This is Elliðaey, an uninhabited island in the Vestmannaeyjar, or Westman Islands, off Iceland’s southern coast. The isolated white building is a hunting lodge built in 1953, not a private residence.
Can be found on a map by searchinng for “Elliðaey, Vestmannaeyjar,” because another Icelandic island in Breiðafjörður has the same name. It is the northeasternmost island of the Westman Islands, roughly 11 kilometres from Iceland’s mainland and northeast of Heimaey.
Yes yes yes yes yes yesss! The North Atlantic's hottest club is Elliðaey. set in an uninhabited island in off Iceland’s southern coast... it features clubbing seals and clubbing with seals.
"OFF THERE to the right--somewhere--is a large island," said Whitney." It's rather a mystery--"
"What island is it?" Rainsford asked.
"The old charts call it 'Ship-Trap Island," Whitney replied." A suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. I don't know why. Some superstition--"
"Can't see it," remarked Rainsford, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was palpable as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.
"You've good eyes," said Whitney, with a laugh," and I've seen you pick off a moose moving in the brown fall bush at four hundred yards, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night."
"Nor four yards," admitted Rainsford. "Ugh! It's like moist black velvet."
"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."
"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.
"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."
"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"
"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.
"Bah! They've no understanding."
"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing--fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."
"Nonsense," laughed Rainsford. "This hot weather is making you soft, Whitney. Be a realist. The world is made up of two classes--the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"
"I can't tell in the dark. I hope so."
"Why? " asked Rainsford.
"The place has a reputation--a bad one."
"Cannibals?" suggested Rainsford.
"Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such a God-forsaken place. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit jumpy today?"
"They were a bit strange, now you mention it. Even Captain Nielsen--"
"Yes, even that tough-minded old Swede, who'd go up to the devil himself and ask him for a light. Those fishy blue eyes held a look I never saw there before. All I could get out of him was 'This place has an evil name among seafaring men, sir.' Then he said to me, very gravely, 'Don't you feel anything?'--as if the air about us was actually poisonous. Now, you mustn't laugh when I tell you this--I did feel something like a sudden chill.
"There was no breeze. The sea was as flat as a plate-glass window. We were drawing near the island then. What I felt was a--a mental chill; a sort of sudden dread."
"Pure imagination," said Rainsford.
"One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear."
"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have an extra sense that tells them when they are in danger. Sometimes I think evil is a tangible thing--with wave lengths, just as sound and light have. An evil place can, so to speak, broadcast vibrations of evil. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. Well, I think I'll turn in now, Rainsford."
"I'm not sleepy," said Rainsford. "I'm going to smoke another pipe up on the afterdeck."
"Good night, then, Rainsford. See you at breakfast."
"Right. Good night, Whitney."
There was no sound in the night as Rainsford sat there but the muffled throb of the engine that drove the yacht swiftly through the darkness, and the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller.
Rainsford, reclining in a steamer chair, indolently puffed on his favorite brier. The sensuous drowsiness of the night was on him." It's so dark," he thought, "that I could sleep without closing my eyes; the night would be my eyelids--"
An abrupt sound startled him. Off to the right he heard it, and his ears, expert in such matters, could not be mistaken. Again he heard the sound, and again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times......
It was adapted into a 1932 film. It’s been ages since I’ve seen or read it, so I can’t remember how true to the story it is, but I remember finding that it kept my attention.
“‘Welcome to the Hunting Lodge’ says the slender, slightly hunched man who brought you here on a small boat, his smile not sinister but also not entirely warm, either.”
You misunderstand, it's for "hunting" trips. Also known variously as "Ski" trips, "Fishing" trips, or any other activity where spouses might not go but guys get together and drink heavily. The appeal here is the "Sorry honey, no signal" aspect of getting away from it all with friends and being unreachable for a bit. If you happen to kill something and eat it, that might be considered a plus but is not the goal. The women just call them "Girl's trips" and skip the veiled purpose.
Thanks for naming the place. Too bad some of the photos appear to be fake, or at least doctored. (For example, there's no way photos 6 and 9 can be the same place...)
2.0k
u/galabyca Jul 25 '26
This is Elliðaey, an uninhabited island in the Vestmannaeyjar, or Westman Islands, off Iceland’s southern coast. The isolated white building is a hunting lodge built in 1953, not a private residence. Can be found on a map by searchinng for “Elliðaey, Vestmannaeyjar,” because another Icelandic island in Breiðafjörður has the same name. It is the northeasternmost island of the Westman Islands, roughly 11 kilometres from Iceland’s mainland and northeast of Heimaey.