I almost skipped the Westfjords. It felt too remote, too slow, too far off the route. But something insisted that I go—and I’m glad I listened.

Driving through this forgotten corner of Iceland felt like slipping into a dream. The roads were quiet and endless, curling around steep fjords that dropped straight into the sea. The land felt untouched, raw, almost primordial—like witnessing the Earth in its earliest form, before it learned to soften itself.

Time moved differently here. There was no urgency, no sense of arrival. Just vast mountains, shifting weather, and long stretches of silence broken only by wind and waves. At times, it felt unreal, as if I wasn’t traveling through a place but through a memory or a vision.

The Westfjords didn’t try to impress. They simply existed—wild, patient, and deeply grounding.
Wild Westfjords is a reflection of that stillness, of roads that lead nowhere and everywhere at once, and of a place that quietly asks you to slow down and stay present.