Two days, two very different faces of Iceland’s west coast — one spent pedaling through a fjord-side valley in the far Northwest, the other tracing a peninsula that somehow packs holy mountains, trolls-turned-stone, and black-pebble beaches into a single afternoon.

Pedaling the Westfjords: An E-Bike Adventure in Ísafjörður
Monday, August 3, 2026

Some ports invite you to walk them slowly. Ísafjörður invited us to pedal. By 10:00 AM we were clipped in, helmets snug, ready to let the little motors do the heavy lifting up whatever hills the Westfjords had in store. The weather could not have cooperated more — bright sun, no wind to fight, not a bit too hot or too cold. As close to a perfect riding day as Iceland could offer.

Into Green Valleys and Up to Bunárfoss
The town of Ísafjörður sits on a slender spit of sand where the fjord Skutulsfjörður opens into the great Ísafjarðardjúp, and just beyond it the land folds into two quiet valleys. We rolled into the greener of the two, following a stream uphill toward Bunárfoss, a modest but lovely waterfall tumbling down the hillside. It wasn’t a thunderous, postcard cascade — more the kind of waterfall that rewards you for slowing down and listening to it.

The valley floor was scattered with wildflowers, and Nana couldn’t resist counting — by the end of the ride she’d spotted twenty-five different varieties along the trail. Leave it to her to turn a bike tour into a botany lesson. Nana made me create a pdf that detailed all of her wildflowers and she wanted to send it to our guide for the next inquisitive biker.

The Long View from Óshlíð
From the valley we climbed toward the old Óshlíð road, and the fjord opened up beneath us — layers of blue water and grey-green mountains stretching out into Ísafjarðardjúp, the Westfjords folding into the distance like something out of a saga. We stopped there a long while, just taking it in.

Stories Along the Way
Our guide rode with us the whole way, weaving in bits of local life and history at every stop — what it’s like to grow up in a town this remote, how the fjords shape daily life here, and the kind of dramatic landscape that makes Icelanders who they are. It turned a bike ride into something closer to a conversation with the place itself.

A Town Built to Withstand the Mountains
Riding back through town, we noticed how much of Ísafjörður’s landscape has been reshaped for protection — earthen barriers and dams cut into the hillsides above the houses, built to catch both snow avalanches and rockslides before they reach the streets below. It’s a quiet reminder that living tucked beneath these dramatic peaks comes with real risk, and that the town has had to engineer its way toward safety without losing any of its beauty. By the time we coasted back down to the harbor, legs pleasantly tired and cheeks pink from the wind, Ísafjörður had earned a permanent spot in the “we’d come back” column. Then our tender back to our ship.

Best of the Snæfellsnes Peninsula
Tuesday, August 4, 2026

Some places wow you all at once, with one grand view that takes your breath away. Snæfellsnes wasn’t like that. It won us over slowly, mile by mile, with fields of grazing sheep, not a tree in sight, and lava fields so old they’ve gone soft and green with moss. “It reminds me of Ireland,” Nana said more than once as we wound our way along the peninsula — and by the end of the day, in a funny little way, Iceland would prove her right.

Climbing the Holy Mountain
Our morning began with a scenic drive to Helgafell, a rocky little mound rising just 240 feet above the surrounding farmland, with a parsonage from 1904 resting quietly at its base. Don’t let the modest height fool you — Icelanders have called this the “holy mountain” for over a thousand years. The first settler of the area built a temple here to Thor, the Norse god of thunder, and the mountain still turns up in the old sagas today. Legend has it that anyone who climbs to the top without looking back and without saying a word will be granted three wishes. We made the short hike up — no vow of silence for the Carneys, we’re afraid — and were rewarded at the summit with sweeping views out over the bay and the surrounding lava fields. Well worth the climb.

Down at the little church at the base, Nana slipped inside to sing and to say a prayer for all of you. And here’s the detail that made her smile when we learned it afterward: the churchyard holds the grave of a woman named Guðrún, one of the mountain’s most famous residents from the old sagas, and her grave is fenced off and turned to face the church — a custom borrowed, we’re told, from Irish tradition. Nana’s Ireland comparison, it turns out, wasn’t just a passing thought. There’s a real thread connecting this quiet Icelandic hillside back to the Emerald Isle.

On to Stykkishólmur
From Helgafell we traveled past more of that striking, treeless landscape to Stykkishólmur, the largest town on the peninsula. Its well-preserved traditional homes sit atop gently rolling hills, looking out over the water — a proper postcard of a fishing town. From here we also got our first great look at Snæfellsjökull, the glacier-capped stratovolcano that anchors the whole peninsula. Jules Verne made this mountain famous as the entrance to the underworld in Journey to the Center of the Earth — seeing it in person, capped in white and looming over the coastline, it’s easy to understand why he chose it.
We stopped for a hearty lunch at a local restaurant — soup, fresh bread, the fish of the day, and glass after glass of Iceland’s famously pure water.

Arnarstapi’s Cliffs and Blowholes
Our adventure continued to Arnarstapi, a quaint fishing hamlet that plays a starring role in several Icelandic legends. The volcanic rock formations here are dramatic, including three blowholes carved by the relentless Atlantic. We walked along the cliffs, cameras ready, watching seabirds wheel and dive below us — kittiwakes, fulmars, razorbills, and a great colony of Arctic terns that seemed to own the sky.

Lóndrangar’s Ancient Towers
We also stopped by Lóndrangar, a pair of dark basalt spires rising straight up out of the coastal grasslands. They’re volcanic plugs — the hardened remains of an ancient crater, left standing tall after the softer rock around them eroded away over thousands of years. Icelandic folklore says they were once trolls, caught out in the open by the morning sun and turned to stone. Whatever their origin, they’re a striking sight against the sea and sky.

Djúpalónssandur’s Black-Pebble Beach
Our last stop was Djúpalónssandur, once a bustling fishing village and now home to nothing but a peaceful, black-pebble beach. Four giant lifting stones still rest here, each heavier than the last — for generations, they were used to test and qualify men for work on the fishing boats. We followed the boardwalk down to a viewpoint, then wandered the shoreline where the pebbles are worn silky-smooth by the surf. Nana even stretched out for a bit of sunbathing on the black sand — Icelandic sunbathing being, admittedly, a rather relative concept. Listen closely and you’ll hear the tide murmur as it rushes back out through the stones — a soft, rolling sound that stays with you long after you’ve left.

Next stop, Greenland.