A cold wind whistles over the Icelandic lava field as a crew of road builders stands idle, gazing at a hulking boulder in their path. According to local legend, this is no ordinary rock – it is the dwelling of elves, part of the huldufólk or “hidden people” who live unseen alongside humans. The workers shuffle their feet and exchange uneasy glances. They could force ahead with bulldozers, but stories of misfortune whisper in their ears: machines mysteriously breaking, tools going missing, accidents striking those who offend the elves. In the end, the men decide to leave the stubborn boulder where it is, letting the new road curve gently around it. In most countries, such a scene might be dismissed as pure fantasy. But in Iceland, even in the 21st century, the old belief in elves and nature spirits remains woven into the fabric of everyday life – a curious blend of folklore, faith, pragmatism, and deep respect for a formidable landscape.
The Icelandic belief in hidden folk is rooted in a rich tapestry of Norse mythology and local legend. In the myths of the Viking Age (recorded in medieval texts like the *Eddas*), elves (*álfar* in Old Norse) appear as otherworldly beings associated with nature and fertility. The Vikings envisioned multiple races of supernatural folk: light elves dwelling in the heavens, dark elves under the earth, dwarves in their mountain halls, giants roaming the wilds. Elves were often depicted as powerful yet elusive creatures, sometimes assisting the gods or interacting with humans in cryptic ways. Legend has it that the god Freyr – a deity of sunshine and growth – was given rule over Alfheim, the realm of the elves, suggesting a link between elves and the life-giving forces of nature.
When Nordic seafarers settled Iceland in the 9th century, they brought these mythic ideas with them. Over time, the concept of elves mingled with Iceland’s own folklore, evolving into the notion of huldufólk: the hidden people. Unlike the tiny, playful elves of modern fairy tales, Icelandic hidden people are typically imagined as human-sized or larger, and largely indistinguishable from humans except for their supernatural aura. According to folktales passed down through generations, the hidden people live in the wilderness – inside rocks and hills, or beneath mossy mounds. They tend to their own invisible livestock, hold celebrations, and even have churches and communities parallel to the human world. Most of the time they keep to themselves, but occasionally an unlucky traveler might stumble upon an elf home by accident, or an elf might borrow something from a household, only to return it later in peculiar fashion. These stories carry both wonder and warning. The elves can be benevolent – for instance, helping lost villagers find their way home, or rewarding those who show kindness. But they can also be vengeful if disturbed or disrespected, known to cause illness, bad luck, or strange disturbances as retribution.
Folklore provides various origin stories for the huldufólk. A popular Christian-themed tale explains that they are the children Eve hid from God. In this story, Eve was washing her children when God unexpectedly came to visit. Embarrassed that some were still dirty, she concealed them and lied about their existence. God, omniscient, declared that those she hid would remain hidden from man – and thus they became the unseen people. Another tale suggests the hidden folk are fallen angels, not wicked enough for Hell but not fit for Heaven, destined to live out of sight on earth. Such narratives were ways to reconcile pagan beliefs with Christian theology after Iceland embraced Christianity around the year 1000. They gave a sacred or moral framing to the presence of elves: these were not mere “fairies” but part of God’s creation, hidden as a consequence of sin or divine will.
Yet the belief in nature spirits in Iceland also has more earth-bound motivations. Early settlers faced a harsh and unpredictable environment – volcanoes that could wipe out whole districts, roaring rivers and fjords, endless winter darkness punctuated by eerie auroras. In a land where the ground itself hissed with steam and quaked underfoot, it is little surprise that people felt there were unseen forces all around. Telling stories of trolls, ghosts, and hidden folk became a way to make sense of the land’s dramatic moods. A peculiar rock formation might be explained as a troll petrified by the sunrise; an unpredictable area of wasteland might be avoided because it was an *álagablettur*, an enchanted spot where the huldufólk roam. These legends functioned much like oral maps of safe and unsafe zones, passed down as practical knowledge disguised in supernatural lore. If a certain hill was said to house an elf colony, wise folk would not quarry stones from it or build their home upon it – which, incidentally, could prevent them from settling in geologically unstable or ecologically sensitive areas. In this way, respecting the invisible inhabitants of nature also meant respecting nature itself.
By the 19th and early 20th centuries, Icelandic scholars and storytellers began collecting these folktales, preserving them in writing. The most famous collector, Jón Árnason, published a comprehensive folklore anthology in the 1860s that included numerous accounts of encounters with the huldufólk. These stories helped cement the place of elves and hidden people in Iceland’s cultural identity, just as the country was finding its national voice under Danish rule. When Iceland gained independence in 1944, pride in its unique heritage – including the old elf lore – became part of the national narrative. Unlike many modern societies that dismissed such beliefs as mere superstition, Iceland quietly held onto them, not necessarily as literal truth for all citizens, but as a cherished piece of the national soul and a symbol of continuity with the past.
Belief in a Modern World
What is striking about Iceland is that belief in elves and nature spirits did not vanish with the arrival of modernity. Instead, it adapted. Today, the typical Icelander might smile when asked about elves – the subject is often approached with a mix of humor and sincerity. Few people will flat-out say, “Yes, I absolutely believe elves are real and I see them often.” But surveys have repeatedly found that a significant portion of the population is at least open to the possibility of the hidden folk. In a famous survey conducted by the University of Iceland in 2007, only a tiny fraction (around 8%) of respondents firmly denied the existence of elves. The majority either acknowledged some level of belief or simply refused to rule it out. In other words, most Icelanders wouldn’t bet against elves; as the local saying goes, “Better to be safe than sorry, especially when it comes to elves.”
This open-minded agnosticism toward elves is partly a cultural habit… why dismiss something that has always been part of your heritage? – and partly a reflection of continuing experiences that people report. Even in recent decades, there are Icelanders who claim to have encountered the hidden folk. They tell of inexplicable lights moving in the hills at night, or a soothing voice warning them of danger on a lonely road, or finding that a boulder they were about to move just felt wrong, as if someone unseen were watching. Such anecdotes keep the folk belief alive at the edges of one’s mind. Even those who are skeptical often respect the stories as a meaningful connection to nature or as a quaint national quirk worth preserving.
The conversation about elves in Iceland has a tone of respect rather than ridicule. Elves are not portrayed as silly little imps but as dignified, even noble beings who simply live in a different plane of reality. The Icelandic term *álfar* for elves and *huldufólk* for hidden people is used in earnest, and these terms carry cultural weight. You’ll find them in serious contexts – for example, in school textbooks discussing folklore, or in tourism brochures inviting visitors to learn about Iceland’s mystical side. The nation even has an Elf School (Álfaskólinn) in Reykjavik, where interested locals and tourists can attend lectures on elf folklore and hear firsthand accounts of elf sightings. What might elsewhere be dismissed as fringe beliefs are, in Iceland, treated as a normal, if slightly whimsical, part of life.
The most visible impact of Iceland’s elf lore in modern times is on construction and development projects. Time and again, plans for new roads, buildings, or infrastructure have been altered – or at least scrutinized – due to concerns about disturbing elf habitats. This intersection of folklore with civil engineering might seem astonishing, but it is well-documented. Engineers and government officials have learned that it’s often easier to consult with folklore than to fight it.
One widely publicized case occurred in the 2010s during the construction of a new highway near the town of Álftanes, not far from the capital Reykjavik. The road was set to cut through the rugged Gálgahraun lava field – a place of stark basalt outcrops and twisted mossy rocks, believed by some to be rich in supernatural presence. Local elf advocates and environmentalists banded together to protest the project, in part because a particular 50-ton boulder in the lava field was said to be an “elf church.” For years, the group stalled construction, insisting that the elves who dwelt in that rock must be consulted and respected. Eventually, a compromise was reached: construction crews, under guidance from a respected seer (a woman known for her ability to communicate with the hidden folk), carefully relocated the sacred boulder rather than demolish it. Crane operators lifted the huge rock gingerly and placed it in a safe spot out of the road’s path. According to the seer, the elves were content with this arrangement – they had moved their invisible chapel and belongings beforehand. Only then did the road work proceed. Whether one views this as a victory for folklore or simply clever community mediation, the result was tangible: the landscape and its legends were acknowledged, and a piece of cultural heritage was spared even as modern development continued.
This was not an isolated incident. Iceland’s road authority has encountered enough similar concerns that it now keeps a protocol for addressing them. Officials have noted that when locals voice fears about elf sites, those views are taken into account just as any other community input would be. In practice, this might mean slightly rerouting a road to avoid a knoll rumored to house elves, or delaying construction to allow a respectful interval for the hidden people to move on. Construction crews sometimes invite folklorists or mediums to survey a site for any spiritual significance before breaking ground. At times, if equipment repeatedly malfunctions or accidents plague a site, even a skeptical foreman might wonder if the huldufólk are sending a message.
There are many anecdotes of these supernatural “interventions.” In the 1970s, workers attempting to build a road near Kópavogur (a suburb of Reykjavik) faced inexplicable troubles when they tried to cart away a large rock outcrop known in local lore as an elf abode. Legend has it that bulldozers broke down and a crucial water supply line was accidentally ruptured, causing serious losses to a nearby fish farm. After a string of such mishaps, the project was abandoned, and the road ultimately was re-planned to curve around the site. To this day, drivers on that route might notice a sudden bend and an untouched rocky hill beside the road – a quiet testament to the influence of the hidden folk. Similar stories tell of construction machines that refuse to work on certain rocks, only to function perfectly elsewhere, or of workers falling ill until a suspected elf stone is left alone. While hard-nosed skeptics might attribute these incidents to coincidence or human error, the lore provides a compelling narrative that “the elves did not approve.”
Beyond roads and bridges, elf lore has also played a role in preserving natural features. There is an unofficial ethos in Icelandic society that one should not needlessly damage places that feel enchanted or storied. In 1990, the Icelandic government even passed a cultural heritage law that included a clause for the protection of sites traditionally seen as having supernatural significance (provided those legends could be traced back at least a century). This means that if a certain rock or hill has been regarded as an elf dwelling for generations, it can potentially be protected from development, much like a historical monument. Such legal recognition, while seldom invoked, symbolically affirms that the folklore is part of the national patrimony.
Iceland’s environmental activists sometimes leverage elf beliefs as well. A notable example was the opposition to the Kárahnjúkar hydropower project in the early 2000s, which was set to dam rivers and flood vast highland areas. Among the many arguments environmentalists raised was that the construction would disturb places sacred to the huldufólk. In fact, the power company discreetly hired consultants with clairvoyant abilities to survey the area in advance, hoping to avoid provoking any hidden denizens – or, perhaps more directly, to avoid public backlash tied to cultural concerns. While the dams were ultimately built, the episode illustrated how deeply ingrained the respect for unseen spirits is: even a major industrial project felt compelled to nod to the old beliefs.
The enduring presence of elves in Icelandic life is also a mirror reflecting the people’s relationship with their environment. Icelanders often speak of nature as if it has a personality – the weather “plays tricks,” the land “holds secrets.” The hidden folk are, in a sense, the personification of that living nature. By attributing human-like guardians to certain rocks, waterfalls, or patches of wilderness, people grant the landscape a voice and agency. This fosters a sense of humility in dealing with nature. As one folklore professor in Iceland explained, the belief in huldufólk is “about respect for nature, which is something Icelanders know is very much alive.” When your homeland is as challenging and capricious as Iceland’s – with glaciers and geysers and long dark winters – you learn to live in harmony with it rather than trying to dominate it. The elves stand as gatekeepers of that harmony.