I'm in what is arguably one of the most beautiful places on earth. The creme de la creme for anyone who is drawn towards places where the ocean meets jagged mountains and cliffs. Where waves abruptly end their journey on thousand foot high volcanic cliffs that formed millions of years ago.

It's 1 in the afternoon, I've gone to bed a 2:30am and had a rought night of sleep in my tent in some windswept field. But spirits are high because my friend and local extraordinaire Haukur Sigurdson is joining me for a gargantuan American style breakfast in his town, Ísafjörður. Haukur is the sort of guy who always has a story to tell, knows every single person in the North of Iceland and can source anything from a red bicycle to a full size sailing boat that sleeps 12 in a matter of minutes.

I'm meeting with Haukur to tell him about yesterday's jaunt to his cousin's lighthouse. Yep, there's people in this world who own massive yachts, mansions in Malibu and there's Olí who owns 1000 acres of land spread across two valleys with its own lake, river system and 4km of beachfront at the edge of the world. And a functioning lighthouse.

When I heard about it knew I had to go, it sounded like the stuff of dreams for someone who loves getting lost and seemingly pointless endeavours. I arrived there after a quiet 2.5 hour walk up a pass, through a desolate plateau and down the pass towards the ocean. Needless to say I didn't see a living soul around. Just as the sun was setting, there it was, the orange lighthouse with its detached care taker house.

At this point I don't know much about the building, apart the fact that it is the more remote lighthouse in all of Europe, I’m getting the sense that I'm somewhere special. I spot the year '1959' engraved above the door and start to imagine how many local fishermen this building has saved from crashing into the shallows around here.

Haukur said that the door should be open so I knock, wait, and open the door. It's neat inside, there's a piano, a saxophone, an old VHF radio and piles of dusty books sitting on wooden shelves. What else can one need here? The only sign of recent activity I find is the guestbook; the last visitors left this morning. It is dark upstairs the windows are covered by heavy sheets to protect the overnighters from the 24 hour-long summer days found in these latitudes.

After the tour, I sit outside on the big cement slab under the lighthouse and eat a sandwich facing the North Atlantic ocean. The next landmass is Greenland some 250 miles away. It's 11pm, and it feels as I'm in a different planet.

The Westfjords are one of these places that I think about once a week at minimum. They keep me coming back for more but I can't explain why. It's an idea, it's a feeling, it's where you go rub shoulders with the end of the world. To be one with the clouds, to get slapped by a North Atlantic storm, to see what earth might have looked like before we even existed.

I love this corner of Iceland because it is out of the way, a 'detour' for the bucket list travellers who speed through the ring road in 5 days, thinking they saw Iceland but haven't even scratched the surface. To these travelers I'd recommend coming back and spending at least a few days in the Westfjords. There won't be oversized parking lots full of buses but there will be wild beauty, for miles, and a lot of friendly locals.

The view from the tallest mountain of the Westfjords: Kaldbakur

Ósvör hobbit houses

Fishing cottage from Latrar Air Station

Bolungarvik lightouse

Westfjords, Iceland - The Places That Impacted Me Most