Lofoten Island - Part I
- Matthias
- 36 minutes ago
- 4 min read
After saying goodbye to Senja, we caught the ferry from Gryllefjord across the Andfjorden and into the region of Lofoten. The crossing itself was a reminder of how intertwined land and sea are in northern Norway. Ferries like this have long been part of coastal travel here, linking islands and breaking up long drives with a quiet passage over open water. From the deck, steep mountains and scattered skerries slipped past as we moved toward our next chapter, a place known for jagged peaks rising straight from the sea, dramatic fjords, and a light that seems to live somewhere between sky and water.
Our plan was simple, at least loosely. From the ferry landing, we would follow the road south, stopping first at Haukland Beach, before continuing deeper into the archipelago toward our house for the next 7 days in Tind.
But like most days on this journey, the plan shifted slightly. That evening we stayed along Uttakleivveien, close to the coast. We used the remaining light to explore and scout both Uttakleiv and Haukland, knowing we would return in the coming days under better weather conditions.
Lofoten does not reward haste. It asks you to look carefully and come back when the light feels right. We spent the night in the van. In the morning, I woke to the quiet sound of movement outside. Sheep had gathered around us, grazing calmly, as if the van had always been part of the landscape. It felt like a gentle welcome: simple, unceremonious, and very Lofoten.
Shot on iPhone
After our quiet morning at Uttakleiv Beach, we drove back through the tunnel toward Haukland Beach. The shift is subtle but noticeable. Uttakleiv feels raw and Atlantic-facing. Haukland opens wide, almost luminous in good light.
Near the beach stands the small visitor centre and café, often simply referred to as Haukland Beach Café. The building is part of the broader development strategy for Lofoten’s most visited beaches, understated, low in profile, and clad in wood so it settles into the landscape rather than competing with it. Large glass sections reflect the surrounding peaks, dissolving the boundary between interior and exterior. It feels more like a horizontal line drawn into the terrain than an object placed on top of it.
The intention is clear: service infrastructure without visual noise. Clean geometry. Natural materials. A structure that withstands harsh coastal weather yet remains visually restrained against the dramatic mountain backdrop. I spent time there with the Sigma 50mm 1.2, shooting wide open. At f/1.2 the architecture softened at the edges, isolating lines, window frames, and reflections of sky and rock. The shallow depth of field reduced the building to fragments, timber, glass, shadow, allowing it to feel almost intimate despite the vast landscape around it.
Sony A7 RIII, Sigma 50mm f1.2 DG DN OS | Art, Maven Filters Polarizer, Gitzo Systematic Tripod and Series 4 Ball Head
It is interesting how even in a place dominated by nature, thoughtful architecture can quietly hold its ground, not by shouting, but by stepping back.
Only later that day did we continue south toward Tind, where we would settle into our house for the next few days. The road narrowed and curved tightly between fjords and sheer granite walls. Mountains rose almost directly from the sea, leaving little space in between.
Passing through Hamnøy for the first time felt almost unreal. The red rorbuer, framed by steep peaks and open water, looked familiar from countless photographs seen over the years. Yet standing there in person changed the scale completely. The mountains were steeper, darker, more imposing than any image had suggested. That evening the weather conditions promised good conditions and so I went back to the famous spot on the bridge
A few kilometres further, Reine appeared along the fjord beneath sharp, sculptural summits. It felt iconic, but also surprisingly quiet.
The landscape here felt compressed, denser and more vertical than Senja. There was less horizon and less distance. Everything seemed closer, sharper, more immediate. From the first kilometres, it became clear that Lofoten would require a different kind of attention. Not wide and wandering, but precise and intentional.
For the next few days, we would explore the southern parts of Lofoten more slowly. There was no fixed plan beyond returning to places that had already left an impression. Haukland Beach and Uttakleiv Beach were high on that list, especially under darker skies. If the conditions aligned, we hoped to stand there again at night, waiting for the northern lights above the familiar peaks. Lofoten had only just begun to reveal itself, and it felt clear that returning would be as important as discovering something new.
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