The Irish Connection in Iceland
Located off the south coast of Iceland is an archipelago of islands known as the Westman Islands. The largest, Heimaey, I was fortunate enough to spend several days on this September. I was one of a trio of chefs invited to cook at the island’s annual Matey seafood festival. The experience was an extraordinary opportunity to delve into a community that, through the ages, has formed a deep connection with the ocean. So profoundly evocative was this trip that it caused me to take note of my own culture and its practices. This article dives into these findings, unearthing the profound ties that Iceland shares with Ireland, along with the obvious differences.
I boarded Icelandair and was welcomed by difference number one: drinks were on the house. Sitting somewhere between a low-cost and more traditional airline (comparatively and accumulatively), the calming marine palette, addition of personal TVs, and slightly extra leg room, set a precedence for the level of hospitality and attention that Iceland places on tourism. It’s no coincidence that overseas, Iceland is recognised as a marketing powerhouse for tourism. ‘Visit Iceland’ considers a trip to the nation so otherworldly that it’s on par (and far more convenient) with a mission to outer space.
It’s commonly understood that when the Vikings settled in Ireland from 795 AD, they enslaved large Irish populations and people from the British Isles. However, what is less commonly known is that the ‘Westman’ Islands are named so because of the slaves captured and brought to the island. It’s speculated that before Iceland’s inhabitation by Norsemen, Irish monks known as paper had discovered the island in the 8th century. Over time, the Irish imparted their customs and culture to a nation that subsequently adopted them. Consequently, not only on the island but also on the mainland, many Icelandics celebrate an affiliation and connection with their Western ancestors — a connection that is relatively unspoken about in conversation, at least in Celtic regions, but is seen in Icelandic place names, mountains, mythology, poetry and their gene pool. deCODE, a genetics company in Reykjavik, revealed about 20% of males and 63% of females have Irish ancestry. Many of the women are assumed to have come from enslaved settlements. While our connection with America is celebrated, we seem to have no awareness of a nation that lovingly watches down on us from up north. So strong is this connection, that in so many of the conversations I shared with locals who dined in Restaurant Slippurinn (where I was cooking), there was an unmistakable dissociation with pantheistic Vikings and a clear sentiment of appraisal for Celtic culture.
Baby Puffin = Puffling
Spending several nights, 70 km off the coast of Iceland, was not as unfamiliar an experience as you might think. In actual fact, it drew many a comparison to the islands located off the Irish west coast: choppy waters, treacherous cliffs, lush with familiar Atlantic seaweeds such as bladderwrack, channel wrack and dulse. On land, the terrain was rugged and windswept with wild, hardy vegetation, shrubs and the odd scraggly rowan or elder tree. As their roots clutched to the volcanic soil for dear life, their branches dramatically combed over to one side, no real match for these harsh gusts that inarguably pronounced Heimaey the windiest island in the world! The puffins didn’t mind though, of which there were many! Another connection to Ireland’s west coast, puffins are a highly marine species of pelagic birds (Auk) that come to land only during the breeding season. They are monogamous species (like ‘most’ humans) returning to the same nest each year, whether that is in Ireland or Iceland.
We were fortunate enough to be on the island during the end of the breeding season. Many of the puffins had already taken their annual flight, but the pufflings were still doing their best to make it out to sea, often becoming disoriented by the bright lights of the town. Consequently, a tradition during this season is to catch the disorientated pufflings throughout the town and release them out to sea, where they will spend the year before returning. It was a surreal practice we felt privileged to be indoctrinated into, and an activity the entire community takes part in, including children, who spend their nights cruising the town on electric scooters in search of a furry friend to hurl lovingly out to sea.
A sleeping beast
I felt far more adept and familiar with the landscape than my fellow Italian comrade, who looked perpetually perished. Although our experiences drew many comparisons to my home country, what was significantly different to Ireland was the looming volcanoes and their dark black, hardened lava that built the very ground we stood on, along with the 17 islands within this archipelago. Eldfell erupted in 1973, devastating half of the village and expanding the island’s landmass by over 1/3. It forced the entire island to evacuate in the night, escaping the toxic fumes emitting from the mountain core. Despite the U.S. Navy’s success in ceasing the flow and preserving the town’s port, the agricultural land and farms that existed became swallowed up by lava and many houses today remain hidden beneath. There is an unmistakable feeling of respect felt towards the volcano. It’s hard not to feel pure and utter awe towards such a sleeping beast.
Icelandic bacalao
So harsh are the elements in these parts, it’s a wonder how people survived both here and on our islands through the ages — that is before the arrival of electricity and running water. Gísli Matthías Auðunsson, the chef and founder of Slippurinn and Matey festival, informed me that his grandmother recalled a time when collected rainwater was the only potable source on the island. For centuries, Heimaey was a poor fishing town. The island depended on fish as a food source and an entire community relied on fishing as an economy. Little has changed on that end. But over the last couple of decades, like much of the Irish coastal towns, the port of Heimaey has evolved into an influential fishing port and provider of seafood internationally. It might surprise you to hear that the croquettes you fill your plate with in Barcelona are made with fish from this port. The authentic salted bacalao you eat with olive oil, garlic and garbanzos in Lisbon, is fished and salted here in the waters of Heimaey. Subsequently, the formerly poor community is now thriving. There are restaurants, local breweries, hair salons and stylish clothing shops to entertain the resurging 4000+ population. Although the frugal days of Heimaey may be behind the islanders, they continue to work hard as a community, respecting the land and valuing what it is that defines them. Generally speaking, I often wonder what it is that brings people back to their place of birth. So often it’s the unbreakable bond between a community, a love affair with the land, and a duty to make life in a place we feel connected to, regardless of the challenges. Slippurin acts as a catalyst for this mentality, highlighting naturalism and culinary self-reliance. Gisli and the restaurant place maximum respect on wild offerings found throughout the island. Arctic thyme, sorrel, angelica, oyster leaf, hyssop, berries, and seaweeds feature heavily on the menu, paired with a whole variety of local fish, lamb and wild birds. Located in an old shipping yard, the restaurant feels abstemious, and somewhat industrial, but well-oiled and fully connected to place.