What are Icelandic turf houses, and how can they drive a sustainable design revolution?

Half-buried in grass and soil, Iceland’s turf houses appear less built, more grown, their roofs thick with moss and wildflowers. For centuries, these dwellings were dismissed as relics of hardship, symbols of poverty best erased by concrete and corrugated iron.

What are Iceland's turf houses?

Today, in an age defined by ecological reckoning, turf houses – or torfbæir – are seen as works of sustainable architecture, design intelligence, tuned to climate, material limits, and human need. They emerged not from stylistic ambition but necessity. As Ágústa Kristófersdóttir, director of collection and research at the National Museum of Iceland, puts it, they offer 'a materially grounded record of everyday Icelandic life that complements written historical sources.'

Turf houses: homes made of landscape

A turf house is constructed from layered blocks of turf – grass and soil cut from marshy ground and stacked like masonry – supported by stone foundations and minimal timber frames. The method arrived with Norse settlers over a thousand years ago, but quickly evolved into something distinctly Icelandic. Thick earthen walls trapped geothermal warmth, narrow openings limited heat loss, and the living roof simultaneously acted as insulation, windbreak and camouflage. The houses retained heat in winter and stayed cool in summer. Long before sustainability was a buzzword, these homes stood as living examples.

Architectural historian and UCLA PhD researcher Alex Casteel cautions against reading turf houses as crude or accidental. 'Icelandic turf building traditions are sophisticated in several respects,' he says, pointing to what he calls 'misunderstood aspects of turf house engineering.'

Within a generation of settlement, Icelanders developed three-dimensional turf 'block' forms, cut with spades rather than scythes, made possible by Iceland’s volcanic soils, known as andosols. 'These volcanic soils possess unique properties, which enabled dense, rigid, uniform, and more voluminous ‘blocks’ to be cut on a rather large scale,' Casteel says.

The blocks were not piled haphazardly. Instead, turf was used with a mason’s logic, mimicking stone-and-mortar construction seen across the British Isles. 'Icelandic turf walls of the Viking diaspora were thus cavity or skin-walled constructions,' notes Casteel. But there was a huge difference: turf’s insulating and hygroscopic qualities made it better suited to Iceland’s climate than stone.

Where turf houses still live

Once the dominant dwelling type in rural areas, turf houses today survive in carefully preserved clusters: Glaumbær Farm in Skagafjörður, the medieval farmhouse at Keldur in southern Iceland, Grenjaðarstaður in the north, and the Íslenski Bærinn Turf House Museum near Selfoss. Walking through them reveals not only how people lived, but how society was organised.

At Keldur, Kristófersdóttir notes, 'the continuity of the farmhouse layout from the Middle Ages onward demonstrates long-term stability in domestic organisation,' even as structures were rebuilt in response to earthquakes and environmental change. Elsewhere, at Laufás and Glaumbær, the architecture tells a story of hierarchy. 'The presence of a bridal room, a parlour, and various passageways show how social customs, hospitality, and ceremonial life were embedded in architecture,' she says.

In this sense, turf houses were cultural artefacts as much as shelters. Sigurjón B Hafsteinsson, professor at the University of Iceland, says: 'They were more than shelters from the harsh environment but rather took shape and form of socio-economic stature and means of their builders.' He adds that inequality, colonial influence and tenancy shaped their evolution.

The fall of the turf house

By the late 19th century, turf houses fell out of favour. Modernisation, public health crises, and a desire to align Iceland with 'civilised' Europe drove a powerful anti-turf movement, pushing people to favour more 'modern' materials. By the mid-20th century, turf houses were systematically demolished. 'Today, of course, only some dozens remain,' he says.

Museums became unlikely custodians of a building type once designed to be continuously renewed. Kristófersdóttir identifies the core challenge: 'Maintaining the delicate balance between organic building materials, environmental exposure, and historical authenticity.' Without constant care, including turf renewal, drainage, and structural monitoring, decay accelerates. 'What is at risk is not only the loss of individual buildings, but also the disappearance of entire knowledge systems embedded within them,' she warns.

A return, reimagined

And yet, turf houses are returning, if not as replicas, then as reference points. In southern Iceland, Torfhús Retreat by Erla Dögg Ingjaldsdóttir and Tryggvi Thorsteinsson reinterprets the Viking longhouse for the 21st century with turf roofs, geothermal systems and pared-back Nordic interiors. In Switzerland, Peter Vetsch’s Earth House Estate embeds contemporary homes directly into the landscape, reviving the typology in central Europe. In Scotland, the National Trust’s Glencoe Turf House reconstructs a 17th-century dwelling using traditional herringbone-laid turf walls and heather thatch.

Architect Tom Morton, of Arc Architects, who worked on the Glencoe project, describes the experience as revelatory. 'Working with traditional techniques teaches us that there are natural, locally sourced options that are a way of reconnecting people to place through the act of building,' he says. 'People these days rarely know what their building is made from and where it comes from. That’s a real disconnect.'

Morton believes that the principles of turf house design – local materials, thermal intelligence, renewability - are newly urgent. 'If we are going to stop using harmful fossil fuels… then we can see the future reflected in these past ways of building. We just need to join the principles of 1690 to the economy of the 21st century.'

Built to renew, not last forever

Perhaps the most radical lesson turf houses offer is their attitude to permanence. Turf renews on a human timescale, decades, not centuries. 'That means that I can cut all the turf for my house from one part of a bog, and in 30 years it will be very close to as if it never happened,' Casteel explains.

This circular logic, he says, allowed Icelandic society to endure for millennia, with an architecture designed not to conquer but to collaborate with nature. Today, in a world chasing carbon neutrality and biophilic calm, turf houses are a fascinating case study and a practical, all-encompassing solution.

Turf houses: 7 key examples

These seven contemporary reinterpretations reveal how we, in the present, need to seek inspiration from the past - for our future.

Torfhús Retreat, Selfoss, Iceland

Nestled in Iceland’s Golden Circle, Torfhús Retreat revisits the Viking farmhouse, reshaping turf house principles for a contemporary escape. Conceptualised by Icelandic-Swiss couple Siggi Jensson and Alex Hoop, the eco-luxury resort combines basalt walls, turf roofs, and geothermal heating with Nordic interiors. The 25 turf-covered residences and suites showcase how ancient construction techniques can support modern luxury and landscape immersion.

Earth House Estate Lättenstrasse, Switzerland

Designed by Peter Vetsch and located in Dietikon, Switzerland, the hobbit-style cluster of nine earth-sheltered homes is designed to blend into the natural contours of the land. Wrapped in thick green roofs and sculpted concrete shells, the homes are inspired by turf-house ecology, and maximise thermal mass and reduce energy demand.

Glencoe Turf House Reconstruction, Scotland

Rebuilt using 17th-century techniques by the National Trust for Scotland, this turf-walled, heather-thatched house, set into the landscape at the foot of Meall Mòr, reveals the surprising thermal efficiency of sod construction. Apart from heritage preservation, the project functions as a full-scale example in storm resistance, insulation and low-impact building methods.

Sorcerer’s Cottage, Westfjords, Iceland

In the remote Strandir region, Kotbýli kuklarans, a three-room, turf-roofed cottage, recreates 17th-century living conditions associated with Icelandic sorcery and tenant farming. The structure, built from sod, stone and driftwood using traditional herringbone-laid turf blocks, is part of the Museum of Icelandic Sorcery & Witchcraft in Hólmavík.

Skriðuklaustur, Fljótsdalur, Iceland

Set in Fljótsdalur, Skriðuklaustur is the site of Iceland’s last Catholic monastery, active from 1493 to 1552. Archaeological excavations have revealed turf-built monastic remains, now open to visitors. The adjacent Writer’s House, built in 1939 by author Gunnar Gunnarsson, anchors the site as a centre for history, culture, and exhibitions. It has the appearance of a European mansion - but with a turf roof.

Pujiang Viewing Platform, Chengdu, China

Perched in the hills outside Chengdu, the Pujiang Viewing Platform by MVRDV is an arched timber pavilion partially buried beneath an earth berm. Designed to echo the original hillside, its telescopic timber arches draw visitors toward a dramatic viewing window and cantilevered balcony. Like turf houses, the structure uses earth cover for insulation, landscape integration, and climatic moderation.

Hungarian Natural History Museum, Debrecen, Hungary

Bjarke Ingels Group released the design of this 23,000-square-metre museum in 2025, conceiving it as a series of intersecting, earth-covered landscape ribbons rising from Debrecen’s Great Forest. The walkable green roofs blur architecture and terrain, creating habitats, managing stormwater and embedding the building within its environment, exemplifying the turf house’s logic of landscape as shelter.