A few years ago, I started working on a book about how Iceland sounds. I wanted to ask Icelanders—artists, writers, musicians, athletes—what Iceland means to them when it comes to sound. What do they hear when they think of their country?
That idea became the beginning of the Noise from Iceland project.
At the same time, I created a sound map of Iceland—recording wind, lava, birds, waterfalls. The map was meant to be just an extra, a small addition to the book. The book itself was supposed to be the heart of the project.
Then the pandemic came. I was living in a rented apartment, and there was constant construction noise above me. I couldn’t focus. So I found a coworking space and rented a desk. It was quiet there, and that’s where I started writing.
But when I finally published the sound map… everything changed. I realized that people were more interested in listeningto Iceland than reading about how it sounds. The book went on hold—for years, actually.
Now I want to return to it. I have these amazing interviews sitting on my computer for too long. Some are already over five years old. It would be a shame not to share them.
So, I’ve decided to start publishing them one by one—together with fragments of my never-finished book. Here’s the first: a conversation with Icelandic author Yrsa Sigurðardóttir.
Kaśka Paluch:
What does Iceland sound like to you? If you had to choose just one sound that defines it?
Yrsa Sigurðardóttir:
Wind. Definitely wind. I live by the ocean, and wind is the constant background noise. And the sound of waves too, though that depends a lot on the wind. But those two things—wind and the ocean—define the soundscape here for me.
Kaśka:
Is that also the sound you remember from your childhood?
Yrsa:
Yes. I grew up in the same place I live now—Seltjarnarnes, near a small lighthouse. My parents’ house was the last one before the lighthouse. I remember the light sweeping around, and even though it didn’t make a sound, in my memories it does—like a whoosh, whoosh. I guess sometimes we attach sound to things that are actually silent.
There were also birds—lots of birds. Especially meadow birds. When it’s very still, you can hear these tiny birds making their little sounds. That’s very Icelandic to me. These aren’t the same birds you’d hear in London or Poland. There’s one bird here that comes with summer and sounds like a drone. When I first heard it, I thought it really was a drone.
Kaśka:
Do you feel your writing is influenced by this constant connection to nature?
Yrsa:
I tend to write about people who are isolated or remote, which often means the setting is far from anything urban. So yes, in that sense, nature plays a part. But I don’t feel a magical “creative force” from nature. Still, I’ve never been able to write unless I’m close to the ocean. That’s the weird part. A pool won’t do—it has to be the sea. Maybe I’m like a seabird. I need to see the ocean to fly.
Kaśka:
That’s a beautiful metaphor—and maybe even a perfect title for this interview.
Yrsa:
Maybe! But yes, I’ve tried writing while traveling, in places surrounded by concrete, and it just doesn’t work. The sea is always changing and feels endless and mysterious. That definitely inspires me, even if I can’t explain how.
Kaśka:
You mentioned wind as a constant. When it’s completely still—those rare windless days—do you feel something is off?
Yrsa:
Yes, definitely. It feels weird. Like something’s about to happen—or something has happened. It’s like someone turned off the background hum of the world. And in Iceland, we always assume that good weather has to be paid back—with interest. So a still day feels suspicious.
Kaśka:
If I wanted to record a place that captures “your sound of Iceland,” where should I go?
Yrsa:
I’d send you to the lighthouse near my childhood home. Back then, the area was much less built up. That’s where I grew up—wind in my face walking to and from school, always walking into the wind. It’s the place I associate most with the sound of Iceland.
Kaśka:
Have you noticed that the sound of Iceland is changing?
Yrsa:
Absolutely. When my parents built their house, nothing would grow—trees, plants—everything died from the salty air and wind. Now, every house here has a garden. It’s getting warmer. And with more fences and buildings, the sound travels differently. Change is happening quickly here.
Kaśka:
We spoke once before, years ago, about crime writing in Iceland. Back then, you said it was difficult to set a crime novel in such a peaceful country. Has that changed?
Yrsa:
Not really. We do have more murders now, but most are unplanned—fueled by alcohol, drugs, or rage. There’s not much “clever” crime where someone plans a murder and tries to cover it up, which is what you need for crime fiction. But crime novels are more accepted now. People aren’t as shocked by the genre.
Kaśka:
Do you think Icelandic TV crime dramas have played a role in that?
Yrsa:
Yes, definitely. At first, everyone was watching them. Now, not everything is a hit, but people are more open to the genre. And with such little Icelandic-language content on TV, almost anything gets attention—at least for the first few episodes.
Kaśka:
Before I moved to Iceland, I thought the sound of Iceland was Icelandic music—mainly Björk and Sigur Rós. Do you think their music reflects the Icelandic landscape?
Yrsa:
Sigur Rós, definitely. Their music has a surreal, atmospheric quality. It captures a mood. I can’t imagine they’re from anywhere else—certainly not Florida! There’s something Icelandic in that mysticism, like seeing a lava field. It’s hard to define, but it’s there.
Kaśka:
Are there any current Icelandic artists you enjoy?
Yrsa:
I like Bríet, Hjálmar, and Jónas Sig. But the way we listen to music has changed. When I was younger, you bought an album and listened to it all the way through. Now it’s more like picking songs from a buffet. You don’t get the full experience of an artist anymore.
Bio note:
Yrsa Sigurðardóttir (born 1963) is one of Iceland’s most acclaimed authors, known for her bestselling crime novels and award-winning children’s books. She is the creator of the Thóra Gudmundsdóttir detective series and continues to work as both a writer and a civil engineer. She lives by the sea in Seltjarnarnes, near Reykjavík.
