Hallgrímskirkja

Stand at the foot of the hill and feel the wind first. It comes off the North Atlantic, cold and clean, and it carries the faint smell of salt. Then lift your eyes. A wall of pale grey concrete rises in stepped columns, climbing towards a single central tower. On a bright day the surface looks almost white. On a cloudy day it turns the colour of wet stone. Either way, it fills the sky above Reykjavík.

This is Hallgrímskirkja, a Lutheran parish church of the Church of Iceland. It sits on a hill called Skólavörðuholt, one of the higher points in the city centre. That position matters. From the harbour, from the old town, even from boats out in the bay, people use the tower as a landmark. It works like a compass needle for the whole city.

The church carries the name of a man, not a saint. Hallgrímur Pétursson was a poet and a clergyman in the seventeenth century. He wrote a collection called the Passion Hymns, fifty poems about the suffering and death of Christ. For generations, Icelandic families read these hymns aloud at home during Lent, the weeks before Easter. Some households still do. So the building honours a writer whose words lived in ordinary kitchens and farmhouses across the country.

The design came from Guðjón Samúelsson, who served as the State Architect of Iceland. He received the commission in 1937. He wanted a style that belonged to Iceland, not one borrowed from Europe. Look at the stepped columns on either side of the tower. Many people see a link to the basalt columns found in Icelandic landscapes. These are six-sided pillars of volcanic rock, formed as lava cooled slowly. Here they appear in concrete, smoothed and simplified.

Here is the first surprise. This building took a very long time to finish. Construction began in 1945, at the end of the Second World War. The work moved slowly, in stages, as money and materials allowed. The crypt opened for services in the late 1940s. The tower and wings came later. The full church was not consecrated until 1986, more than four decades after the first work began. Samúelsson did not live to see it complete.

Now turn around for a moment. In front of the church stands a bronze figure on a tall granite base. This is Leif Erikson, the Norse explorer who, according to the sagas, reached North America around the year 1000. The statue was a gift from the United States. It marked the one thousandth anniversary of the Althing, the Icelandic parliament, in 1930. And this is the second surprise. The statue is older than the church behind it. It stood on this hill before any concrete went up.

The tower rises about seventy-four metres. For many years it was one of the tallest structures in Iceland. Notice the clock faces near the top, and the narrow openings where the bells hang. When the bells ring, the sound travels down the slopes into the streets below. On a still morning you can hear them several blocks away. On a windy afternoon the sound breaks apart and comes in pieces.

Step inside, and the mood changes at once. The interior is calm, bright, and very plain. White walls rise to tall pointed arches. Long, narrow windows let in pale northern light. There is little decoration and no gold. The simplicity is deliberate. Lutheran churches often keep their interiors modest, so attention rests on the words, the music, and the light itself.

At the back of the nave, above the entrance, you will see the great organ. It was built by the German firm Johannes Klais, from the city of Bonn, and installed in 1992. It holds more than five thousand pipes. The largest are taller than a person. The smallest are thinner than a pencil. If you are lucky enough to hear it played, stand still in the centre of the nave. The low notes do not only reach your ears. You feel them in your chest and through the floor.

For many visitors, the highlight is the view from the tower. A lift carries you most of the way up, and a separate ticket is needed for it. At the top, windows open onto every direction. Below you spreads a grid of small houses with roofs in red, blue, green, and yellow. Beyond them lies the grey water of Faxaflói bay. On a clear day, look northwest across the water. The mountain Esja stands there, often with snow on its upper slopes.

From up there, Reykjavík looks small and close together. That is part of its character. The city has no great towers of glass. Most houses are low, many covered in corrugated metal, a practical material for a wet and windy climate. The colours are not only for beauty. In long, dark winters, bright walls and roofs bring some cheer to the streets. In summer, under the midnight sun, the same colours glow late into the evening.

When you come back down, walk to the front of the church and look straight ahead. The street that runs downhill is Skólavörðustígur. It connects the church to the older heart of the city. A section of it is painted in rainbow stripes, first painted for Reykjavík Pride. Along the way you will find small galleries, wool shops, bookshops, and cafés. The walk is short, but it shows how the church and the city sit together.

Before you go, pause once more at the base of the tower. Put a hand on the concrete if you like. It is cool and slightly rough under your fingers. Look up along the columns as they climb towards the clouds. Listen for the wind, the gulls, perhaps the bells. Then turn and walk down the hill, and notice how often the tower appears behind you, between the houses, still keeping watch over the city.