Djupavik Iceland, Westfjords
Iceland

15 Cruises availables At departure or passage at this port

Atlas Ocean Voyages (6 Cruises)

Lindblad Expeditions (6 Cruises)

Silversea Cruises (3 Cruises)

At the bottom of Reykjarfjörður, on Strandir's coast, a concrete building 90 metres long stands facing the sea, backed against a mountain striped with waterfalls. No main road, no neighbouring village: Djúpavík amounts to a handful of houses, an abandoned factory and a silence only wind disturbs. Expedition ships anchor in the fjord, and zodiacs land passengers at a small dock, directly before the factory. You understand in seconds that this will not be an ordinary port-call.

The Concrete Giant of Herring

In the 1930s, Iceland lived on herring money. In 1934, investors chose this isolated fjord of the West Fjords to build what became the country's largest concrete building—and one of Europe's first fully automated fish factories. Conveyors carried herring from the dock to steam cookers, oil presses and grinders. For a few summers, hundreds of seasonal workers made this corner of the world live. Then the herring banks deserted the coast. The factory closed in 1954, barely twenty years after construction.

A Visit into the Factory's Belly

The factory was never demolished, and that is what gives the place its strength today. You traverse its immense halls with broken windows, among rusted vats, frozen machines and shafts of light. Exhibitions of contemporary art and photographs occupy parts of the spaces in summer, and guided tours recount this maritime epic with abundant detail. On the shore rests a rusted wreck, stranded there for decades, caressed by the tide twice daily. The whole composes a setting photographers linger long to leave.

The Hotel That Refused to Die

In 1984, an Icelandic couple bought the abandoned site. Unable to restart industry, they transformed the old workers' dormitory into a small warm hotel, furnished with period photographs. You stop there for a coffee, a slice of rhubarb cake or lamb soup—the only table in the fjord, and one of Iceland's most memorable precisely for that reason. Behind the buildings, a short path leads to the waterfall cascading down the wall; a few minutes' walk suffice to embrace the whole hamlet at a glance—the ruins, the wreck, the hotel and the sea, a gripping summary of a century of Icelandic history.

The Strandir coast surrounding the fjord remains one of Iceland's least populated regions: scattered farms, beaches piled with driftwood from Siberia carried by currents, and tracks that snow cuts off part of the year. Djúpavík now counts only a handful of year-round residents. This isolation, once fatal to industrial venture, paradoxically became its wealth: it now attracts travellers seeking places mass tourism cannot reach.

What This Port-Call Asks

  • Warm, waterproof clothing, even in high summer.
  • Good shoes: the grounds of the installations and the waterfall path are uneven.
  • A little slowness: the place is savoured more than visited.

The Waters Close Again

When the zodiacs regain the ship, the factory shrinks against its mountain and the hamlet returns to its immobility. Djúpavík leaves a rare impression: that of having touched the fragility of human enterprise before nature, and the tenacity of those who choose nonetheless to live there. Long after leaving the Strandir coast, you think back to that concrete giant that waits, patiently, for its next visitors.

Frequently Asked Questions

By Zodiac. Expedition ships anchor in Reykjarfjörður and the boats land passengers at a small jetty right in front of the old factory. There is no cruise berth and no main road to the hamlet.
It is the former herring factory, 90 metres long, backed against a mountain streaked with waterfalls. Built in 1934 by investors from the Westfjords, it was the largest concrete building in Iceland and one of the first fully automated fish plants in Europe.
Because the herring shoals left the coast. The plant shut in 1954, barely twenty years after it was built, following a few summers in which hundreds of seasonal workers kept this remote fjord alive.
Yes, and it is the heart of the call. You walk through vast halls with broken windows, past rusting vats, frozen machinery and shafts of light. Contemporary art and photography exhibitions occupy part of the space in summer, and guided tours tell the story of this maritime venture in detail.
Three things, all a few minutes' walk away. The rusted wreck beached on the shore for decades, which photographers find hard to leave. The path climbing to the waterfall behind the buildings, from which the whole hamlet comes into view. And the hotel, for a coffee.
Yes, exactly one: the hotel set up in the former women workers' dormitory. An Icelandic couple bought the abandoned site in 1984 and turned it into a small hotel furnished with period photographs. Stop for a coffee, a slice of rhubarb cake or lamb soup. It is the only table in the fjord.
A handful. Djúpavík amounts to a few houses, an abandoned factory and a silence broken only by the wind. The surrounding Strandir coast is among the least populated regions of Iceland: scattered farms, beaches piled with driftwood carried from Siberia, and tracks that snow closes for part of the year.
Warm and waterproof clothing, even in high summer. Sturdy shoes matter: the ground around the plant and the waterfall path are uneven. Bring a little patience too — this is a place to absorb rather than tick off.
Only moderately. A derelict factory full of rusting machinery fascinates some young visitors and leaves others cold, and the site requires staying with the group: uneven floors, broken glass, old structures. There is no beach, no shop and nothing designed for them.
A sense of how fragile human ventures are against nature, and how stubborn those who still choose to live here can be. The isolation that killed the industrial project is now the place's value: it draws travellers looking for somewhere mass tourism cannot reach.