The norther we go, the desolater it gets

After bidding goodbye to our new friends in Isafjorder, we drove east along the serene fjords, up and over a mountain, hit water again, then drove north about 60 miles on a gravel road under skyscraper-high cliffs -- until there was no more road.

And there on what seemed to be the Edge of Nowhere, was what is reputed to be one of the most desolate hot pots in all of Iceland.

It's near the village of Krossnes on the Strandir Coast. We drove there under the midnight sun and basked in the tub and pool -- all alone -- for more than an hour. Our hostess at the Hotel Djupavik was worried about us when we didn't return by 11 p.m., but then was relieved to see the headlights of our returning car on the far shore of the fjord and went to bed.

Waterfalls never get old.

On the road to Krossnes.

See where the road ends just beyond the hot pot on the Edge of Nowhere?
Beyond it is miles and miles of wilderness.

 

The next morning, we were given a tour of the abandoned herring factory at Djupavik.

 Told you already: Waterfalls never get old.

During our tour of the factory, we were told we'd hear the story of the rusting old ship. 

But we never did.