Southwest of Iceland’s mainland, where the Atlantic collides with sheer stone outcrops, Þrídrangaviti Lighthouse rises from the summit of Stóridrangur, one of three sea stacks called Þrídrangar, meaning “three rock pillars.” At 7.2 kilometres from the Vestmannaeyjar archipelago, it has long been regarded as one of the world’s most isolated lighthouses.
The climb from folklore to functionality
The ground beneath Þrídrangaviti is unforgiving. The smooth, salt-lashed stack crowned by the lighthouse soars 36.5 metres above the turbulent sea. Construction began in 1938, spearheaded by engineer Árni G. Thorarinsson, who relied on seasoned climbers from the nearby islands, men experienced in gathering bird eggs from Iceland’s cliffs. Their knowledge of risky ascents proved essential, especially since, at the time, neither machines nor established footholds were available.
Reaching the summit required patience, ingenuity, and nerves of steel. With no access but by boat, workers would lash chains into the slick rock, forging new anchors link by link. When traditional methods failed near the cliff’s summit, the men adapted the egg-gatherers’ technique, making a living ladder, two kneeling, one climbing, so someone could finally pull himself up to the precipice.
The project was often interrupted by rough seas and unpredictable winds. Sometimes the team had only hours before weather forced their retreat. Eventually, to finish the structure, they pitched tents on the narrow ledge and stayed for weeks, exposed to the elements until the job was complete.
A beacon in isolation
The lighthouse itself, finished as the Second World War began, is a single-storey, four-metre-square concrete block, coated in white. Its red light chamber, mounted on a castle-like roof, sits 34 metres above the ocean, high enough for its white beam, flashing in the Morse code letter N every half-minute, to be seen by approaching vessels nearly 17 kilometres away.
Though the building came to life in 1939, the outbreak of war delayed its full operation. Equipment originally ordered from Denmark became unavailable, stalling the project until British supplies arrived three years later. Since then, the lighthouse has seen a number of upgrades: automated lighting after the war, a helicopter landing pad in the 1950s, and conversion to solar energy in 1993.
Interest in Þrídrangaviti spiked in the digital era. Viral images and videos revealed the lighthouse standing firm as violent surf drenched the stack far up its sides. The building’s improbable setting inspired both literature and music, including a novel by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir and a video by the Icelandic band KALEO filmed atop the helipad. In moments of global isolation during the pandemic, the lighthouse’s solitude resonated far beyond Iceland’s shores.
