North of the Arctic Circle, beyond the maps of ancient mariners, a remote Norwegian island once thought lost to time has found new life in an unlikely industry
The burly man standing at the front of the ferry is looking at me – specifically me, it seems – as he delivers instructions on how to survive the rough Arctic waters we are about to sail into. “Look at the horizon, toilets are here, sick bags are there. Do not throw up on the floor,” he growls, without even a hint of humour. His white beard and grizzled face are those of a sailor who has been traversing these icy waters for decades and has the constitution for it. I on the other hand pop another motion sickness pill and hope for the best.
I’m on the last leg of a journey that began in London, took me via the Norwegian capital of Oslo, to the northern city of Bodø, on two ferries and more than five hours to reach Myken – one of the most remote inhabited communities in Europe.
The island measures just 400 metres wide and 1.2 miles long and lies north of the Arctic Circle off the west coast of Norway. A scattering of rock and grass, buffeted by the Norwegian Sea. I first heard of this island because it is home to the world’s most remote whisky distillery – an improbable venture, producing a spirit that critics claim rivals its Scottish cousins.
As the ferry pulls into the rickety quay a welcome party awaits me: the island’s 12 permanent residents have come to welcome the ferry. In summer, it comes daily if the seas are kind. In winter, storms can delay its arrival for weeks.
For centuries these islands have supported fishing families due to the abundant cod, haddock and herring that thrive in its deep cold waters. But in 1981, a fishing boat sank in a storm claiming the lives of all seven sailors, six of whom were from Myken and four from a single family. That shock was followed two years later by a fire that destroyed the fish processing factory. The island, with a population of 40 at the time, never recovered.
By the 2000s, the island was on its knees. Only a handful of pensioners remained there, their days shaped by the wind, sea and memories. One thing that hadn’t changed however, was the turbulent weather.
On its knees in the early-2000s, Myken is resurgent
Roar Larsen and his wife, Trude Tokle, were sailing up the Norwegian coast towards the Lofoten Islands with their four children, when a storm forced them into unknown waters. “We had never heard of Myken,” admits Tokle. Few Norwegians had. But the days they spent sheltering here changed their lives – and the island’s future.
“Three days were enough for us to fall in love with Myken. The sky, the sea and the people,” says Tokle. “Yes, those three days completely turned our lives upside down,” finishes Larson.
It’s very late in the evening, but as bright as it was at midday, and I’m sitting at their kitchen table in a traditional wooden framed house that they built a decade ago. The house sits at the highest point on the island and provides stunning vistas at every angle. On the eastern horizon looms Svartisen, Norway’s second largest glacier, its icy wall gleaming under the midnight sun.
Myken lighthouse under the Northern Lights
I imagine how, centuries ago, sailors would have been struck by the vision of this wall of ice – spanning into the distance, as the arctic fog lifted. Cartographers, faced with such a sight, might have inked in the margin of their parchment ‘finis terrae’: the end of the world.
To the west, a lighthouse built in 1918 is the only thing that stands between me and New York City, more than 3,000 miles away. Below, orcas slice through the waves, basking sharks roll lazily on the surface and all manner of giant sea creatures cavort under the water. ‘Here be monsters’, those ancient mariners would scrawl.
For Larsen and Tokle, plans were made to return to Myken before they had even left their short detour. They realised that they both were entitled to take a sabbatical from work, and that by moving to Myken with their children they could keep the imperiled school open.
Three days were enough for us to fall in love with Myken. The sky, the sea and the people
During that sabbatical year, Larsen – like many other of the island’s inhabitants – took on any and all roles that were needed from him. “I was running the shop, I was the postmaster, I took care of the lighthouse, did some teaching in the school, cleaned the school …” His list goes on, and it becomes apparent the more time I spend on the island that few people have distinct roles but simply do what needs to be done to keep things running.
But while the small population could just about keep Myken ticking over, there was no industry and no money coming in. “There was very little income here, very few jobs,” Larsen recalls. “If we were going to stay, we needed something to do.”
“That’s when Roar’s ideas came in useful,” explains Tokle, referring to her husband.
“We sat down together to brainstorm some ideas of what could make money on the island,” continues Larsen. “A lot of stupid ideas on that list,” laughs Tokle. “It says a lot about the island that a full-blown whisky distillery was probably the least crazy idea,” says Larsen.
When a few of the islanders were sitting out one evening sharing a bottle, “watching the waves hitting the sea wall, splashing higher and higher,” reminisces Tokle, “one of us said: ‘Why don’t we make whisky here? We have the same maritime environment as Scotland, the sea, the sky …” An idea was formed and a community stirred.
Jan Hellstrøm is a retired accountant and enthusiastic chef. Tonight, he’s cooking dinner for some of the islanders. “Twenty five years ago, we understood the island was going to die,” says the long-time Myken resident. “When Roar [Larsen] came, he said perhaps we should think about something other than fishing,” continues Hellstrøm, who is now holding court at the table. “He came back some weeks later holding three pages of notes with 30 ideas, and at the top of the list was a whisky distillery. I said: ‘Funny guy, the world is full of whisky and in Scotland they are making perfect whisky, so why should we do it?’ Roar said: ‘If not us, then who? If not now, when?’”
Within months, 10 islanders – including Hellstrøm – pooled their savings. They bought the derelict fish factory, salvaged pipes and pumps from abandoned buildings and acquired secondhand stills from Spain. In 2014, this patchwork team of engineers, carpenters, teachers and retirees, lit their first fire and started to distill spirit.
It says a lot about the island that a full-blown whisky distillery was the least crazy idea
Whisky is a complex product to finance. It takes a minimum of three years to age in barrels before it can be called whisky, which means funds are often tied up without revenue coming in. To combat this, producers make gin, which involves a similar distillation process but without the ageing. The Myken team decided to follow that well-trodden path but wanted to only use ingredients found on the island. The first batch of gin didn’t quite hit the mark: “It tasted like rat poison,” laughs Hellstrøm. They adapted, and used more traditional ingredients – juniper berries and other botanicals – and they had a product they could sell to drive some cashflow.
Production was sporadic at first. Larsen would take a week off from his day job each month to fill barrels. But three years later, when the spirit had aged enough to be called whisky, they had a product they felt confident enough to take to market. They found Marius Vestnes, a prominent spirits distributor, who loved the idea. When Larsen and Tokle told him of their ambitious plan to create the first Norwegian whisky, instead of laughing, Vestnes went to Myken at the first opportunity. “It was an incredible experience,” Vestnes says. “When you come to the island, it grabs your heart: a piece of your soul will always be at Myken,” he says. At that point they went all in. The funding that Vestnes and his partners provided enabled them to increase production, build further facilities and start to hire a team.
The glass-fronted ‘whisky cathedral’ was built in 2023 and sits next to the school
“We knew that the island would change with the establishment of the distillery, but we didn’t know by how much,” smiles Hellstrøm’s wife Kerstin Marthinsen. “It has created optimism and drive and has made others on the island dare to invest in new ideas,” she says.
Today, the distillery employs seven people full-time. Its presence has secured new infrastructure too. The distillery renovated the island’s only quay to allow for shipments to be brought in, the government put in a new underwater electricity cable – justified by new industry on the island, and further investment went into developing staff housing for the growing team.
That community infrastructure has also allowed tourism to boom. Before the distillery opened, there were 20 beds on Myken. Now there are 80, and having welcomed 1,500 visitors to the island this summer, it is sufficient for a number of the islanders to make a living from tourism.
Lill-Harriet Jonassen was born on Myken, and now works there as a tourism consultant and chef. “The distillery has really changed everything,” Jonassen tells me from her 19th-century home. Paintings of fishermen adorn the walls and an old kettle whistles in the kitchen. “It’s not only created jobs within the distillery itself, but also made it possible for so many of us to work with tourism.”
Julie Luneborg is another resident who has discovered a new career thanks to the distillery. A former travel editor, Luneborg had travelled the world but when friends asked her about her home country of Norway she realised she knew very little of it. A tour of the islands led her to Myken, and after she arrived she never left.
“After a few days here in the summer, I ended up renting a house for winter and it became one of the most exotic travel experiences of my life,” says Luneborg. “I thought I would have plenty of time to write or meditate but instead, those first few months quickly became about the people who live here, and their resilience and efforts to make sure this little island survives.” Luneborg now puts her skills to work as the head of marketing at the distillery.
The sun sets and rainbows form over whisky barrels
On my final evening, the community gathers in the ‘whisky cathedral’ for a feast. It’s a grand building, replete with stained glass windows, built in 2023 ostensibly to store the ageing barrels of whisky. But the cathedral is also a physical manifestation of the brand. It has become a focal point of the island, acting as its town hall, community centre and dining hall.
At the dinner, investors, residents and workers laugh and joke and tell tales over many drams of the smooth arctic whisky. And as the meal comes to a close, song breaks out around the table – a beautiful haunting melody, once sung to thank the lighthouse for guiding fishermen home. Tears are gently wiped as the older people around the table remember that fateful night back in 1981. Yet here, under the endless light of the midnight sun, the atmosphere is one of gratitude and renewal.
Ancient cartographers might have marked this outcrop with beasts and darkness but it has become a reminder that even on the edge of the world, imagination, perseverance and community can shine bright.
Photography by Julie Luneborg
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