish style cross carvings, historic factlettes, and tall tales to weave a tempting speculative history. He wonders out loud if the Irish monks the first Viking settlers found here were more numerous and established than the record shows — and if this site might have been the hub of an all-but forgotten religious community that coexisted with their new Viking neighbours.

We emerge blinking into the daylight, and watch the stream of shining rental cars and buses heading towards the south coast’s natural wonders. They’re on track for some memorable sights, but they also don’t know what they’re missing.