On the eastern edge of Iceland’s Westfjords, a narrow inhabited coast runs between steep mountains and the cold waters of Húnaflói. This is Strandir: a region of isolated farms, driftwood beaches, sudden fog, abandoned settlements and roads that eventually surrender to wilderness.

It is also known as Iceland’s land of sorcerers.

The reputation is not simply a modern tourism slogan. A powerful sorcerer from Njáls saga lived at Svanshóll. The seventeenth-century scholar Jón lærði Guðmundsson was born in Ófeigsfjörður and became famous for healing knowledge, magical poetry and the ability—according to tradition—to drive away ghosts. Three men were burned for sorcery in Trékyllisvík in 1654, helping to ignite Iceland’s most intense period of witch persecution.

Around these historical figures grew stories of seal-headed revenants, trolls caught by the sun, hidden people, milk-stealing creatures and dangerous places marked by old events. In the year 2000, local residents opened the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft in Hólmavík, transforming painful regional history and living folklore into one of Iceland’s most unusual cultural projects.

Yet Strandir was never a secret province populated entirely by witches. Its magical identity was created by several different layers: medieval literature, court records, handwritten magic, oral storytelling, landscape and deliberate modern preservation.

To understand magic in Strandir, we have to let those layers remain distinct—and then see how powerfully they speak to one another.

Where Is Strandir?

Strandir is the traditional name for the eastern coastal region of the Westfjords in north-west Iceland. The word is the plural of strönd, meaning coast or shore.

Hólmavík, beside Steingrímsfjörður, is the region’s largest town and its main service centre. From there, roads continue north through small settlements and fjords towards Drangsnes, Bjarnarfjörður, Djúpavík, Norðurfjörður and the sparsely populated district of Árneshreppur.

The landscape has shaped both daily life and storytelling. Mountains divide one fjord from the next. Winter weather can close roads. Farms are separated by long distances, and the sea was historically both a source of food and a constant threat. Driftwood arriving from distant shores was valuable construction material in a country with little timber.

Visit Westfjords describes Hólmavík as the practical base for exploring Strandir and connects the region’s preserved stories of ghosts, strange beings and everyday witchcraft with its long isolation.

Isolation alone does not create magic. It can, however, help local stories remain attached to exact farms, stones, bays and mountain passes long after similar traditions have faded elsewhere.

Magic in Strandir at a Glance

Why Did Strandir Become Associated with Sorcery?

No single event created the reputation. Five strands became woven together.

A sorcerer in the sagas

The medieval Njáls saga places Svanur, a man described as a formidable sorcerer, at Svanshóll in Bjarnarfjörður. His story connected the landscape of Strandir with magic centuries before the witch trials.

Jón lærði Guðmundsson

Born in Ófeigsfjörður in 1574, Jón lærði became one of Iceland’s most fascinating early modern intellectuals. His work stood at the unstable boundary between natural knowledge, healing, poetry, religious belief and forbidden magic.

The Trékyllisvík burnings

The execution of three men in 1654 gave Strandir a direct and tragic place in Iceland’s witch-hunt history. These were not harmless folktales but real deaths produced by fear, community conflict and law.

Place-based folklore

Stories in Strandir remain anchored to visible locations: the rock associated with Selkolla, the petrified trollwoman at Drangsnes, Svanur’s farm, the enchanted landscape of Goðdalur and Kistan, the coastal crevice associated with the executions.

Modern cultural preservation

The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft did not invent these traditions. It selected, researched and presented them, making Hólmavík internationally known for Icelandic magic. That modern work has strengthened the association between Strandir and sorcery.

The result is not one continuous “witch tradition.” It is an accumulation of literature, history, memory and cultural storytelling.

Svanur of Svanshóll: The Saga Sorcerer

Long before the seventeenth-century trials, Strandir already had a magical figure in Icelandic literature.

Svanur of Svanshóll appears in Njáls saga, composed in the thirteenth century but set mainly around the turn of the eleventh. He is related to Hallgerður, one of the saga’s central characters, and is described as a powerful, difficult man with magical ability.

In the best-known episode, a hunted man reaches Svanshóll seeking protection. Svanur goes outside, places a goatskin over his head and speaks an incantation. Fog and darkness descend over the fjord. The pursuers lose their way and repeatedly find themselves returning to the same place until they abandon the search.

The tale turns a common Strandir experience—fog swallowing the mountains and confusing the shape of the coast—into supernatural defence. Landscape and magic become inseparable.

This does not prove that an historical Svanur performed weather magic. The sagas are literary works written generations after the period they describe. They preserve social memory and storytelling, not courtroom testimony.

What the story proves is that medieval Icelanders could imagine Svanshóll itself as the home of a famous sorcerer. The place remains beside the site of the modern Sorcerer’s Cottage in Bjarnarfjörður.

Jón lærði Guðmundsson: Scholar, Healer and Accused Sorcerer

If Svanur belongs partly to saga legend, Jón lærði Guðmundsson belongs securely to documented history.

Jón was born in Ófeigsfjörður in Strandir in 1574. The name Jón lærði means Jón the Learned, although he did not receive a conventional university education. He taught himself through books, observation, copying and practical work.

He was a scribe, poet, painter, craftsman and student of Icelandic nature. He took a particular interest in plants and their medicinal uses. Vísindavefurinn’s biography, written by folklorist Ólína Þorvarðardóttir, explains that healing performed by an uneducated layperson could easily be treated as defensive magic in seventeenth-century Iceland.

Jón also studied runes and old writings and accepted the existence of spirits and hidden beings. People sought his help not only for craftwork and repairs but, according to surviving tradition, for disturbances attributed to ghosts.

His most famous magical reputation came from poems used to confront hauntings at Snæfjallaströnd. The surviving works include Fjandafæla and Snjáfjallavísur. Their power came through language: Christian commands, poetic force and inherited ideas about words capable of binding or driving away dangerous beings.

Jón’s world does not divide cleanly into scientist on one side and sorcerer on the other. Observation, medicine, theology, old learning and magic overlapped. That ambiguity made his knowledge valuable to neighbours—and dangerous when authorities chose to interpret it as unlawful.

In 1631 he was sentenced to exile under the Danish crown’s anti-sorcery legislation. He later travelled to Copenhagen and was questioned by a university council headed by the famous scholar Ole Worm. No new guilt was found there, but his Icelandic exile remained in force, and he spent his later life in the east of the country.

Jón survived the age that killed many accused men after him. His writings also survived, allowing us to see a human being far more complicated than the label “wizard of Strandir.”

The Disturbances at Trékyllisvík

The darkest source of Strandir’s magical reputation began in Trékyllisvík, in the remote northern district of Árneshreppur.

Icelandic annals report that disturbances began in the autumn of 1652. During church services at Árnes, people—especially young women—experienced violent and frightening symptoms. Accounts describe a spirit or ghost entering their throats, producing uncontrollable belching, swelling, fainting, foaming and cries. Several sufferers sometimes had to be carried from the church.

The people experiencing these attacks were not pretending merely because the supernatural explanation was wrong. Physical symptoms can be real while their cause is misunderstood. Historians have variously discussed fear, social contagion and collective psychological distress, but the surviving records do not allow a modern diagnosis.

The community interpreted the events through its available religious and magical framework. A harmful spirit required a human source.

Suspicion fell on Þórður Guðbrandsson, a farmer at Munaðarnes. A young woman who had worked in his household reportedly became ill when removed from the farm and recovered when she returned. Her relatives and neighbours began to believe that Þórður controlled her through sorcery.

He initially denied the accusations. Under repeated legal pressure and after imprisonment, he confessed that he had encountered the Devil in the form of a fox and sent it to Trékyllisvík.

During the proceedings, two more men were drawn into the accusations:

• Egill Bjarnason, accused of killing sheep through magic and entering a pact with the Devil
• Grímur Jónsson, accused of knowing magical characters and using one to kill a sheep

All three men were condemned and burned in 1654.

Kistan: The Execution Site

Local tradition identifies Kistan, meaning “the Chest,” as the place where the three men died. It is a distinctive coastal cleft between the farms Litla-Ávík and Finnbogastaðir in Trékyllisvík.

The Museum of Sorcery’s guide to historical and folkloric places in Strandir connects Kistan directly with the 1654 executions.

It is tempting to treat such a site as a dramatic dark-tourism attraction. It is better understood as a place of death and community trauma. The accused were real people, not characters created to decorate a spooky landscape.

Visitors should approach the area quietly, respect farms and private land, follow local guidance and avoid removing stones or leaving ritual objects. Remembrance does not require turning an execution site into a stage.

Did the Icelandic Witch Craze Begin in Strandir?

The answer depends on what we mean by “begin.”

Jón Rögnvaldsson had already been burned for alleged sorcery in north Iceland in 1625. His execution was unusual and remained isolated for nearly three decades.

The Trékyllisvík burnings were different. Three men died together, and the cases were followed by a wider wave of trials and executions. Historian Már Jónsson therefore argues that the sustained Icelandic witch craze is best dated from the three executions in Strandir in 1654.

Between 1625 and 1683, twenty-one Icelanders were burned for magic, according to the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft. All but one were men. Court records preserve around 130 cases involving approximately 170 accused people, only about ten per cent of whom were women.

This pattern differed sharply from most European witch hunts, where women formed the majority of defendants and victims. In Iceland, written magical knowledge, runes and grimoires were strongly coded as male practices. Men were also more likely to be accused of causing illness, harming livestock or possessing forbidden signs.

The ideas behind the persecutions were not created in Strandir. Educated Icelandic officials and clergy imported demonological and legal ideas from Denmark and northern Europe. The Museum’s historical overview notes that about a third of Icelandic charges concerned illness in people or animals and another third concerned grimoires or pages bearing magical staves. Satanism was far less central in the actual accusations than sensational retellings suggest.

Strandir became the ignition point where European witch-hunt ideology met local illness, rumour and conflict.

Why Did the Accusations Spread?

Small communities can provide strong mutual support. They can also intensify suspicion because everyone depends on—and knows—everyone else.

The Trékyllisvík cases reveal several forces working together:

• Frightening physical symptoms with no understood cause
• A shared belief that magic could cause illness
• Existing disagreements between neighbours
• Religious teaching about harmful spirits
• Legal procedures that required local men to support or reject an accused person’s oath
• Rumour attaching new events to people already considered suspicious
• Confessions made after repeated hearings and imprisonment

Þórður was unable to secure the neighbours required to support his oath of innocence. Egill and Grímur were then drawn into a circle of accusation that had already defined sorcery as the most believable explanation.

The executions did not solve the disturbances. Accounts say the attacks returned and continued intermittently for years. That failure should have weakened the accusations. Instead, communities under intense fear often reinterpret continuing symptoms as evidence that more hidden danger remains.

The story is not proof that Strandir contained unusually powerful magic. It is evidence of how quickly fear can become a legal reality.

Galdra-Manga: When Court History Becomes Folklore

The daughter of Þórður Guðbrandsson also acquired a magical reputation.

Margrét Þórðardóttir, remembered as Galdra-Manga, narrowly avoided prosecution several years after her father’s death. Folktales later claimed that she was condemned as an outlaw, taken to Snæfjallaströnd and suffocated beneath a waterfall.

Historical evidence contradicts that ending. Margrét appears in the Icelandic census of 1703, living with her son at Lónseyri.

Her story is an excellent example of the difference between folklore and biography. The legend expresses what people believed could happen to a notorious sorcerer’s daughter. The census records what apparently did happen: she survived.

Both sources matter, but they answer different questions. Folklore reveals reputation and cultural fear. Administrative records reveal a life that escaped the tragic ending later storytellers gave it.

Klemus Bjarnason: The Last Death Sentence

Strandir also appears near the end of Iceland’s witch-hunt era.

In 1688, Klemus Bjarnason was accused at Bassastaðir in Steingrímsfjörður of causing the sickness and death of one farmer’s wife and the severe illness of another. Witnesses described a long history of conflicts and rumours surrounding him.

The local court sentenced Klemus to be burned. By then, however, the political climate had changed. The Danish king pardoned him and replaced the death sentence with lifelong exile. Klemus died from illness in Copenhagen the following year.

He is regarded as the last person sentenced to death for sorcery in Iceland. A driftwood figure representing him stands in the garden of the Hólmavík museum, facing the sea.

His fate closes the regional arc with a narrow escape from the fire, though not from punishment.

What Did Magic Mean in Everyday Strandir?

The spectacular stories—ghosts, necropants and demonic foxes—can obscure the ordinary needs behind Icelandic folk magic.

For people living on poor and isolated farms, supernatural protection was connected with survival. Charms, prayers, signs and stories addressed practical dangers:

• Healing sickness when professional medical help was unavailable
• Protecting sheep, cattle and stored food
• Finding a thief or recovering lost property
• Securing fish and surviving dangerous sea journeys
• Guarding a household against envy, ghosts or harmful magic
• Influencing conflict with neighbours or authorities
• Finding a route through bad weather

Not every person used magical staves, and not every remedy was considered sorcery. The boundaries changed according to who performed an act, who described it and whether something went wrong.

A learned prayer might be acceptable in one context. The same words copied into a secret booklet could appear suspicious. Herbal knowledge could be praised when used successfully and condemned as magic when practised by an unpopular layperson.

The Sorcerer’s Cottage in Bjarnarfjörður makes this point effectively. Magic appears inside a turf dwelling beside dried fish, tools, stone, turf and driftwood—not in a fantasy tower. It belongs to the material conditions of a hard life.

Folklore Written into the Landscape

Strandir’s stories are unusually geographical. They do not merely say that a ghost or troll existed somewhere. They tell the listener where to look.

Selkolla, the seal-headed revenant

At Bjarnarfjarðarháls stands a rock associated with Selkolla, one of the region’s most disturbing supernatural figures.

In the story, two attendants abandoned an infant during a journey to baptism. The child disappeared and a dangerous female being with a seal’s head began haunting the district, especially threatening men.

Several versions of Selkolla’s story survive, including medieval religious narratives associated with Bishop Guðmundur the Good. The tale combines failed baptism, sexuality, the dangerous boundary between human and animal and the seal-rich coastal environment.

The trolls of Drangsnes and Kollafjörður

Regional folklore explains the shapes of the coast through three trolls attempting to separate the Westfjords from the mainland. A married troll couple dug from one side while a trollwoman and her bull worked from the other.

They were caught by sunrise and turned to stone. The angry trollwoman struck the ground, creating Grímsey outside Drangsnes. The petrified figures remain visible in the landscape to those who know the story.

This is folklore as a map: rocks and islands become evidence inside the tale.

Goðdalur and dangerous memory

Goðdalur in Bjarnarfjörður is linked with stories of pre-Christian worship, a burial mound, a temple site and land protected by a curse. Tradition says animals did not graze there and the grass was not cut.

These claims should not be mistaken for archaeological proof of every detail. Their importance lies in the way communities marked certain ground as different—old, powerful and unsafe to treat casually.

Hidden people and ghosts

Stories of huldufólk, elves and ghosts occur throughout Iceland, not only in Strandir. In a region where landmarks guided travel and farms could disappear from view in fog, supernatural inhabitants offered another language for relating to the land.

A rock could be shelter, boundary and dwelling. A dangerous path could retain the memory of an accident as a haunting. Folklore taught listeners where caution, respect or explanation was required.

Tilberi and Nábrók: Famous, but Not Ordinary Artefacts

Two of the Hólmavík museum’s best-known displays are the tilberi and nábrók, or necropants.

A tilberi is a milk-stealing creature from Icelandic folklore, said to be created by a woman from a human rib wrapped in wool. It was sent to suck milk from neighbours’ sheep or cows and return it to its owner. The story turns anxieties about dairy production, unexplained prosperity and female secrecy into a grotesque living object.

Nábrók were magical trousers supposedly made from the skin of a dead man and used to generate money. The notorious pair in Hólmavík is a modern reconstruction, not preserved human skin and not proof that anyone completed the ritual historically.

Both exhibits visualise stories and recorded magical instructions. They should not be treated like excavated seventeenth-century artefacts. Their value is interpretive: they show the disturbing forms that desperation, envy and fantasies of effortless wealth could take in folklore.

They also demonstrate why source labels matter. “Described in folklore” is not the same as “known to have been practised.”

The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft

The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft, or Galdrasýning á Ströndum, opened in Hólmavík in the summer of 2000.

Its origin is as important as its subject. The idea was proposed in 1996 by local people seeking a cultural project that could strengthen the community and encourage travellers to visit a remote region. Four years of research and development preceded the opening.

The museum presents two connected but different kinds of material:

• Documented seventeenth-century witch trials, accused people and punishments
• Magical practices, creatures and extraordinary achievements described in grimoires and later folklore

Displays include copies of magical books and staves, a tilberi, a walking corpse and the famous reconstructed necropants. The museum does not need every story to be literally true in order to investigate what it meant.

Its greatest achievement is the return of people to the centre of the witch-hunt story. Visitors encounter names, accusations, legal outcomes and social conditions rather than a generic celebration of “dark magic.”

The project also shows how heritage is made in the present. Strandir’s magical reputation existed before the museum, but the museum gave it a physical centre, a research programme and a new role in the region’s economy and identity.

Current opening information should always be checked on the museum’s official visit page before travelling, as seasonal details can change.

The Sorcerer’s Cottage in Bjarnarfjörður

Approximately 25 kilometres north of Hólmavík stands Kotbýli kuklarans, the Sorcerer’s Cottage, the museum’s second exhibition.

It is a reconstruction of the kind of small turf farm occupied by ordinary people during the seventeenth century. Stone supports the building, turf blocks form the walls and uncut driftwood provides the timber frame. The materials demonstrate the resources available in Strandir rather than an imagined witch’s aesthetic.

Inside, the interpretation focuses on daily life, poverty and the strategies people used to survive. Some of those strategies included magical signs and ideas preserved in Icelandic grimoires.

The official Sorcerer’s Cottage page describes the building as a realistic example of a traditional turf house rather than the verified home of one particular sorcerer.

Nearby are Svanshóll, the landscape associated with the saga sorcerer Svanur, and a geothermal pool traditionally connected with the blessing of Guðmundur the Good. History, literary memory and sacred folklore occupy the same small area.

A Historically Mindful Magic Route Through Strandir

A traveller interested in magic and folklore can follow the stories north from Hólmavík.

1. Begin at the museum in Hólmavík

Learn the chronology of the trials before visiting the sites. This makes it easier to distinguish the accused people from the magical creatures and later legends.

2. Walk the harbour and museum garden

The sea and surrounding mountains give context to the region’s dependence on fishing, weather and driftwood. The garden figure of Klemus Bjarnason provides a quiet connection to the final Icelandic sorcery death sentence.

3. Continue to Bjarnarfjörður

Visit the Sorcerer’s Cottage and the landscape of Svanshóll. Look towards Bjarnarfjarðarháls, where Selkolla’s stone anchors the revenant story to the pass.

4. Explore the northern folklore coast carefully

Drangsnes, Djúpavík and the route towards Árneshreppur reveal why landscape stories remain so persuasive. Conditions become more remote, services fewer and roads more weather-dependent.

5. Treat Trékyllisvík as a memorial landscape

Kistan is connected with executions, not a performance of witchcraft. Confirm access locally, respect private property and never disturb the site.

Road conditions in the Westfjords can change quickly, especially outside summer. Check Icelandic road information and local guidance rather than relying on a static blog itinerary.

What Strandir Does Not Prove

Strandir’s magical heritage is rich enough without attaching every famous Icelandic symbol to it.

There is no evidence that:

• Vegvísir was created in Strandir
• Ægishjálmur had one uniquely Strandir form
• Every local family practised sorcery
• The necropants display is an authentic human-skin garment
• Saga episodes are direct eyewitness history
• A folktale site confirms that every supernatural event literally occurred

Vegvísir’s earliest known manuscript source is Huld, copied in Akureyri in 1860. Ægishjálmur appears in Icelandic literature and in magical manuscripts from different places and periods. Galdrastafir belong to a wider Icelandic and European magical world.

The authentic Strandir connection lies in people, cases, stories and places, not ownership of every Icelandic occult image sold today.

Frequently Asked Questions About Magic in Strandir

Where is Strandir in Iceland?

Strandir is the eastern coastal region of the Westfjords in north-west Iceland. Hólmavík is its largest town and the main base for exploring the area.

Why is Strandir famous for sorcery?

Its reputation combines the saga sorcerer Svanur, the life of Jón lærði Guðmundsson, the execution of three men at Trékyllisvík in 1654, extensive place-based folklore and the modern Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft.

Were there really witches in Strandir?

There were people who used or were believed to use charms, healing knowledge, runes and magical staves. There were also innocent people accused because of illness, rumours and conflict. “Witch” is too simple a label for everyone involved.

What happened at Trékyllisvík?

Beginning in 1652, people experienced frightening attacks during church services. The community blamed sorcery. Þórður Guðbrandsson, Egill Bjarnason and Grímur Jónsson were accused, confessed after legal pressure and imprisonment, and were burned in 1654.

How many people were burned for witchcraft in Iceland?

The Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft records twenty-one people burned for magic between 1625 and 1683. Twenty were men and one was a woman.

Why were most Icelandic defendants men?

Written magic, grimoires, rune knowledge and learned magical practices were often associated with men in Iceland. The accusations therefore developed differently from the predominantly female witch prosecutions found in much of Europe.

Who was Jón lærði Guðmundsson?

Jón lærði, or Jón the Learned, was a self-educated scholar, natural observer, healer, scribe, poet and craftsman born in Ófeigsfjörður in 1574. Authorities accused him of sorcery, and he was sentenced to exile rather than execution.

Was Svanur of Svanshóll a real sorcerer?

Svanur appears in medieval saga literature as a powerful sorcerer who uses fog to confuse pursuers. The story proves a long literary association between Svanshóll and magic, not that the supernatural event can be historically verified.

Are the necropants in Hólmavík real?

No. They are a modern reconstruction of an object described in Icelandic magical folklore. There is no preserved authentic pair proving the ritual was ever carried out.

Is the Sorcerer’s Cottage an original sorcerer’s home?

No. It is a carefully constructed turf-house exhibition showing the living conditions of poor seventeenth-century farms and the practical world in which magical beliefs existed.

Did Vegvísir come from Strandir?

There is no evidence that it did. The earliest known Vegvísir is recorded in the Huld manuscript, written in Akureyri in 1860.

Can you visit the witchcraft sites in Strandir?

Yes. The museum in Hólmavík and the Sorcerer’s Cottage are established visitor sites. More remote folklore and historical locations require planning, safe driving and respect for private land.

Is the Museum of Sorcery suitable for children?

Families visit the museum, but some displays—including a walking corpse, tilberi and reconstructed necropants—may frighten or disturb younger children. The official site specifically warns that some exhibits are strange or scary.

Where History, Folklore and Landscape Meet

Magic in Strandir is not one secret tradition waiting to be decoded. It is a relationship between landscape and memory.

Svanur’s fog belongs to saga literature. Jón lærði’s manuscripts and exile belong to documented biography. The deaths at Trékyllisvík belong to legal and social history. Selkolla and the stone trolls belong to folklore. The museum belongs to a modern community deciding that difficult heritage can become a source of research, remembrance and renewal.

Together, these layers explain why Strandir feels different from a collection of magical symbols removed from their pages. Here, stories still have addresses. A sorcerer’s name belongs to a farm. A ghost belongs to a stone. An accusation belongs to a church community. An execution belongs to a cleft by the sea.

The true magic of Strandir is not proof that supernatural forces once ruled the coast. It is the survival of stories—and the responsibility to tell them without turning persecuted people into decorations.

Continue Exploring Icelandic Witchcraft

• Icelandic Witchcraft: A History of Magic, Witch Trials and Survival
• Icelandic Folk Magic: Everyday Charms, Beliefs and Superstitions
• The Icelandic Witch Trials: The People Behind the Burning Times
• Galdrastafir: The History and Meaning of Icelandic Magical Staves
• Icelandic Grimoires: Magic Preserved in Handwritten Books
• Ægishjálmur: The History and Meaning of the Helm of Awe
• Vegvísir: The True History of the Icelandic Wayfinder

Historical Sources and Further Reading

• Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft
• Museum overview and exhibition history
• History and folklore locations in Strandir
• The Sorcerer’s Cottage in Bjarnarfjörður
• The witch-hunts in Iceland — Museum of Icelandic Sorcery and Witchcraft
• The people executed for magic in Iceland
• Klemus Bjarnason — the last Icelandic sorcery death sentence
• Már Jónsson, “How did the Icelandic witch craze begin?” — Vísindavefurinn
• Ólína Þorvarðardóttir, “Why were witch persecutions so common in Strandir?” — Vísindavefurinn
• Ólína Þorvarðardóttir, biography of Jón lærði Guðmundsson — Vísindavefurinn
• Einar G. Pétursson, Jón lærði and his manuscripts — Vísindavefurinn
• Hólmavík and Strandir — Visit Westfjords
• Icelandic road and travel conditions