62 degrees of solitude - A visit to the Faroe Islands

Picture a giant uneven potato. Now cover it with a bit of moss, lay a cooked tagliatelle (the black ones with squid ink) over it and pepper it with a pinch of black and white sesame seeds. There.

That’s essentially what the Faroe Islands looked like from above. Giant volcanic rocks covered in grass, with a handful of lonely roads going from North to South or East to West and more sheep than you would probably come across in either New Zealand or Wales or even together.

What did I expect from this forlorn and remote island nation when I decided to pay it a visit? What was I looking for here, hoping to find?

I guess in hindsight it was more of an escape from the regular ordinary rather than a nature buff’s orgasmic experience. After visiting Iceland in 2008 and falling in love with the stubborn lifestyle of the Northern most Scandinavian country I figured that the Faroes must be like a slightly watered down and less touristy version of that. Considering the only international flights go to Denmark, the UK, Iceland and Greenland and the fact that I couldn’t think of one single famous Faroese person I was convinced this is one of Europe’s last undiscovered frontiers.

Interestingly enough the islands were voted the world’s most appealing islands by the National Geographic Traveller magazine beating the likes of Hawaii and the Azores. Was there really so much to them?

As I whipped my battered old Clio along the mountain road from the capital Torshavn to Vestmanna I couldn’t help but wonder at the sheer degree of solitude that gripped me here. The rolling hills covered in lush green grass, the numerous sheep grazing even on the steepest of cliffs and the violently expanding clouds above me gave me a sense of purity that I have so far only seen in Iceland and parts of remote Canada.

I continued along the so-called highway towards the small port town of Vestmanna until the road swung around a steep cliff and the town came into view. I was told I could do an amazing boat ride out to the bird cliffs from here so I drove down to the dock and entered the small building that housed the tourist information.

“I’m sorry we’re not doing any tours today, because of bad weather conditions”, the girl behind the counter informed me in perfect English. “So, is there any chance I might be able to do this tour tomorrow?” I asked. “You’re best off calling ahead. Here, you never know.” she said, almost apologetically. I got back in my little car and took it for a spin around the “center” of Vestmanna. After a few meters I landed at a dead end and had to reverse back out in order to get back on the main road. Not a soul was on the streets. Despite this being the infamous Faroese summer, it still seemed as if the locals preferred to stay indoors.

I took the same road back towards the Vagar roundabout and continued North towards Saksun, a place that housed one of the most frequently photographed images on the Faroe Islands, a turf roofed church overlooking a small fjord. I took a left off the main highway and passed through a small village before finding myself on a tiny country road leading into the unknown.
Around me, only green hills, wild geese and rich waterfalls that had been fed by the continuous drizzle that kept my windscreen wipers busy. When I arrived at the miniature town of Saksun I continued on until I reached the end of the road. In front of me the church, sitting there idly looking almost like a secret sanctuary from Lord of the Rings. The few houses that lay behind me looked as deserted as the rest of the country.

“Where the hell is everyone?” I wondered out loud. The only sounds that I could make out was the wind rushing through my ears and the occasional cry of a seagull somewhere above. I sat down on the bonnet of my car and took a big bite out of my Dime bar.

When I had visited Iceland with my mother 2 years earlier there were at least people in the villages, tourists taking pictures, something happening. Here I was the only living soul around and I started asking myself if planning in a whole weekend here was not a little too optimistic.
My plan was to spend the night in the Northern town of Gjogv where the only hotel in town offered guests the opportunity to stay in “viking style” beds. I wasn’t quite sure what that entailed but it had intrigued me enough to book ahead for one night. I crossed the bridge to Eysturoy island and drove further North towards Eidi a little town on the East coast of the Faroe’s second largest island.

The weather had completely turned on me by now. When I hadstepped out of the airport to capital helicopter shuttle only a couple of hours earlier I had been greeted by sunshine and t-shirt weather. Now the clouds were dark and full of sad tales. I arrived in Eidi to find a similar picture as in Vestmanna. A town empty of residents all hiding in their homes or all working in the capital? Who knows.
I stopped by the little green church at the mouth of the town and got out of my car to do a bit of exploring. From here the town looked as unexciting as a night out at your local Weatherspoon’s and I suppose because it looked so dead I didn’t engage in any further exploration.
What was going on here? Where the hell was everybody???

Suddenly, as if adding insult to injury I was surrounded by a thick cloud of mist making it almost impossible to see the thin road lying ahead of me as I continued on to the village of Gjogv. I believe I got a small panic attack as I hastily reached for my mobile and began calling Atlantic Airways to see if there was any way I could take the early flight back to Copenhagen tomorrow. At this point I was starting to get frustrated. Everything looked kind of samey samey and I was all alone. There was no one to talk to in the villages and nothing to do it seemed. What had I gotten myself into?

The answering machine at Atlantic Airways kindly informed me that there was no one I could speak to right now and that I should call again on Monday. ?????????
“Fuck it” I thought. As I descended into Gjogv I passed the hotel I was meant to stay at and drove down to a small plateau overlooking the little town and the fjord. It was 5pm and I looked around me to see if at least here there was anyone in sight. Not a soul. “They’re having a fucking laugh or what?” I exclaimed out loud. No, this is not what I was expecting from the most picturesque village on the islands and suddenly the Viking style bed didn’t seem so attractive anymore. I turned on the engine and turned back the way I came this time driving along the Eastern shore of Eysturoy and taking the tunnel back to civilisation. When I neared the bridge that I had crossed about 1 hour earlier there was finally some traffic and I felt a slight shudder of relief running down my back.

I drove back along the water to get back into the capital and passed what were breathtakingly beautiful views of lush green cliffs plunging into the open sea.

After all this ranting about the islands I feel like setting something straight. They are breathtakingly beautiful and I guess I just got a little demoralised at this stage because I had expected a little bit more activity in the villages but all I saw was quiet rows of tiny houses that sat there idly as if not touched in ages. The location and natural composition of the islands also prevents them from having any trees growing anywhere except in urban centers where they are planted artificially. It seemed more rugged than I had expected.

As I drove the Clio back into the city I began looking for the only hostel in town, which I had previously informed of my immediate arrival. “Skansin” hostel was located right in the middle of town below the bizarre Vesturkirkjan. I got my key out of a small mailbox under the payphone near reception and found my room in the opposite building. After a quick rest I wandered down into town to find a place to eat and check out the “nightlife” that Monocle magazine had praised in one of their leading articles on the islands (Volume 13, May 2008).

I had a quick buffet dinner at a slightly Moroccan/Arabic all you can eat restaurant that was actually not so bad at all and found that there was a small local music festival being held just by the harbour front.

I suppose it was Faroese style that the musicians had to play in the back of a van but it was very refreshing to see everyone so happy and enchanted by the melodies. The first band was a group of young kids who sang Faroese songs that I for the life of me could not decipher followed by a mid 30’s bald guy with a surprisingly amazing voice. He sang his own songs in English and left me quite dumbstruck as I stood there with my cold pint of Carlsberg.

I also couldn’t help but notice that the Faroese people were actually quite a pretty bunch. Very Scandinavian in the way they dressed (more sober colours and lots of wool) but also with a strong air of pride about them. As I sat down at a bar on the square to watch one of the football world cup games I got chatting to a bunch of locals who were bizarrely in love with Germany and were 100% convinced that we would win the world cup.
What started as a small chat became a raging drinking affair during which the pride I had just mentioned manifested several times. Mostly it stemmed from an apparent hatred towards “colonial” power Denmark and the way the Faroese people were being oppressed by the guarding nation that also provides as much as 20% of the national budget in the form of aid. Much unlike Greenland, the Faroe Islands have absolutely no natural resources to speak of and almost entirely depend of fishing and fish farming making the discussion about full independence a difficult subject on the islands.

Young Faroese like my new friends Bergur and Poul however made it unmistakably clear to me that they consider themselves only Faroese and not at all Danish. It’s funny actually because when I first heard Faroese spoken on the plane I could literally not understand a single word. Danish on the other hand was something I could quite easily pick up. I guess the Danish empire never had the same character that the British Empire imprinted on its global citizens.




The next morning I woke up early and ventured into the small town center to see if I could pick up a typical Faroese souvenir. I stumbled upon a small record store on N.Finsengota that specialised in Faroese music. Quite a market gap I say, considering.
Tutl was not only the place that sold every possible recording ever made by anyone from the islands but also functioned as a record label that was trying to promote Faroese artists around the world. I took my time to listen to various CDs and got the shop assistant to show me the hottest new artists the island had to offer. Eventually I picked up the albums by “Orca” and “Petur Polson” – both albums that have taken me quite some time to get into. Experimental rock sung in one of the world’s rarest languages. Easier to access might be Eivør, the local cross between Bjork and Britney Spears.

I grabbed a coffee to go from a small coffee stall that claimed to have “the city’s best coffee” and got back into my small vehicle to give the birdcliffs of Vestmanna a second shot. As I drove up the mountain road again I felt as if all the world’s tears had been gathered in the thick wall of grey cloud that hung above my head. It almost seemed as if the sun itself was a rare and valuable metal that was hard to come by in this corner of the world.

I arrived in Vestmanna and parked my car next to a group of Belgian caravans and bumped into the German guy who I shared a dorm with back in Torshavn. We were just in time for the boat and managed to secure a front row seat on the top deck. Vestmanna lay in a small bay protected from the open sea and as we sailed towards the opening the guide explained to us that on the opposite shore there was a village that once consisted of 20 houses that were completely cut off from the rest of the country and which had been abandoned a while back because the remaining family members simply couldn’t hack the solitude. I nodded in astonished agreement wondering to myself why on earth they had moved there in the first place. There was NOTHING THERE! Not even a small beach. Tsk, some people.

We passed a salmon fish farm somewhere on the left side of the bay that contained a massive amount of live fish and as we were told functioned as a home for the salmon for about 3 years before it is farmed and exported to Europe and North America. It was quite cute to see these tasty fish jump up and down, almost skipping across the water like stones. As we neared the mouth of the bay the stunning Faroese shoreline came into full view. It was a mind-boggling collection of stunning rocks and cliffs that stood their ground against the grey sky like giant Viking fighters in the face of an invasion.

As our boat passed the shoreline I couldn’t help but wonder at the delicate skill with which the sheep were grazing on even the steepest of cliffs.

Sometimes they would even sprint uphill to get away from our scary boat and at no time did it look like they were about to stumble and roll down into the sea. One of the highlights of the trip was the viewing of the “elephant rock” that was set into a small alcove. It was shaped like one of those typical elephant stones one can take home from a trip to India or Thailand except much, much bigger. Obviously.
I was also quite surprised at the crystal clear water that appeared in those little caves that we passed. It was bluer than the bluest sky I had ever seen and that surely could have nothing to do with the depressing grey that hung above us. They were part of these hidden beauty spots here and there that I would come across sometimes that made my heart flicker.

I was hoping throughout to spot one of those cute little puffins that are also a local specialty, I’ll have you know. Sadly they decided to stay hidden today, instead we were able to spot an array of seagulls and various forms of penguins that had built their little nests in the uneven surface of the cliffs. Some of them had prime views of the ocean and I expected they would fetch quite a nice price on the bird-housing market.

When we returned back to Vestmanna my small Clio suddenly turned into a taxi for the German guy from my hostel and 3 other girls who we had met on the boat and who were desperate to get back to civilisation. The next bus was not due to leave for another 2 hours. At the petrol station in Torshavn I was also witness to the first country where open display of tobacco products was no longer allowed. It looked quite weird how the clerk pulled out a pack of Prince from some drawer under the counter and handed it to the lady who was in the queue in front of me.

Back in town Stefan (my new German friend) and I decided to visit Hvonn Brasserie (pronounced – Kwon) for what was dubbed “Torshavn’s best pizza”. I can’t say it was bad but it wasn’t good either. I am always suspicious of ham pizzas where the ham comes in really small thin strips. None the less it was as cosmopolitan as one could get here and the atmosphere was quite pleasant. The rest of the evening we spent back with our Faroese friends (it’s surprisingly easy to bump into people here) drinking and getting a taste for Faroese pub culture in bars such as “Sircus” that housed a funky bunch of locals sipping on lager and long drinks.

As the night wore on we spotted a bunch of drunken men that were either stumbling around in the street or were being kicked out of the bars where we sat. Quite amusing at the time, quite depressing in hindsight.

The next morning the day greeted us once again with a wall of grey and fog that almost whispered the words: “ Alex, it’s Sunday! Go home back to the warm summer of Amsterdam…”

Stefan and I had breakfast and decided to give Torshavn one last chance to prove it’s worthy of a touristic visit. We wandered down to Kaffihusid, which has a lovely location on the western side of the historic Tinganes district and luckily, was open at 10:30 am on Sunday. My latte tasted delicious and the quiet Sunday air felt good on our skin as we sat outside on the terrace watching the harbour.

Small countries like the Faroes always strike me as very peculiar. Especially, if they are a remote island such as this. Monaco, San Marino, Andorra … yea they all have something going for them, like Formula 1, skiing, casinos, shopping etc… But here? No here you had to really look for it.

On our search for an activity on this quiet Sunday morning we ventured into the small streets of Tinganes and stumbled upon various curiosities: The German and the Brazilian consulate (????), the Prime Minister’s office and the Ministry of foreign affairs as well as a street called Bakkahalla and the Queen of Denmark’s royal ship, which had recently arrived in Torshavn. The Tinganes district is by far the most picturesque part of town with its red houses and tiny winding alleys. The gloomy skies and the desolation just added to the unique experience.

Equally bizarre was Viðarlundin Park, a place approximately 10 minutes north from the harbour. A place, that is home to a couple of ducks and some strange statues created by local artists. I spotted a couple of hidden benches and pictured this park as the perfect hiding place for young couples to drink and snog. Not a soul passed us as we wandered along the path to the Northern exit.

It really was a shame that the weather didn’t play along this weekend otherwise I probably would have appreciated the charm of this town a lot more than I did today. As we returned to Kaffihusid for one last coffee I began to wonder if it was really worth coming here or if I got lured into a false sensation thinking this could be the “new Iceland” in the making.

When I ventured to the bus station to catch my bus to the airport I caught a glimpse of Queen Margharete of Denmark decending from her ship and giving a small wave at the handful of onlookers who had bothered to come out to see her. I didn’t see a single Danish flag, only Faroese.

Yes, this place definitely is ready to handle its own affairs. A place that is desperate to show the world it is more than sheep and salmon. More than a desolate rock in the middle of nowhere but it will take some time and some change in mentality. The Faroese are still quite homophobic and reluctant to change and these traits will make it difficult for them to position themselves as an equally open minded nation as Iceland, Norway, Sweden or Denmark.

Finally, I have one final request. Please allow more than 1 airline to serve this country. My credit card was literally bleeding after paying for my flights. OPEN UP!