Are there too many people in Lofoten?
Has Lofoten been “lost” to overtourism?
Should you avoid traveling to Lofoten?
If you scroll through Instagram or skim the headlines this summer — from local papers to national outlets, and even foreign media — you’d think the whole Lofoten is on the verge of collapse. Traffic jams, no parking, long queues for Reinebringen, and frustrated locals everywhere…
But here’s the thing: like so many tourism debates, it often feels “about tourists, without tourists.” Most of it plays out behind the paywalls of local newspapers, then gets cherry-picked by national media, and eventually trickles into the international press — stripped of context and nuance along the way.
We first came to Lofoten as tourists in 2012, long before we moved here. Today, we live year-round in one of the busiest corners of the islands, hearing friends and neighbors vent over coffee about housing, traffic, and everything in between.
And yes — we also run a small business that benefits from tourists.
That puts us in a slightly odd position: part local, part visitor, and part someone whose livelihood depends on the very people traveling here.
From that perspective? Most of the noise feels… incomplete.
On one side, you’ve got the dramatic headlines — “CHAOS IN LOFOTEN!” and “CAR QUEUES EVERYWHERE!” — often picked up by national or foreign media without context, even though most of it happens at just a handful of hotspots, during a few peak weeks, and only at certain times of day — like just after the ferry from Bodø docks.
Then there are locals, dealing with very real and valid tourism-related issues that deserve to be heard and addressed. It’s frustrating to live with something day after day, speak up about it, and be told it’s “not such a big deal.”
On the other hand, parts of the tourism industry have been downplaying these problems for years, worried that the word “overtourism” will scare away the responsible visitors we actually want to keep.
And here’s the bigger issue: no one seems willing to take real responsibility. Instead of sitting down together to talk about solutions and how to get there, it often turns into a blame game, with fingers pointed in every direction but little concrete action.
So, in this article, we want to cut through the noise — explaining what the main issues related to tourism actually are, how they affect locals and visitors, and why the situation isn’t as black-and-white as the headlines make it seem.
Just a small reminder: newspaper articles are written to generate clicks — not necessarily to give you the full picture. The reporters rarely talk to people with mild, balanced opinions. Instead, they go for those at either end of the spectrum because it makes for a better story. And the headlines? Often taken out of context or phrased in a way that sounds a bit more dramatic than reality, just to spark discussion and get shared. So take it all with a grain of salt.
“Overtourism” and “mass tourism” are terms that get thrown around a lot, but few — even people in tourism — can clearly define it beyond the vague idea of “there are too many people.”
“Mass tourism is the organized movement of large numbers of people to specialized tourist locations. It is characterized by large-scale, standardized, and often low-cost travel experiences, concentrated in specific destinations and times of year.”
“Overtourism is a phenomenon that arises when excessive tourism negatively affects a destination, causing problems such as congestion, environmental deterioration, rising prices, loss of cultural authenticity, and inconvenience to local residents.”
So, it doesn’t always mean there are “too many tourists” in absolute numbers. It’s about imbalance — when the number of visitors exceeds what a place can handle socially, environmentally, or infrastructurally without harm.
Based on the criterias mentioned above? Yes.
Does it mean there are simply “too many people”? No — or at least not all the time, and not everywhere.
When I looked at how other places tackle overtourism, two concepts kept coming up:
Has anyone measured this for Lofoten? Not really. Or not as far as I know. There’s one study from 2019, but it skipped the hard numbers and feels outdated after the pandemic boom.
So here we are, still arguing about whether Lofoten “really” has overtourism, when what we actually need is hard data — and fast.
Only then could we say with reasonable certainty, “Lofoten (or a particular village, beach or trail) can handle X visitors per day/week/season before tipping into overtourism.”
But let’s be honest here— Lofoten doesn’t have years to wait for perfect research. The roads, housing, and trails are already strained. We need to start acting now — with smarter limits, better infrastructure, and a real plan — while the scientists can crunch the numbers in the background.
One of the reasons the overtourism debate in Lofoten feels so divided is that everyone is comparing it to something different.
Tourists visiting from big cities or other crowded destinations often say, “It’s not that bad — I’ve seen worse,” because they’re comparing it to Rome, the Dolomites, or Santorini. On the other hand, locals compare the situation in Lofoten now to the Lofoten they knew 10, 20, or 30 years ago.
Then there’s the tourism industry, where perceptions of “too few” or “just enough” visitors depend on occupancy and bookings — often compared to last year’s numbers. But what rarely gets mentioned is that the number of hotel rooms, cabins, and beds keeps increasing every year. So even if businesses feel they’re operating below capacity, the total number of tourists in Lofoten is still higher than ever.
So, while most tourists see Lofoten as calm and magical. Locals see a dramatic shift from what Lofoten used to be. And the industry sees numbers — not always the full picture.
All three perspectives are real, but without context, they talk past each other.
There’s a risk in throwing around big words like “chaos” and “overtourism” without context. When headlines paint Lofoten as overrun and unmanageable, it’s often the responsible visitors who get spooked. And that matters — because tourism supports around 1 in 5 jobs in Lofoten.
There’s also an irony here: these responsible tourists are often the ones helping fund solutions through the money they leave behind — yet they’re the first to cancel when media coverage goes too far.
If this kind of framing were to scare off only the “wild camping” crowd, I’d honestly say hallelujah. But that’s not usually how it works.
So yes, let’s talk openly about the pressure tourism puts on small communities — but let’s also be precise with our language. Because if we scare away the kind of tourism that actually contributes, we’ll only make the real problems harder to solve.
Ask ten locals about the issue that “overtourism” in Lofoten brings, and you’ll get ten different answers.
➡️ One will be upset about wild campers leaving human waste around Sørvågvatnet lake
➡️ Another doesn’t like people pitching tents near their cabin.
➡️ Someone else will say the beaches and trails they used to have to themselves are now “ruined.”
➡️ A fourth will bring up the pothole-filled roads in Reine.
➡️ A fifth will grumble about the endless ferry queues.
➡️ Sixth will point out it’s been ten years since they last went up Reinebringen.
➡️ A seventh will complain about the parking situation along the roads.
➡️ An eight will bring the overflowing trash bins,
➡️ While the ninth will point out that he feels like living in Disneyland
➡️ and the tenth one will say: “Which overtourism?”
And honestly? All of those points are valid.
But the one thing almost everyone agrees on is that the E10 road is unbearable.
For anyone who hasn’t driven it, the E10 is the main road through Lofoten — basically the spine of the islands. It’s the only road that connects the villages, the only way to get between the ferries, airports, and iconic sights, and it carries everything from tourists in rental cars to local traffic and trucks hauling supplies.
In summer, there are simply too many cars driving too slow, stopping where they shouldn’t, dodging paid parking and leaving cars in ditches or passing places. Every lay-by, shoulder, and roadside spot is crammed with campers and RVs. The E10 — the main artery through the islands — just can’t cope, especially in July and early August (and again in February–March during northern lights season).
Basically, if the E10 is clogged, the whole of Lofoten feels like it’s grinding to a halt. Locals can’t get to work, deliveries are delayed, and even emergency services get stuck in traffic — all because there’s only this one, narrow artery connecting everything.
It’s not just the roads. For those living in Reine, Henningsvær, Ramberg, or Haukland, the busiest summer weeks bring:
Tourists keep finding creative (mostly illegal) spots to dodge paid parking, so now, for example, all of Reine is a no-parking zone. For locals, that’s rough — paying 150 NOK for a one-off Reinebringen hike is fine, but paying it every time we visit friends for a board game night? Not so much. And don’t even get me started on the beaches. When the weather finally cooperates for that one rare sunny week in July, good luck finding a spot at Ramberg, Ytresand, or Haukland.
It’s not just a minor inconvenience. For us, it changes how we live and work. I recently started a photography company with a friend, and we love shooting in the golden evening light around midnight in summer. But finding parking near our chosen spots is almost impossible — they’re almost always filled with campervans parked overnight, often illegally. That’s not just frustrating; it directly impacts how we earn a living.
And we’re not the only ones feeling it — locals who just want to bring their kids to the beach, fishermen heading to their boats, or businesses restocking supplies all have to navigate the same gridlock and “creative” parking.
Overflowing bins and too few toilets mean you can stumble across some pretty unpleasant surprises in nature (or worse, in someone’s backyard). The municipalities can’t keep up, because the cleanup bill is way higher than what tourism revenue actually covers.
And it’s not just that there aren’t enough toilets — there are also plenty of people who simply don’t want to pay 10–20 NOK to use the ones that exist. Which is baffling, considering that’s less than the price of a coffee, and it’s literally the difference between a functioning system and… well, human waste turning up in the wrong places.
There’s a reason we now have Sherpa stairs up Reinebringen, stone steps heading down to Bunes Beach, and between Ryten and Kvalvika. The nature simply can’t handle that many people without help. And while these stairs protect the most fragile sections, they can’t be built everywhere.
It’s not just the trails. Camping in the wild is still allowed in Norway thanks to Allemannsretten (the right to roam), but in Lofoten it’s becoming another pressure point.
In some parts of Lofoten, camping was forbidden in 2021 due to too much presuure on the nature. But even where it’s still legal (like parts of the Sørvågvatnet lake), problems add up fast when too many people pitch up in the same spots night after night. It’s not just the waste left behind — including human waste — but the quieter, long-term damage: disturbed wildlife, a spiderweb of new paths, and the gradual loss of vegetation, especially the mosses that hold moisture in the soil. Once those mosses are gone, the ground dries out, turns to dust, and eventually erodes, leaving bare patches that take years (if not decades) to recover.
Wildlife is feeling the pressure too. It’s not just tourists with drones — we’ve seen local boats chasing orcas, and arctic terns and other birds constantly spooked off their nests by people wandering through and camping at sensitive areas. Most of this isn’t malicious, but that doesn’t make it harmless. For some bird species, one bad nesting season can be enough to collapse a colony.
In the peak hours during the summer, especially Reine and Henningsvær stop feeling like villages and start feeling like theme parks.
You’ve got people peeking into windows like we’re living in some open-air museum, drones buzzing overhead like angry mosquitoes, and cameras clicking at every corner. It doesn’t exactly feel like home when your street turns into a photo safari.
If you’d asked us a year ago what we struggled with the most when it came to tourism issues, we’d have answered without hesitation: housing. Since we moved to Lofoten in 2021, we’ve lived in all sorts of places with pretty low standards — an old fish oil factory, a fisherman’s cabin with a leaking roof, our motorhome, someone’s summer cabin… And even then, nothing was ever certain; we never knew more than six months ahead where we’d be living next.
Thankfully, a few months ago we finally managed to buy a house, so we now have a permanent place to stay. But housing is still a topic that’s very close to our hearts.
As business owners running sightseeing tours and a photography business, another big struggle is parking. Take the viewpoint under Reinebringen, for example — could we please, please, please have a sign there making it clear this is a short-term stop for taking a few photos, not a campsite? It’s frustrating that for most of the summer season, there’s no chance to park there at all — and even more frustrating to have to tell our guests to watch where they step because of the human 💩 left behind.
When people talk about the tourists in Lofoten, it’s easy to imagine a single crowd causing all the problems. But the truth is, it’s not everyone equally.
Different kinds of visitors put very different levels of stress on our roads, parking, housing, and nature.
If we’re serious about making tourism here less harmful (I am not saying more sustainable on purpose), we need to talk honestly about which groups cause the most strain — and how we can manage it better.
If you want to explore Lofoten right now, you basically need your own car. The few buses that do exist run infrequently and rarely match ferry schedules or flight arrivals, so almost every visitor ends up in a rental, camper, or private car — crowding the same narrow roads and competing for the same overstuffed parking lots.
Traffic is often blamed on campers and rental cars — and while that’s true, it’s also a symptom of something bigger: our near-total lack of functioning public transport.
Imagine a summer shuttle bus running every hour between Akkarvikodden rasteplass and Å, with big parking lots at both ends. Visitors could park, hop on, and enjoy the scenery without clogging the E10.
We’ve even looked into whether we, as a private company, could run something like this. But honestly? The bureaucracy is a nightmare. So we’re stuck in this classic chicken-and-egg scenario:
We get it — we love van life ourselves. We’ve spent months on the road, first in a converted campervan and later in a motorhome before going back to the campervan, so we understand exactly why this lifestyle is so appealing. The freedom, the views, the flexibility, the silence (!!!) — it’s hard to beat.
But van travel, in the sheer numbers we see in Lofoten today, has become the biggest source of strain on local infrastructure. Campervans and motorhomes are a major factor behind clogged roads and shoulders, packed parking areas, and long queues for ferries.
Yet much of the economic benefit that might balance out these costs connected to this never reaches the local community — there are no car rentals involved, no paid accommodation, and many campervan and motorhome travelers arrive stocked with food from home, only picking up the bare essentials in local stores.
And it raises a fair question: should local communities be the ones footing the bill for facilities and services that mostly serve self-contained travelers?
Dozens of campervans drive in a row along the roads in Lofoten. Video by @stineogjarlen
The most realistic solution is clear: designated campsites. These already have the infrastructure to handle the demand, and the costs can be shared fairly, instead of landing on the shoulders of residents and local businesses.
However, simply asking, “pretty please, use campsites,” like we’re doing now, isn’t going to cut it.
Some responsible travelers will happily choose campsites — as long as there’s enough space in peak season and booking is straightforward. But others? They won’t change just because we ask nicely. Voluntary goodwill alone isn’t going to fix this.
Here’s what could actually make a difference:
Regulate roadside camping in Lofoten by default — at least during the peak summer months — and enforce it. Try it for a year or two and see how it impacts both locals and visitors.
Make campsites part of the solution — and bring them into the 21st century by making them easy to book online in advance. If travelers can secure a spot ahead of time, far fewer will default to ditches, lay-bys, or village streets.
On cruise ship days, quiet fishing villages in Lofoten can feel like they’ve been turned upside down. When a ship docks, thousands of passengers spill out at once, all heading to the same viewpoints and villages.
Yes, some local businesses make money from offering tours to cruise passengers, but it’s worth asking: do these massive ships even make sense for places like Lofoten?
According to Professor Svein Larsen (University of Bergen), the average cruise tourist spends only about NOK 300 per day onshore.
For comparison:
Hostel and camping travelers spend roughly twice that.
Families staying in hotels spend around NOK 1,000 per day (on top of their room).
Most cruise passengers spend a bit on coffee, some cheap sightseeing, and maybe a souvenir or two. Very little of their money goes toward things like public toilets, local attractions, or anything that helps offset the strain their visit creates.
The real winners? Port authorities and businesses set up specifically to cater to cruise traffic — not the wider local community.
If cruise tourism is going to stay in Lofoten, it has to work for everyone — not just the cruise companies and ports. That means:
Checking whether docking fees actually cover the costs.
I wonder, what are the ships paying to dock, and where does that money actually go? If a ship docks in Gravdal but its passengers are bused through Flakstad and Moskenes, those municipalities still deal with the road wear, traffic control, and waste — but do they see a krone of the revenue? If not, those fees need to increase and be distributed more fairly.
Focusing on quality over quantity.
Instead of squeezing in as many ships as possible, Lofoten could prioritize smaller vessels. Make Lofoten a premium stop, not a mass-market pit stop.
Finding out if cruise ships are pushing other travelers away.
In our own travel forums, we often see people asking when cruise ships will be in port so they can plan around them — or avoid the area entirely. If these ships are scaring off higher-spending travelers who actually stay overnight, eat in local restaurants, and book local tours, we need to know. Are we trading away the visitors who contribute most, just to host day-trippers who barely leave the ship?
This is where locals push back the hardest when it comes to new regulations, because for many, renting out property is their only way to tap into tourism money in Lofoten.
And to be clear — I get it. Owning a secondary house or a fritidsbolig (holiday home) near Reine is basically a golden goose.
If you own a 3-bedroom house in the Reine area, you can easily rent it out for around 6,000 NOK per night during peak season — and being fully booked in July and August is not unusual.
Do the math: that’s 372,000 NOK gross for just two months.
Of course, Booking.com or Airbnb will take their cut (usually 15%), cleaning needs to be paid for, and taxes will be due — but even with those costs, it’s still a very comfortable extra income for just 62 days of rentals.
And that’s exactly why so many people are buying properties here for short-term rental income, even if they don’t live anywhere near Lofoten themselves.
Before anyone jumps to conclusions: after years of struggling to find a livable long-term rental in Lofoten — places where we wouldn’t be told to move out between May and October — we finally bought our dream house in spring 2025. We now rent it out when we’re away on holidays or work-related trips.
However, we believe that that’s what Airbnb was supposed to be — a way to rent your home when you’re away or share a spare room, not an excuse to turn whole houses into unregulated hotels.
Right now, about 47% of all houses in Moskenes municipality aren’t lived in year-round — they’re either short-term rentals or holiday cabins that sit empty most of the year.
That’s nearly every second house. Walk through Reine and you can practically point them out: Airbnb, holiday cabin, Airbnb, hotel, another empty cabin, Airbnb again…
It’s not that 47% of homes are on Airbnb specifically — but almost half the housing stock isn’t part of the permanent community anymore.
And while there are no official stats (this whole sector is barely tracked or regulated), I’d estimate that roughly half of the owners of these short-term rentals are registered as residents somewhere else than in the Moskenes kommune.
Why does that matter? I’ll get into it in a moment — but trust me, it matters a lot.
Most of the money leaves the community.
In Norway, the income tax is paid to the owner’s home municipality — not where the property is located. The property tax (eiendomsskatt) does stay local, but it’s tiny compared to what those rentals earn. So, the property makes big money in a Lofoten village, but most of the tax revenue ends up in another municipality (or even another country, if the owner is foreign).
The community carries the costs without the benefits.
Tourists staying in these rentals still use roads, water, waste systems, and emergency services. But because the tax revenue doesn’t stay local, the municipalities don’t get much extra funding to cover those costs — leaving locals with the bill while also struggling to find housing.
It changes the nature of the villages.
Whole neighborhoods become “ghost towns” in the off-season, packed with short-term rentals instead of year-round residents.
Walk through a village in December and count how many driveways aren’t plowed for days — that’s how many homes sit empty. And if there are no homes for local young families, how long will the kindergarten or school stay open?
It’s not just a housing issue — it fuels overtourism.
Accommodation capacity decides how many people can stay in Lofoten. Keep adding short-term rentals, hotels, and cabin areas, and visitor numbers will keep rising — far beyond what our roads, parking, and nature can actually handle.
Just recently, a Fredriksstad newspaper ran a cheerful feature about a couple who bought two cabins in Sørvågen purely for rental income. The article painted it as a “smart investment” — the cabins pay for themselves through tourism, and, naturally, it hinted that other well-off Norwegians might want to do the same.
I’m not here to pick on this couple personally — they’re just doing what the system allows.
But when national media openly promotes buying up property in Moskenes (one of Norway’s poorest municipalities) as a risk-free way to make money, while locals can’t find housing and the municipality barely sees a krone of that income, it realy shows how normalized the practice has become — and why the rules need to catch up.
We’ve already established that almost half (47%) of all houses and flats in Moskenes are either on the short-term rental market or used as holiday homes. Nobody knows exactly how many fall into each category, because this sector is barely tracked or regulated.
Even without the breakdown, that number is staggering.
(For perspective: remember the Airbnb protests in Barcelona? There, only about 3% of homes are short-term rentals — and it still caused outrage.)
But the real shock isn’t just how many properties are tied up in tourism. It’s how little money actually stays in the local community when so many of these houses are owned by people who don’t live here — compared to what Moskenes would gain if families lived in them year-round.
The Revenue Gap – Short-Term Rentals vs. Full-Time Residents in Moskenes
Moskenes municipality in Lofoten faces a growing challenge: more homes are being purchased as short-term rentals by non-residents, while the local population struggles with housing shortages. But beyond housing availability, there’s another problem — the massive disparity in how much revenue these properties generate for the municipality compared to homes with full-time residents.
Scenario 1: A 3 million NOK property used as a short-term rental
Rental price: 5,000 NOK per night
Occupancy: 40% (≈146 nights/year)
Annual gross income: ≈730,000 NOK
Municipal revenue:
If the owner lives outside Moskenes: ≈12,000 NOK/year (property tax only)
If the owner lives in Moskenes (but rents their secondary home): ≈91,000 NOK/year (property tax + local share of income tax)
Scenario 2: A family living in the same house full time
Two-person household (both adults earning 500,000 NOK/year): ≈289,000 NOK/year (per-resident state funding + local income tax share)
Four-person household (two adults, two kids): ≈455,000 NOK/year
In other words, a short-term rental owned by someone outside Moskenes contributes up to 38 times less to the local budget than a four-person family — while the guests of the house still use the same roads, trash systems, and emergency services.
In 2024, Moskenes, a municipality with fewer than 1,000 inhabitants, had 218 properties rented out via agencies like Airbnb, generating a total of 103 million NOK in rental income — about 472,705 NOK per property per year.
On paper, this looks like a tourism success story. But most of that money never touches Moskenes’ budget. Here’s why:
(Note: These figures are illustrative estimates. We couldn’t find official numbers, so the actual figures may differ.)
70% of the property owners live outside Moskenes, so the municipality only receives property tax (≈12,000 NOK per house annually, plus kommunale avgifter).
30% are local owners renting out secondary homes, so they contribute property tax plus income tax (22% on 85% of the rental income, since 15% is tax-free).
By contrast, if those homes were lived in by full-time local families, each household would generate significantly more municipal revenue through state subsidies per inhabitant, income tax, and property tax — though residents also bring costs.
This case study examines how much Moskenes actually earns under three scenarios.
Key Assumptions:
Average rental income per property: 472,705 NOK/year
Taxable income share: 85% (15% tax-free)
Income tax rate: 22%
Property tax per house: 12,000 NOK/year
Local family scenario: Two adults earning 450,000 NOK/year each
State subsidy per resident (district-adjusted): 65,000 NOK/year
Non-local owners (153 houses): Property tax only = 153 × 12,000 = 1,836,000 NOK
Local owners (65 houses): Property tax (12,000) + income tax (472,705 × 0.85 × 0.22 ≈ 88,378) per house = 100,378 NOK per house
65 × 100,378 = 6,524,570 NOK
Total municipal revenue: ≈8,360,570 NOK/year
Property tax (12,000) + income tax (≈88,378) per house = 100,378 NOK per house
218 × 100,378 = ≈21,877,604 NOK/year
Each house:
Property tax = 12,000
Subsidy = 2 × 65,000 = 130,000
Income tax on salaries = 2 × (450,000 × 0.22) = 198,000
Total per house = 340,000 NOK
For 218 houses:
218 × 340,000 = ≈74,120,000 NOK/year
Under the current system, the municipality earns ≈8.4 million NOK/year from these 218 properties.
If all owners were locals, Moskenes would see ≈21.9 million NOK/year.
If each house housed a two-person local family, the revenue jumps to ≈74.1 million NOK/year (though service costs would also rise).
Even after accounting for municipal costs per resident, a house lived in by a local family brings in over 8× more revenue than one owned by a non-resident and rented out, and 3–4× more than a locally owned rental property.
A lot of tourists — and even plenty of Norwegians — assume Lofoten is rolling in cash because:
But the reality is nowhere near what most people think.
Since 2012, Moskenes municipality has been on the government’s Robek list — a registry of municipalities that are so deep in financial trouble they’ve essentially can’t make new financial decisions without state approval.
The situation got so dire that Moskenes basically declared bankruptcy, had to accept financial bailout funds from the state, and is now in the process of merging with Vestvågøy municipality (the area around Leknes) just to keep functioning.
For every kroner the municipality spends to maintain tourist services (extra trash collection, emptying public toilets, more parking…), that’s a krone not going to local schools, kindergartens, and elderly homes.
So yes, when locals get frustrated about freeloaders, it’s not just pettiness. It’s because every budget meeting here is literally a fight over what gets cut — services for residents or services for visitors.
“We’re at a point where we don’t have the funds to pay for healthcare and schools. A tourist tax would bring in resources and money. Right now, we almost have to choose between spending money on nursing homes or toilets for tourists. As a local politician, you always choose services for your own residents,” says Mayor of Vågan (the municipality where you find Svolvær) Vidar Thom Benjaminsen.
I’m not saying we should ban short-term rentals entirely. But we do need to bring back some balance.
Before deciding on solutions like boplikt (residency requirements) or short-term rental zones, Moskenes needs a clear picture of the actual housing landscape:
How many houses in the municipality are currently used for short-term rentals?
What share of those owners are local versus non-resident individuals or companies?
How many locals — singles, couples, or families — are actively looking for housing and can realistically move in if homes become available?
This is something that is rarely mentioned in the overtourism debate.
The foreign tour operators and guides bring tourists into the region but contribute little back. They don’t pay the taxes, insurance, and fees the Norwegian companies are required to pay, and yet use the same roads, parking, and trails.
On top of that, they undercut the prices of local companies who actually follow the rules, making it harder for compliant businesses to stay competitive.
The frustrating part is how little enforcement there is — leaving local operators to carry the costs while others bypass the system entirely.
And to make matters worse, it’s often the local tourism industry that gets blamed for the pressure tourism puts on nature and infrastructure — even though many of us are doing our best to run responsible, sustainable businesses within the rules.
It’s a common practice year-round – in summer and winter – for foreign “agencies” and photo workshops to bring tourists to Norway. Many of them:
rent 8–9 seater vans,
bring guides from abroad,
offer guiding and accommodation packages,
and operate without the required Norwegian licenses, permits, or financial guarantees.
Most travelers don’t realize that this is illegal and risky.
Today, many photo workshops and “agencies” operate year-round using rental vans or foreign-registered minibuses, combining guiding and accommodation without meeting any of these requirements – leaving travelers without insurance or legal protection if something goes wrong.
Overtourism isn’t just about visitor numbers — it’s also about local policy choices. In Lofoten, much of the long-term pressure comes not only from cars, cruise ships, and camper vans, but from decisions made at the municipal level: approving new hotels, expanding existing facilities, filling in the sea to build more cabins, and greenlighting entire cabin developments.
These are not inevitabilities — they are choices. And the same authorities also have the power to say no. Yet in public discussions, the focus often falls on visitor behaviour, while the role of local decision-making in shaping tourism capacity is rarely addressed.
We strongly resonate with the views expressed by Esben Nedrebø in a debate piece published in Lofotposten on 25 May 2025, and will quote him directly here:
For years, there’s been a push from local politicians and tourism operators in Lofoten for the Norwegian government to introduce some form of tourist tax. And finally — after a whole lot of back and forth — it’s happening.
In June 2025, the government agreed that municipalities with heavy visitor pressure will be allowed to introduce a 3% tax on accommodation, including hotels, Airbnbs, and cruise passengers. It’s a small but important step.
The idea is that the money collected will go straight into improving public services affected by tourism — things like toilets, waste disposal, and trail maintenance — which until now have mostly been covered by local budgets.
That said, the new rules don’t apply to motorhomes, campervans, or tents — which is a bit puzzling, considering this is the group that arguably puts the most strain on public infrastructure like toilets, waste bins, and parking.
Still, let’s be grateful that something is moving forward. It might not be a perfect, all-encompassing solution, but it’s a start — and hopefully, adjustments will come sooner rather than later.
Every summer, when Lofoten feels crowded, locals understandably want someone to blame. And more often than not, that finger gets pointed at the LOCAL tourism companies.
We hear it a lot: “You’re the ones making money off these tourists — you should pay for the trash bins, the public toilets, even the road repairs.”
Here’s the thing:
Our guests aren’t the ones filling the public restrooms, overflowing the bins, or dumping grey water. They’re not the ones blocking the passing bays or parking overnight along the roads.
And should we really be footing the bill to fix the state road just because we drive tourists on it? We already pay our share through taxes — just like the other industries here, which also uses these roads heavily.
We’re a two-person company (with a few external guides), and we don’t even run group sightseeing tours in the summer. Why? Because parking at Reine, Ramberg, or Nusfjord is so chaotic that we either have to:
Neither is acceptable.
So yes, we profit from tourism — but we also pull our weight, pay our taxes, and deal with the same headaches everyone else does.
Pointing fingers at local businesses won’t fix the real issues.
Most of us aren’t asking for a free pass. We actually want regulations — proper ones that:
So, can we please stop treating each other as enemies and start focusing on where the real pressure comes from — and how to manage it together? 🙏
If Lofoten is going to remain a place where people actually want to live — and where visitors can still enjoy coming — we all need to pull the same rope: locals, the tourism industry, and government, from the municipalities to the national level.
👇This part is addressed directly to the municipalities of Lofoten and Destination Lofoten👇
We know you’re (probably) working on solutions ❤️ But here’s the problem — most of us living and working here have no clue what is actually being done. And that lack of information fuels resentment and the feeling that decisions are being made about us, without us.
We do understand that some fixes require state-level rules or funding. But “no budget, no capacity, waiting on Oslo” can’t be the answer to everything forever.
🙏 Maybe there already is a plan. If so, share it — openly and regularly.
🙏 If something can’t be done yet, explain to us why.
🙏 And tell us what we, as locals and businesses, can actually do to help make it happen.
Because until we stop “acting as separate islands” and start shouting together, these problems are just going to pile up — and Lofoten will keep inching closer to becoming the exact “overtourism” cautionary tale nobody here actually wants.
Honestly, if you’ve read this far, you’re already the type of traveler we want here — the kind who cares about the place they’re visiting.
Despite what the headlines suggest, Lofoten hasn’t been swallowed by mass tourism. Yes, some spots get packed in July and August, but you can still have an incredible trip — without adding to the chaos.
Here’s how to make your visit better — for you, for locals, and for the islands:
Almost every guest tells us, “I wish I stayed longer.”
Not because they’re short on vacation days, but because they’ve tried to cram all of Norway into one week.
Lofoten alone has over 50 hikes, each with its own charm. If you want to actually enjoy the place (and not just race from one photo stop to the next), give yourself at least 5–7 days here.
Not only will your trip feel way less rushed, but longer stays also mean fewer trucks hauling supplies for constant guest changeovers, fewer cleaners scrambling for temporary housing, and less churn for the community overall.
Between October and May, Lofoten feels like a completely different place — fewer crowds, lower prices, and a calmer pace.
Yes, you might get a storm, but honestly? Experiencing a proper Lofoten storm is something I’d put on everyone’s bucket list.
And you’ll be helping local businesses when they actually need it, not when everything’s already bursting at the seams.
Stay in hotels, rorbuer, or licensed campsites.
If you’re booking through Airbnb or Booking.com, take a moment to check if the host is actually local. It’s not always obvious, but most local owners will say so in the “About the Host” section. Supporting locals means more of your money stays in Lofoten rather than disappearing elsewhere.
Lofoten’s roads are narrow, winding, and busy in summer. If you’re not used to mountain roads or icy conditions, slow down — but pull over often to let faster traffic pass.
Never park in passing places or stop on the E10 just to take photos (or because you spotted orcas). It’s dangerous and blocks emergency vehicles.
And if the driving feels stressful, let a local guide handle it. It’s safer for everyone — and you’ll actually get to enjoy the views instead of clenching the wheel.
Norway’s right-to-roam (allemannsretten) doesn’t mean you can just park your van or pitch a tent wherever you please. If there’s a “no camping” sign, respect it.
Use proper campsites — they’re there for a reason. They keep beaches, lakes, and trails from turning into open-air toilets and trash dumps, and they free up parking so locals can actually get to a beach or go for a hike after work.
Reine and Henningsvær are real villages, not museums. Don’t peek into windows or wander through private gardens just to get an “authentic” photo.
Keep your drone under control — and check where they’re banned, especially near seabird colonies and in villages.
(Fun fact: that famous drone shot of the Henningsvær football field? Technically illegal.)
Stay on marked trails to protect fragile landscapes.
And when nature calls, use the public toilets instead of the nearest bush or beach — they’re there for a reason, even if they cost 10–20 NOK.
Reinebringen, Haukland Beach, or Henningsvær will be busy in the middle of the sunny day in July. That’s okay.
There are dozens of other trails and viewpoints if you’re willing to look beyond Instagram’s “Top 10.”
The main takeaway here is that tourists and locals measure “crowded” very differently:
In the tourist group (left), travelers say Lofoten “isn’t that crowded,” point out quiet areas, and compare it to what they’re used to elsewhere — so by their standards, it feels manageable.
In the local newspaper (right), residents describe a completely different reality: clogged roads, overflowing parking, nature damage, trash in the landscape, and a sense that tourism is overwhelming their everyday life.
For tourists, the baseline is “busier cities or destinations they’ve been to,” so Lofoten still feels relatively calm. For locals, the baseline is what Lofoten was 5, 10, or 30 years ago — and against that, the change feels extreme.
The contrast shows why debates about “overtourism” get so heated: one side doesn’t see a problem because it feels normal compared to other destinations, while the other sees their home transformed and strained beyond what they consider livable.
The issue isn’t that people want to experience Lofoten. It’s that too many people end up in the same few places at the same time, straining infrastructure that was never built for this — while rules that could ease the chaos either don’t exist or aren’t enforced.
So, who’s to blame?
▶️ The tourists for wanting to visit one of the most beautiful places on Earth?
▶️ The influencers and marketing campaigns that put it on everyone’s bucket list?
▶️ The local tourism industry for making it possible to stay and book activities?
▶️ The rental car and campervan companies?
▶️ The cruise ships that drop thousands of people at once?
▶️ Or the local and national government for failing to regulate it all?
The truth is, it’s not one group. It’s all of them — together — feeding into the same problem.
But pointing fingers won’t fix anything. The real question is: do we want to keep arguing over who’s at fault, or start figuring out how to make tourism work better for everyone?
If locals, businesses, and decision-makers actually work together — and if travelers do their part by staying longer, respecting the rules, and supporting the communities they visit — Lofoten can remain both livable for residents and unforgettable for visitors.
What Lofoten needs isn’t necessarily only fewer visitors across the board — it’s smarter tourism:
For all the frustrations — the clogged roads, the housing issues, the occasional visitor pitching a tent on a cemetery (yes, still not over that one) — we wouldn’t trade living here for anything.
One of the best parts of our work is sharing this place with people who genuinely care about it. Most of our tours run in the quieter months, from October to April, when the islands breathe a little easier.
It’s magical watching jaws drop as we enter Reinefjorden under a pink winter sunrise on our sightseeing tour, seeing the pure excitement when someone spots a whale or a sea eagle for the first time, or watching guests beam with pride when they reach the top of Ryten in the snow.
Moments like that remind us every single day just how lucky we are to call Lofoten home. And honestly? The travelers we meet — the ones who ask about life here, respect the place, and get why it needs protecting — give us hope that Lofoten can find a better balance.
We want (responsible!) tourists to keep coming — not because we run tours (though yes, we do), but because we truly believe Lofoten is a place worth experiencing. We just want it to be done in a way that doesn’t burn out the people who live here or wreck the very nature that makes it so special in the first place.
Get that right, and Lofoten stays what it’s supposed to be: a place worth living in, and a place worth traveling halfway across the world to see.
And if we don’t? Well… that’s when everyone — locals and travelers alike — will start looking elsewhere.
But we’d much rather focus on the first outcome. And we hope this article helps more people see why that balance is worth fighting for.
Before we wrap up this article on (over)tourism in Lofoten, here’s a quick reminder:
We’ve also written several other guides to help you plan your trip to Lofoten.
We put these together because we believe that giving people honest, detailed, and realistic information (no sugarcoating) is part of the solution. The more prepared and informed visitors are, the easier it is for everyone — travelers, locals, and the islands themselves — to handle the growing number of people coming here.
Hi! We are Ivar & Radka, an international couple who runs the Guide to Lofoten. We met in Trondheim and lived together in western Norway, Narvik and Tromsø. At the moment we call western Lofoten our home. We hope our page will make it easier for you to explore the beautiful places that made us chose Norway for our home.
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