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Iceland
Maja Jarecka
December 10, 2025
Jiri sedlacek
December 10, 2025
If you ever travel to Iceland in winter, you may notice something unusual about the way the land feels as December draws near. The snow seems a little thicker, the shadows a little busier, and the mountains… well, they almost feel like they’re watching.
Locals will smile if you mention it — because they know exactly why.
High up in those cold slopes lives a family unlike any other. And if you listen carefully, you might just hear their story drift down with the wind.
Let me tell it to you, just as Icelandic parents once whispered it to wide-eyed children sitting by the hearth.
Long ago, when winter was darker, harsher, and far more mysterious than today, there lived an ancient ogress named Grýla.
Nobody quite remembers when she was born — she seems older than the lava fields, older than the mountains themselves. She had a face carved by centuries of weather and a temper that could freeze a waterfall mid-fall.
But she had one special gift:
Grýla could hear naughty children.
Not see them, not find them, not guess where they were hiding.
She could hear them.
Their whines, their lies, their tantrums — they echoed up the mountains straight into her pointed ears like music she didn’t enjoy, but certainly paid attention to.
And once she had heard enough of this naughty clamor… well… Grýla would come looking.
That was the part of the story that made children sit up straighter.
Every fearsome character needs an opposite, and Grýla had one: her slow, quiet husband Leppalúði.
He wasn’t dangerous.
He wasn’t clever.
He wasn’t useful in any measurable way.
But he existed.
He shuffled around the cave, poked the fire now and then, and tried not to get in Grýla’s way. He never joined her on her hunts or her dramatic winter outings. Instead, he mostly stayed home — perhaps wisely.
Together, though, they formed a household that became legendary.
And not just because of Grýla’s temper.
Roaming around their cave, tail swishing like a battle flag, was their enormous pet: Jólakötturinn, the Yule Cat.
Now, this was no ordinary cat.
He was the size of a house and twice as hungry.
His hobby?
Hunting anyone who dared approach Christmas Eve without new clothes.
Not a single sock?
Not even a scarf?
Well, that was risky business.
The tale was simple:
If you hadn’t received a new garment before Christmas, the Yule Cat would find you by scent — and you looked a lot like dinner.
So children worked hard, grown-ups sewed quickly, and everyone hoped the Cat passed by their house with a bored yawn.
But the real commotion of the season came from Grýla and Leppalúði’s thirteen sons — a rowdy, peculiar bunch known today as the Yule Lads.
Imagine this:
The mountains begin to glow with snowlight.
The night grows long and sparkling.
And one by one — starting on December 12 — the boys begin their long walk down into the valleys.
They do not hurry.
They do not travel together.
Each has his own day, his own habits, and his own brand of mischief.
Some sneak into kitchens.
Some spy through windows.
Some steal sausages.
Some lick spoons.
One slams doors just because it’s funny.
In the old tales, these boys were troublemakers through and through — mischievous little trolls who snuck around farms and caused all sorts of winter chaos.
But as centuries passed, Icelanders softened their legends.
The Yule Lads became more playful than dangerous, and instead of stealing and scaring, they began leaving small gifts in the shoes children placed in their windows.
If you were good, you’d get treats.
If not… you got a potato.
Not a threatening potato. Just a mildly disappointing one.
And so, each December night, a different boy arrives, does his typical mischief, and moves along — until eventually all thirteen have made their visit.
By Christmas Day, the boys have disappeared back into their mountains, leaving behind gifts, laughter, and stories that parents still tell today.
To this day, Icelanders cherish this strange mountain family.
Not because they are perfect.
Not because they are sweet.
But because they feel like winter itself:
And when the snow falls thick and quiet, and the northern lights ripple over the peaks, it almost feels as if Grýla is listening again, the Yule Cat is prowling, and the thirteen brothers are waiting for their turn to sneak down into town.
A story alive, just beneath the ice.
Arrives: December 12
Specialty: Harassing sheep
General vibe: Determined but physically unqualified
Stekkjastaur is the first brave soul down the mountain each year. He comes leaning awkwardly, walking stiff as a frozen tree trunk. Why?
Because he has peg legs.
Not fashionable pirate peg legs — more like wooden stilts someone badly glued onto him.
He tries SO hard to sneak into sheep shelters, but the poor guy can barely bend. The sheep stare at him in confusion while he tries to “harass” them by existing loudly. Most years, he ends up stuck in a snowdrift, politely asking passing tourists if they could give him a push.
Arrives: December 13
Specialty: Hiding in gullies and stealing milk foam
General vibe: Shy dairy enthusiast
Giljagaur is tall, pale, and shaped like someone who rarely sees sunlight. He hides in gullies near farms, watching cows with the intensity of someone studying for a very important dairy exam.
The moment a farmer turns away, poof! he sneaks in and steals the foam off fresh milk.
Not the milk.
Not the cream.
Just the foam.
It’s oddly specific, but we don’t question him.
Arrives: December 14
Specialty: Stealing unwashed pots
General vibe: Small but unstoppable
Stúfur is tiny — the size of a toddler’s backpack — but his personality makes up for it. He slips under doors like a determined dust bunny and steals dirty cooking pots.
Why dirty pots?
Because he loves the crunchy burnt bits stuck to the bottom.
He treats them like gourmet snacks.
Farmers often find him licking cookware like a content raccoon.
Arrives: December 15
Specialty: Licking wooden stirring spoons
General vibe: Starved, dramatic, deeply committed to spoon-licking
Tall. Thin. Looks like he invented intermittent fasting.
Þvörusleikir hides in kitchens waiting for the chance to snatch the long wooden spoon used for stirring pots.
He doesn’t steal food.
He just wants the spoon.
He licks it intensely, like someone who hasn’t eaten since last Yule. People sometimes catch him mid-lick, looking guilty but unwilling to stop.
Arrives: December 16
Specialty: Scraping leftovers from pots
General vibe: A polite burglar with a practical mission
Pottaskefill sneaks into kitchens with the confidence of someone looking for Tupperware. In the old days, people cooked porridge in large pots and left them to cool. He would then scrape out the leftovers — politely, quietly, like a helpful but uninvited houseguest.
If he finds an empty pot, he sighs dramatically and leaves a potato in disappointment.
Arrives: December 17
Specialty: Hiding under beds and stealing bowls
General vibe: Professional lurker
Back when Icelanders ate from lidded wooden bowls called askur, families often kept them under the bed.
Askasleikir LOVED this tradition.
He lived under beds.
He waited.
He waited longer.
And when someone slid their bowl away after eating — yoink! — he snatched it and cleaned it spotless.
If you ever feel like something moved under your bed in Iceland… yeah. That’s him. Don’t panic. He’s harmless. Unless you’re planning to eat.
Arrives: December 18
Specialty: Slamming doors loudly
General vibe: Pure chaotic energy
Every family has one sibling who wakes everyone up.
In this troll family, it’s Hurðaskellir.
He waits until the middle of the night when the house is quiet…
He tiptoes to the nearest door…
And SLAM! He shuts it with the force of a mini-earthquake.
He doesn’t steal.
He doesn’t eat.
He doesn’t prank.
He just slams doors because it brings him joy.
Icelandic folklore never explains why.
We don’t ask.
Arrives: December 19
Specialty: Eating all the skyr
General vibe: A Viking yogurt addict
Skyrgámur loves one thing: skyr, Iceland’s creamy, tangy, protein-packed dairy treasure.
He doesn’t nibble.
He DEVOURS.
He can sniff a bowl of skyr from miles away. Farmers used to wake up to nearly empty shelves and a telltale guilty spoon left behind.
He is beloved and feared by gym enthusiasts.
Arrives: December 20
Specialty: Stealing sausages hanging from rafters
General vibe: Acrobatic meat thief
Bjúgnakrækir is a gymnastic genius with one obsession: sausages.
Back when sausages were hung to smoke from rafters, he would sneak into the ceiling beams, dangle like a slow-motion ninja, and steal them one by one.
He once fell into a barrel of pickled fish. People still talk about it.
Arrives: December 21
Specialty: Peeping through windows
General vibe: Not dangerous, but deeply suspicious-looking
Ah yes… the “friendly” window-peeper.
Before you panic — no, he’s not as creepy as modern times would assume.
He doesn’t spy on people.
He spies on objects.
Toy?
Tool?
Shiny spoon?
He gazes longingly, planning the perfect moment to steal something interesting.
In modern houses, he gets confused by double glazing. He often fogs up windows with his nose.
Arrives: December 22
Specialty: Sniffing for baked goods with an enormous nose
General vibe: A bloodhound in troll form
Gáttaþefur is unmistakable because his nose arrives before he does.
Seriously — it’s enormous.
He sniffs around doorways searching for laufabrauð, the traditional Icelandic Christmas leaf-bread. His sense of smell is so powerful he can detect a cookie being baked three farms away.
You hear him before you see him — deep, satisfied sniffing.
Arrives: December 23
Specialty: Hooking meat with a long rod
General vibe: Christmas Eve Eve fishing-for-meat champion
Ketkrókur is clever and patient. He carries a long hook and uses it to fiiishhh roasted lamb, smoked meat, or whatever is hanging unattended.
Farmers in old times used to run around shouting,
“Hide the meat! Hide the meat!”
when he came to town.
If he can’t find any, he pokes random closets hoping something tasty jumps out.
Arrives: December 24 (Christmas Eve)
Specialty: Stealing candles
General vibe: Sweet, hopeful, slightly pyromaniac
Long ago, candles in Iceland were made of tallow and smelled delicious.
Children treasured them.
Kertasníkir treasured them more.
He followed kids around on Christmas Eve, bright-eyed and curious, hoping to steal their precious holiday candle for a midnight snack.
Today, he’s the gentlest and most beloved of the brothers — the one who leaves the nicest gifts and smiles the most warmly.
Just… keep an eye on your candles.
And so, the thirteen brothers complete their journey.
One after another, they wander down from the mountains, spreading mischief, tradition, and a uniquely Icelandic kind of holiday charm. After Christmas, they slowly head back home again — each disappearing one by one into the frozen peaks.
Until next year.
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