You know how when you think of Iceland, a lot of images come to mind—maybe those dramatic waterfalls, black sand beaches, and the huge glaciers that everyone seems to photograph. But there’s a whole part of the country that remains kind of under the radar, and that’s the northern fjords. I’m talking about these dramatic inlets carved out by ancient glaciers, the steep cliffs dropping right into the ocean, small villages that feel like they’re at the edge of the world. It’s not the easiest place to get to, and the weather can throw you some real curveballs, but if you ever venture up there, it’ll leave a mark on you.

I remember driving along the coastal roads in the north, and it’s different from the rest of Iceland. You sense a kind of quiet that’s more intense, maybe because the communities are smaller and the land feels more remote. You’ll be driving, and suddenly you come around a bend, and there’s a stunning fjord opening up before you. The water’s often calm, reflecting the sky and the rocky cliffs like a giant mirror. In some places, you’ll see tiny fishing towns huddled along the shoreline, colorful roofs standing out against the gray and green landscape. It’s the kind of scene that makes you slow down without even thinking about it, because you don’t want to miss any detail.

What really struck me was that the pace of life there seems different. There’s a sense that people still rely on the rhythm of the seasons, on the movements of the fish in the ocean, on the weather patterns that can shift quickly. In one village—I can’t remember the name, it was that small—I stopped at a local café. I ended up chatting a bit with the person behind the counter, who was telling me about the fishing boats going out early in the morning and how the entire place pretty much runs on the success of the daily catch. You don’t get that kind of intimate look at a community if you stick to the main tourist routes.

Now, the landscape itself is surprisingly varied. Some fjords are deep and narrow, with high walls that seem to climb straight to the sky. Others open up more gently, with farmland near the coast and a few scattered sheep. The roads that wind between these fjords aren’t always smooth, and you have to be patient if you’re driving. Sometimes you have to pull over to let a local truck pass, or you find yourself caught behind a tractor because, hey, that’s just how things go up there. But I’ve always thought that kind of travel, where you’re forced to slow down, ends up being more rewarding. You notice more: the patterns of moss on a hillside, the shape of a lone birch tree clinging to a rocky slope, or the distant call of seabirds circling overhead.

If you’re the kind of person who wants something more than just stopping at the famous sights, these fjords offer a sense of exploration that feels personal. There’s no big sign telling you exactly where to go or what to see. Maybe you read a bit beforehand, you see a mention of a viewpoint at the end of a gravel road, and you decide to check it out. You might climb a small hill and then be confronted with this sweeping panorama of inlets and peaks, the ocean stretching out into the Arctic waters. It’s the kind of reward you get for putting in the effort, for going a bit off the beaten track.

People often ask if it’s worth going so far off the main route, and I always say absolutely, as long as you understand that it’s not about ticking off a checklist of famous spots. It’s about experiencing a place where nature still has a real say in how people live and where you can sense that quiet tension between the land and the sea. Take some extra time, bring clothing for all kinds of weather, because you never know what the sky will decide to throw at you up there. But when you see those fjords in the evening light, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows across the water, you’ll know why you made the effort.

I think what really stays with you after leaving the northern fjords is the feeling that you got to glimpse a piece of Iceland that doesn’t present itself easily. The dramatic landscape, the tight-knit communities, the interplay between ocean and land—it all feels very honest and real. It’s not packaged and polished. It’s something you connect with on a more elemental level. And that’s rare, you know? In a time when so much of the world feels mapped out and conveniently packaged, finding a place that still feels undiscovered, even if just to you, is something special. And that’s exactly what the northern fjords are: a reminder that there are still places quietly waiting for those willing to journey further and linger longer.