Siglufjörður lies deep in a narrow fjord, close to the Arctic Circle, surrounded by steep mountains. For centuries, life here depended on the sea. Cod, halibut, and herring shaped everything.
My grandmother, Pálína, was born here. Her father was Danish and well-off, but her own life was very different. She struggled with poverty, raised a large family, and was constantly pregnant.
She gave birth to 14 children before turning 40. Later, when I was growing up in Keflavík, I knew her well. Despite her hardships, she was one of the most remarkable people I have ever met.
My grandfather, Einar, came from Norway around 1918. He settled in Siglufjörður with her. Together they raised their children in the middle of the herring boom.
In the 1930s and 1940s, Siglufjörður was like Iceland’s Klondike. Factories lined the fjord, ships filled the harbor, and workers came by the thousands. My father grew up in the middle of that world.
The herring brought wealth but also left scars. When the stock collapsed in the late 1960s, the town faced decline. Many families moved away, and Siglufjörður had to find new ways to survive.
Today, the town is connected by two tunnels and feels far less isolated. Tourism, culture, and festivals have given it new life. The Folk Music Festival each summer is one of the highlights.
Above: The house my grandfather Andreas Christian Sæby built in 1886 and whrer my grandmothe was raised.
For me, Siglufjörður is not just another fishing town. It is the place where my grandmother endured, where my grandfather built a home, and where my father grew up in a world that no longer exists.
This fjord holds both the hardship and the beauty of their lives. It is written into who I am.
The Herring Era Museum tells the story of the boom years. Whenever I visit, I think of my grandparents. The tools, the boats, the smell of salted fish — it all feels like family history.
