Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2009, Blaðsíða 39

night—only they have no bloody sense of
rhythm. There are times when I want to
stick up my hands and give up and beg
Siggi to pull in at the nearest oil rig; of
course, between Iceland and the Faeroes,
there’s nothing at all, just rolling ocean,
killer whales, skuas and kittiwakes swirl-
ing on updrafts. And when it rains and
the waves rattle over my back as I stare
out at sea transfixed, all I can think of is
my warm bed at home, far away.
The first leg of the trip starts gently,
not much wind, so we chug leisurely
from Ísafjörður crossing the bays of
Fljótavík and Hornvík, get daringly close
to a number of bird cliffs, including
Straumnes, and Hælavíkurbjarg where
I snap some killer shots of kittiwakes,
arctic terns, tons of guano, and a the oc-
casional bobbing puffin. Of course many
of us know of the puffin problems in the
Westman Islands, but later, when I visit
the tiny island of Nólsoy in the Faeroes,
I learn from a Danish taxidermist that
puffins all over the North Atlantic are
facing serious issues—apparently there
are not enough sand eels to go around.
My first real test of courage is the
overnight sail to Húsavík; this cost me
three or four bruises and a fluttering
heart. I kiss the dock when we arrive, but
after a few glasses of wine I am ready to
tackle the big crossing. Watching hump-
backs and minke gleefully blowing their
saltwater jets across Skjálfandi bay helps
steady my nerves too.
Now we are finally crossing the great
expanse of ocean. In my mind, I liken it
to traversing the Sahara. Three and a half
days of 30 knot winds, sometime five me-
tre squalls—well, at the time, I believe
it’s nearly the end of me; in actual fact,
it’s just the beginning. When we finally
reach the tiny fishing village of Fug-
lafjørður on Eysturoy’s east coast in the
Faeroes, I crack open my best bottle of
whiskey and celebrate—the whole bottle.
If ever there was an initiation on becom-
ing a man, this is it, only for me it’s twen-
ty years too late. Still, better late than
never. Finally, I can get on with what I’ve
come for, to explore the Faeroes.
A FAEROE SHIMMY AND
SHIBOODLE
For the next five days, all is smooth sail-
ing, and on the second day, when we
leave Fuglafjørður to Klaksvik in the
Northern Islands, the sun comes out and
all the grassy-mossy cliffs in the Faeroes
shimmer. Even the sheep look virtually
spiritual. The Faeroe people are beyond
hospitable and talkative; and just like Ice-
landers, they’re a well-travelled and curi-
ous bunch. Most speak excellent English.
Often in these small villages when I look
for a pub I’ll ask a local, and they’ll say,
“What do you need that for? Just knock
on the nearest door, they’ll give you a
coffee, a cognac and some chocolate bis-
cuits.”
This proves to be entirely true, for
in Tórshavn, while meandering the
winding lanes in-between quaint, grass-
roofed houses, I stumble across a local
poet who invites me back home for a
couple of beers, a poetry reading, and a
gift of two of his collections. Towards the
end, he tells me he’s looking for a man-
ager, so maybe he has an ulterior motive.
In Tórshavn there is no shortage of great
restaurants, bars, pubs and coffee shops.
There’s plenty to see here, and you can
easily spend days checking out muse-
ums and wandering the cobbled alley-
ways, or squelch over the moorlands of
Stremoy to the famous Kirkjubøur where
a medieval cathedral looms in the middle
of the village. Everywhere we see teams
training for the Tórshavn Festival races
in their typical six-man rowing boats
called seksmannafar.
From Tórshavn, we move on to Gota
to experience the G!Festival, where many
Faeroe bands such as Teitur, Orka and
Lena Andersen are headlining (Eivør
Pálsdóttir is conspicuously missing
this year). The festival is a like a mini
Glastonbury, with tents and seagulls
whirring overhead for scraps, red sun-
sets, and mind-blowing music. We’ll be
doing a full report on the festival and a
Faeroese take on Icelandic music in an
upcoming edition of Grapevine.
The day after the festival, I’m invited
back to Sigvør Laska, Eivør Pálsdóttir’s
manager’s place, for brunch. Sigvør
produces the dreaded Faeroe speciality,
wind-dried mutton (skerpikjøt), which
looks much like Spanish Serrano ham
but tastes more like old shoe soles (not
surprising the literal translation is ‘belt’s
meat’); it kind of rounds off my experi-
ence here. As I walk down the hill from
Sigvør’s house, through the waterlogged
grass and past dozens of hearty Faeroe
sheep, I remember I’m sailing back to
Iceland tomorrow and about to see my
new friend the North Atlantic again.
Not quite to wax lyrical, but there’s ab-
solutely nothing like it. It’s cold, it’s un-
comfortable; at times you might imagine
a killer whale could reach over the side
of Aurora and tug you in at any minute.
But join Siggi and Rúnar in any of their
adventures on the high seas and I guar-
antee you, you’ll come back an entirely
new person.
In the words of Herman Melville in
Moby Dick: ‘Methinks that what they
call my shadow here on earth is my true
substance. Methinks that in looking at
things spiritual, we are too much like
oysters observing the sun through the
water, and thinking that thick water the
thinnest of air.’
27
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 13 — 2009
www.airiceland.is
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Contact Air Iceland or
travel agent for reservation.
Nature’s Hot Spot
Vestmannaeyjar
8 hour Day Tour
Lake Mývatn
Mývatn
12 hour Day Tour
In the Footsteps of the Fishermen
Eskifjörður
10 hour Day Tour
Highlights of the North
Mývatn
12 hour Day Tour
Beyond the Arctic Circle
Grímsey
2 or 5 hour Evening Tour
A Different World
Greenland – Kulusuk – Ammassalik
2 night Hotel Package
Remarkable Greenland
Greenland – Kulusuk
8 hour Day Tour
Birds and Blue Waters
Ísafjörður
12 hour Day Tour
MARC VINCENZ
MARC VINCENZ