That tourism has changed Icelandic culture is a truism — but it’s harder to say how. It’s subtle. You might notice it in the quality of an interaction, the weight of a glance, or the vibe in a room. Sometimes, you’ll feel like one of tens of thousands of faceless tourists crossing a spot, or occupying a chair — just another raincoat checking in, or receiving yet another explanation of the arctic char special, or the “shower first” pool rules.  

Other times, you’re made to feel like a person. It’s a core facet of why I moved to Iceland in the first place. With comparatively fewer people, each one has more space to exist, and more bandwidth to remember — and care about — others. Things people do and say carry weight, instead of being washed away instantly by the mass of jostling humanity. Maybe it’s leftovers of pre-urban community, or island codependency, or even inbuilt neolithic tribalism. Whatever. It’s comforting, and it feels good.   

Much of the south coast is long gone, in this sense. But stepping into the town pool of Vestmannaeyjabær on Heimaey — the main island of the Westman archipelago — is like rolling back the clock. The pool guard glances up with a welcoming smile, slightly surprised to see a face they don’t recognise. In the corridor, people pass with rows of carefree kids trailing behind them like ducklings, nodding to each other — even the ones they don’t know. In the hot pot, bathers smile warmly at newcomers. The little things add up, like a subtle tendril of wholesome care that extends between people, connecting them somehow. It’s a vibe, and like stepping back into pre-mass-tourism Iceland. 

Wayward balls & chirpy ‘murcans 

It’s interesting how Vestmannaeyjar can bear the brunt of tourism with such grace. Maybe it’s that island communities are tight-knit and cooperative by nature. Or that Vestmannaeyjar has a capacity that can’t be breached — there’s only a certain amount of rooms, ferry space, and campsite plots. Or maybe it’s that the majority of the tourist tidal wave washes past to Vík, so the overall intensity is lower. 

That said, over the weekend we’re there, a cruise ship comes to town, causing some funny scenes. One blazing, sunny morning, I emerged from our camper van to see a pristine golf ball sitting at my feet. Glancing to the right, I realised every single hole of the town golf course is awash with people — an improbable conflagration of visiting golfers skewing balls off into the sharp coastal winds.

Later in the day, when we walked up the Eldfell volcano, the hike was clearly an item on the day’s cruise ship menu. Scores of mega-polite elderly Americans in fluorescent outerwear dot the path up and down, issuing a chorus of chirpy “hey there!” and “afternoon!” as they pass.  

Halfway up the trail, we hang out for five minutes as the cruise ship folks take their selfies, so we’ll have the mountaintop to ourselves. It’s worth the wait. To the north, the coast of Iceland rears up from the sea, the white glaciers gathering glowering clouds around their peaks in an otherwise blue sky. At our feet lies the black lava field that almost enveloped the town in the famous ‘73 eruption. The line where the flow was halted is still clearly visible. The town of Vestmannaeyjabær looks tiny by comparison, nestled between the lava, the sea, and those dramatic harbour cliffs with their swooping, screeching sea birds. The top of Eldfell is a phenomenal reward for a hike that’s really more of an uphill stroll.  

Pirouetting whale 

The town itself has lots going on. There’s a football ground, a museum dedicated to the eruption, and The Brothers Brewery — one of the best bars in Iceland — serving skyr beer, pale ale, sour ale, stout, and pilsner, all brewed on the island. They pour a decent Guinness, too, because apparently everyone in the world suddenly wants to try and split the G. When did that happen?  

There’s also the beluga sanctuary, made famous internationally by news coverage of the two whales’ journey. We approach the large harbourside building expecting to book a boat tour of the sanctuary’s waters out in the bay — but to my amazement, the receptionist says the whales are actually in the building, as the weather has been bad. We step through the doors and within minutes come face to face with Little Grey and Little White, doing laps of their huge tank and pirouetting playfully through the water. When Little White faceplants onto the glass for a few seconds to regard our gawking faces, my heart skips a beat — it feels like an alien encounter. 

Fine-dining-comfort-food

Vestmannaeyjar has some amazing dining options. For a quick lunch, Kráin does a bangin’ basic fish n chips — the guy gives us a free cup of mushroom soup while we wait, with a smile. For a fancy meal, there’s Næs, a crisp bistro with a cosmopolitan vibe, warm service, and a concise menu. The local-where-possible ingredients are served with an Italian twist, like the noteworthy halibut crudo, or pan-fried wolffish with a tart green apple garnish. I remark on everything’s freshness. “I’ve worked in many restaurants in Iceland,” says our server. “The fish is usually frozen. But not here.” 

Næs is the younger sibling restaurant of the legendary Slippurinn, now in its final season. It’s a true pleasure to try their seasonal nine-course tasting menu one last time. Designed by local boy turned chef genius Gísli Matt, every dish is a treat to be savoured, from the classic blue guillemot shell holding delicate egg yolk custard, to the seaweed crackers in a briny kelp broth. The main course is a thyme-infused lamb prime with crunchy nuts, earthy celeriac, and a bit of Gísli’s trademark fine-dining-comfort-food flair — a pool of delicious cheese sauce. I look downcast afterwards, and the waiter asks if it was okay. “Too good,” I reply. “I’m just sad that I might never taste lamb that good again.”  

It’s a genuine restaurant, with a rare, heartfelt menu that shines with Gisli’s passion for the Westman Islands, and the spirit that makes them special. It’s a taste of the old Iceland. 

Camper van provided by Go Campers. Check them out here.