It’s a quick-weather place. Clouds roll over the Snæfellsnes Peninsula like passing cars. Mists arrive and depart with every gust of wind. A day can begin rainy, turn to sun before noon, then plunge into vagueness and fog. Lighthouses are small comfort on a drizzly night, but we were ashore, not out on the deep.
Above the cliffs of Súgandisey island, on the outer edge of Stykkishólmur harbor, a lonely light blinks through the evenings.
There are at least seven lighthouses on the Snæfellsnes Peninsula, a long, westward tongue of land jutting fifty-five miles into the sea. There may be more that we couldn’t see from the safety of land, or that weren’t marked on our road charts. This one, at Malarrif, looked something like a spaceship. Just down the shore from it, twin lava towers jut into the sky – the locals call the pair Lóndrangar, and believe them to be a fairy church.
There is an un-translateable poem - titled “Stökur“ - in brass plate pinned to one side, written by Jón Jónsson.