Highs and lows so far

Highs and lows so far 30.06

Highs

I love writing.
I love my iPad and my coat, my two pressies to myself
I no longer care about the font or that the text is sometimes bold sometimes not
I'm flattered so many of you are reading
I'm taking advantage of the chaos by drinking uncounted beer stocks
So far I've spent precisely my taxi fare to get here from the airport
I've learned how potatoes are grown ( but seem to be posting from web not ap so can't add pic grr)
I understand some cottage farming practices
I've seen rowing practice
I've found water I might swim in
I've said no
I've had a 10min easy conversation with my host when we actually both had some down time!
My host says there's zillions of workawayers who want to come so I won't feel bad when I go
Ohmygod there's actually a sunset at 11.30! Oh crumbs I wonder if that means it actually goes down?
Apparently there's a secondhand shop here and they might find me a bicycle
Being flexible and able to hang in here to see what happens
Enjoying the risk taking and all the happen chance stuff that accompanies it
I've met the authors and discovered Another Escape magazine
My knee survived two falls today!
I keep remembering other travels and making comparisons
I've now worked 28 hours in my first week and established a strong bargaining position
Hitching works
There's a bus goes through each way every hour


The lows
Being tired in the first few days
Being on the blinkin main road
Not having a firm agreement about hours with my host
Getting my clothing choices wrong
Not going running cos I'm working at 7am every day
I've just missed the 5 min sunset typing this but it's just as light as before it
I'm spending too much time writing not reading and researching
I know more about football than I did

A step too far

A step too far 30.06

On leaving the guest house to walk, I decided to put my thumb out. Walking to the lake would be two miles and walking beside it to the falls as far again. Road and lakeside walk to the sea. Easy. I thought it was time to see how hitching might work. If I got a lift, fine but if not it didn't matter as there is no dark.

The third car along picked me up. Magic. The window wound down and I expressed surprise to see Dyoni, one of my walk in visitors that morning. I climbed in, knowing that his mother, Marion, was a friend of my host. Dyoni couldn't acknowledge me or engage in chatter about our random John Lennon conversation this morning but had told his mother all about it. Beautiful connections. Turns out she is the vicar in Vestmannaeyjar, only one of the best birding places in the islands! Magical moments like this make workaway experiences a treasure!

Except that because we have a connection through her aspergers son, she decides there is a prettier way for me to walk. We proceed to take turn after turn, past Faroese ponies that are 'smaller and tougher' than Icelandic ponies, past many sheep, now grazing high summer pastures, depositing me at a gatepost above the town rather than at the bottom edge of the lake. Yes, I can see the path I should follow but my careful and safely researched route has gone. I'm sure it'll be fine and I love the stories you told, but I have no maps and no idea where I am right now.

Then there's that moment I recognise. That moment of dawning when I know I've gone too far. The expectation, daring and excitement build, I often note but disregard, warnings in my head and then the moment arrives.  Too far to go back now, the only way is down.

As I turn to descend, I see the top of the mountain opposite now shrouded in cloud. I remember the words from guests just two days ago, (their guide host needed gps to descend safely) and i expect fog to come down at any moment, leaving me lost out on the tops with no one knowing where I am.

Beneath me I can see my original destination, the waterfall, but I am high above it with vertical drops to navigate. When I left the path an hour or so ago, I thought about this scenario but just wanted to see the top first. I had turned a corner and unexpectedly found myself looking out over a sheer cliff edge. I remembered reading it was here that the Vikings threw their slaves, when they were no longer useful. The sudden and surprising view and connection drew me on, made me go higher, stopped me taking the marked, safe, worn, route to the falls.

This lake is above sea level and offers beautiful waterfalls as it reaches the sea. It also offers the best swimming opportunity I have. I just need a bike now!

The turning point. Excited by stumbling upon this view I just had to keep walking up instead of down to the falls. 

Birds nesting on the tiniest ledges.

I ended up at the top of this. I had to find a way, firstly down this section, then two more like it. My knees were not happy but I buckled my backpack tightly and very inelegantly sat down and edged my way slowly over ledges.

The falls turned out to be non descript when I got there and I am pleased to have had a bit of a mini scary adventure on the way. Well, two adventures really, birds had also frightened me whirling, peeping and crying as I disturbed their territory. I was dive bombed by a whimbrel despite being on the path and surely, dear bird, you didn't make your nest right beside the path did you? I hear the sound of David Attenborough in my head and can hear him narrating as the birds warble and cry. I need to rewatch those episodes.

Six pm and the sun is strong. Two hours here, two hours back. I look into the next few weeks and decide I must find a way to get to the west of the island so I can sit all night and watch the sun. Other backpackers might be good for that. This afternoon I have begun to love my near surroundings, to see the beauty here, to find balance. I leave my writing and head back 'home'

Helpfully, hippo bags of granite chippings, dropped by helicopter ready to improve the path, serve to keep me right on track, no straying. I watch a pair of hawks or harriers circling not far away, they seem privately engaged with each other and unperturbed. Kerthunk! A silent attack from behind has brushed my glasses from my head. I'm terrified! And very very alone. 

I grab my glasses, pocket them, berghaus hood goes up and I walk faster but am ready for the next attack! I don't know bird psychology but my gut instinct is to counter attack. I watch and thrust my arms in the air when the bird closes in, emitting a loud guttural 'chaaarrrrr'. I'm frightened but continue as best I can to get out of their territory, fending off at least six other dive bombs but missing another that came from behind! I slipped once, but threw my arms anyway and shouted, albeit on one knee, too afraid to be seen having fallen. I stood stiffly but at the same time as aggressing against them i was sorry to distress them by being in their territory. 

After that a pair of oyster catchers had a go and then another group of whimbrells. A pair of small grey flitty birds peeped loudly and even this now frightened me. It was though seven pm was time to attack. I couldn't get on to the tarmac fast enough!

Listen to the pouring rain

Listen to the pouring rain 30.06

Listen to the pouting rain, listen to it pour.

My last purchase before leaving was undoubtably my best. Having fretted for some time about surviving without a waterproof coat I succumbed to one hundred and twenty pounds worth of goretex and love watching the drops just roll off it. Otherwise, my clothes choices are not the best. 

I'm too hot. Jeans and t shirts for twelve degrees sounded perfectly reasonable but it's not.  I'm spending my days mostly indoors so far with the heating on, with windows that don't open easily and wearing a large apron. 

Solid, water resistant, shoes sounded a good plan but no, I really need bare feet and crocs. Fashioning lace ups to easily slip on and off every time I move between the kitchen and the rest of the building means my toes are blistering slopping around inside them. Stopping to tie and untie about twenty times in a morning became a faff. Because of the high levels of rain, shoes are expected to come off the minute one enters a building. Yes, that's guests too. 

I've no passion for writing today, having to lock down these posts has momentarily taken the edge off things for me. I will just say two things tho.... she came in halfway through my cooking prep and placed a filthy electric slicing machine on the draining board next to lots of wet but clean utensils, plugging it in literally behind the taps. (Remember. This area is not for food prep, only washing up, she said) I nearly had a chefs paddy but walked away, returning a few moments later to remove the wire from the standing water and poke it behind the sink unit. I didn't wash up until slicer and bread were gone albeit leaving crumbs all over clean items. 

Later I said a big no about using the oven. We had discussion about which dishes to use, the decision was made to use the ones I said were unsafe. The oven stands from knee to shoulder height and has baking tins that slide in as multiple shelves. Cooking dishes are placed inside the baking trays making them easy to remove. This particular dish she wanted me to use was marginally bigger than the baking tray so the tray needed ramming in. I said I wouldn't do it, she would have to. So she did. When it came to removing it, complete with heavy pasta chicken meal for twelve, cooked in an earthenware dish, I again refused and she asked one of the guests to help me! He pulled and tugged at the jammed in shelf then gingerly reached one sleeved arm right into the back of the oven to push as well as pull it out. It was good to say no. 

Just now a stranger appeared, this not unusual, he is the third person today to just walk in and start going through drawers or cupboards without acknowledging me. i could hear him using the kitchen so called and introduced myself, it turns out he is one of her brothers. I've sat myself back round the corner but think I'll have a meltdown if he leaves it filthy. I understand one of her brothers is cooking steaks for the, after match, celebration this evening. It's a quiet afternoon then an evening of jubilant football officials, you just might see them if you watch the game between the Faroese and Belarus. 

The kitchen bins are empty, the floor swept (tho still squalid), the box with unknown dirty cutlery and what could once have been half an oven tray of dessert has been covered with a cloth, all the sinks are clean, the fridge ordered, the saucepans tidy, the dishes stacked and the utensils all in order. I think I'd better go out walking again. 

Time out at last

Time out at last 29.06.16

Walking was good for me. At last I have discovered a little of my surroundings and have returned in better humour. I walked in the rain and now the sun shines. Brilliantly.

I think about walking again, to look for a way to the top of the hill that escaped me earlier but I am tired, my bones do not like the dampness in the air and I am enjoying sitting alone. The football officials are team bonding in Torshavn and my host has gone for a bath. I find no comfy couch to sit in but nevertheless enjoy the emptiness and space from others. Sunshine always helps.

I did not manage to reach the ocean. I am in Midvagur, a deep bay on Vagar. Around the bay to the east, the stench of ammonia turned me away just before the factory gates did. Fish processing, drying I guess. I recall the same stench in Norway as racks of fish lay drying in the sun and the wind. Here there is too much rain. Perhaps the factory sheds had slatted sides in the same way that domestic sheds have slatted sides for wind fermenting/drying sheep. 

My journey around the bay to the south east took me past expanses of rough pasture that reminded me of Hebridean machair, a mass of fragile blossom on thin soil: cotton grass, buttercup, flowering grasses, ragged robin, orchids, thrift, all looking ripe for haymaking. No signs of haymaking, the perpetual rain would make it rather challenging. I see no signs of silage either and few sheep. The grassy slopes appear to be left alone for the great part but here and there small patches have been dug over and ridged. This year's potato harvest is beginning to grow. 

I followed the rocky path beside the harbour where expensive ocean going cruisers sit beside fishing boats and occasional wooden Viking shaped rowing boats cry out for attention. Each evening, I can see teams of young people training for local rowing contests, in these boats,  it is a national sport. Teams of six rowers in traditional fishing boats are driven by a thunderous cox, yelling and screaming. Some teams are better in tune with each other's rowing rhythm than others but regardless it is good to witness team effort in heavy boats with upturned 'viking' noses.

I walk on past a granite quarry with a sole jcb feeding granite slabs into a grinder. Black scars have been eaten from the cliffs above. It appears a lonely occupation. 

Rock stacks become visible beyond the mountains at the head of the bay, with heads immersed in cloud. My way is blocked by fencing and I cannot get close enough to view. My iPad is stuffed inside my clothes, safe away from the rain and despite my desire to take photos, it is not tempted to be a photographer.

The thing that strikes me most as I am walking is the dearth of people and the way many buildings generally look abandoned with not a soul to be seen. My host drives the one hundred metres between her home and this guesthouse several times every day. There must be people around but perhaps, like her, afeared of the rain, they all jump in their cars and go.

I find the buildings in general, unattractive, non descript, not the bright coloured dwellings I have seen in photos. A few turf rooves exist, but mostly rooves are corrugated and the turf when there, is in various states of repair. Some dilapidated, in disarray, tumbling off, a few are new and neat whilst some are in need of a haircut. I wonder why they cut them, I have seen them being cut and conclude that it probably serves to thicken the sward and maintain the waterproof layer.

I return smiling, refreshed by my time alone. One of my hosts' brothers is a fisherman, I should ask to go to sea with him, should ask to go anywhere anyone is going, let my needs be known. I feel in a strong position for bargaining!

Counting

Counting 29.06

Eleven thirty pm on day one and we have just finished setting up breakfast for the morning. I will keep tally. If I'm being generous I have given ten hours labour today. It's hard to quantify whether sitting entertaining guests counts. It should, but I've only given it 'half' hours and I wonder why.

I've mastered the car. Not only are doors left unlocked, car keys sit in the door pockets. I guess when you can't leave the island easily it makes car theft less appealing. Navigating the supermarket was less easy than roundabouts! 

Tomorrow I'm charged with baking four large quiches in an industrial oven and was sent to purchase ingredients. It was harder than it might have been, not only because I don't speak Faroese but also that many things are only labelled in Danish. the young supermarket assistants, whilst speaking good English, don't understand Danish. That's helpful then!

The Iceland football win continues to be a popular joke. 

'Another Escape' authors had a disappointing day, climbing to a viewing spot only to be suddenly shrouded in fog. Their guide had to use sat nav to get them safely down. No photos for them today then and a lesson for me in the dangers of exploring off piste alone. 

The Irish referee group arrived and clearly don't like salad but the fish pie, cake and biscuits went down well.  I've inched my mattress a foot further into the dimmest corner of the room and at midnight, I will now try to sleep to the sound of an annoying little wooden man turning the handle of his windmill, he must've been off duty last night. 

Wednesday 2pm

Disenchanted. Fed up. Filthy industrial kitchen without requisite cleaning or safety equipment. Disingenuous at best is the only description for my host. Telling me less than a week ago that she had no guests yet now tells me these referees booked two weeks ago. Apparently there is a European football cup going on and these guys are here to referee the match tomorrow. I don't understand why she told me there were no guests when she was full. That's not just about being chaotic. But why would you do that? I dislike not understanding. Dislike anything that is not straight talking. She has asked whether I might consider staying longer than two months. I think I'll be lucky if I last two weeks!

There, I've let down my guard. I'm whinging, this may have to become an invite only blog. In fairness I've been ready to walk since that first evening when there was no one here to greet me. No, those I've been around in the last few weeks,mknow I was ready to go walkabout before I even got here. I'm unsure I care even enough to hang on until I get the two days off with her car.

I'm unsure why I not packing my bag and clearing off. I feel sorry for her but don't understand why she is not employing someone for there is much work to do. And I don't understand that she seems to have few standards. She said she would clean the rooms today while I cooked. Yet one of the guests has just told me that the wet room with the shower is about to overflow into the hallway, this doesn't surprise me after seeing the state of it from just two people yesterday morning. it seems she has not mopped it. I find her to tell her they have just asked for it to be cleaned but I'm now going back to prepare the meal . Yes she says she will do it.  It's another issue, like the outside balcony where the water drains away from the drain hole, not into it.

I need to go to torshavn to explore options, stay in a hostel, meet some travellers. really I just need a good nights sleep. I know these positions can be like this, it's either all or nothing, draining and then incredibly rewarding. Situated on the main road to and from the airport I'm tired by the constant stream of traffic from early morning until late at night and worn down by being consulted, ignored, decisions being made that were not my suggestions and then being given the responsibility of overseeing something, being asked to make further decisions only for them to be wrong. It's wearing. 

For example and this just one of many examples. 

What shall we give them with the flan? 

Potato wedges I proffer? 

Ah, I have lots of new potatoes from last year we could use those, what would you do with those? 

Boil them and serve with butter I say. 

I think you can roast them she says, boil them first, cut them in half and roast them in the oven. 

Ok I say. 

I clean them but being kept in an earthen clamp for many months they are soft and badly marked. I trim and cut away, she clearly thinks I'm taking too long, I point out how much preparation they need. She gives me a filthy, very over used sponge scourer from the washing up sink and says use that to scrub them. this, after telling me that I can only wash my hands in the sink (that's unusable being full of dirty cloths), can only wish up in the sink full of rancid unwashed pans and can only prepare food in the sink where I now am, yet she picks the greasy sponge scourer from the rancid pan sink. I no longer care enough to argue or point out health and hygiene, all my other points have been laughed at, we don't do that here she usually says. 

The scourer is now binned, I didn't even like touching it left alone putting it on food. I digress, can you tell I'm tired and disgruntled? 

So I prepare and halve the old new potatoes, as instructed and boil them for five minutes in preparation for roasting. 

Do you think they are small enough she says? 

Yes I think so but if you want them cut smaller, I will, it's up to you.

No she says i want you to decide if they should be cut smaller before roasting.

I repeat that I would have left them whole and boiled them.

she asks, will they cook? 

Yes, they will cook I say. 

she asks what I plan to cook them in, a little oil, I say and some salt. 

Nothing else she says? 

Smiling nicely, I say I'll cook them in anything you want me to cook them in.

she says no I want to see what you might do with them. 

I again reply that a little salt and some oil will be good.

she hands me a container of 'Aromat' seasoning, tells me to use it and again starts asking after the size. 

I say I'll cut them smaller. 

No she says leave them we shall see. 

When I bring the four large flans and the potatoes from the industrial kitchen, up the uneven, loose stoned, half formed steps, to the first floor kitchen, I say are the guests ready, the meal is cooked.

Are the potatoes crispy she asks.

No, I don't think last years stored new potatoes, will go crispy easily but they are good.

The Irish referees (funny every time she says referees, and she says it often,  it sounds like refugees and takes my head wondering what's happening with the brexit chaos back home) enjoyed the meal, especially the potatoes, thank goodness!

This must be very tedious reading. I apologise but at last my writing is back to the way I would normally write. Get it out of my system.  

She wants me to choose a chicken and pasta recipe for tomorrow's lunch. Google helps me do so. She doesn't like my choice, I read out several other recipes, she likes the sound of one, I read the list of ingredients. Yes that's good she says. We have six guests for lunch tomorrow, I suggest making a quantity for eight. No she says make for twelve as we have seven tomorrow. I write the list of ingredients, now she no longer likes her choice and asks me to choose a different one. I choose a very simple straightforward one that I think will go down well with out Irish guests, no she says it is too simple, find something more interesting. 

Did I say I was struggling? Did I say I'm tired? Did I say I want to walk away? The twenty eighth of July feels a long long way away but when I get on that aeroplane I can't see me returning. She says we are busy until the seventh of June and then there are no bookings, we can have a rest, we can go and have some fun. In between times she told me how lucky she is that I am here and rubs her hands at all the money she is earning, how she can pay some bills. I don't believe there will be no guests and down time. What will I take for me to trust her I wonder. She clearly likes me. 

That's another five hours so far today but I've made the point of saying that, whilst I cleaned the surfaces of the industrial kitchen so I could cook, and whilst I emptied the sink of the filthy industrial pans soaking with what looked like the remains of an ancient bolognese sauce, cleaning the rest of the kitchen must be a job we do together.  Ive put all the filthy cloths to wash and left the surfaces safe to be cooked on tomorrow. 

Back to finding another chicken and pasta recipe! A Croatian UEFA official has just arrived. He is unhappy. He was expecting five star luxury. Where is the desk in his room, where can he work? Where is the adaptor for his plug? The latter I can help with and reassure him that his plug is exactly the same as those here and he does not need an adaptor. He plugs in his laptop and goes for a shower.

I have written out a list of ingredients for the chicken pasta. I've abandoned google and made one up that I think she will like. I give it to her and say, I am going for a walk. Oh, she says but I am now going shopping and I need you to stay here. Then she complains about the earlier flooded shower room, saying she does not understand the flooding. I tell her it was the same yesterday. She admits that this is the first time in years that the building has been used and says she will go check the floor after the UEFA official's shower.

It seems my circumstances may have changed, my host has decided that she is not going to Norway on the seventh and eighth of June and nor will we be going off having some fun. her offer of me having the car also seems to have changed. Her son and his family are now coming here, she says they will all go to a nearby island for some time together. She says she will not take bookings but she can employ someone to help me clean the industrial kitchen while she is away. I point out that I have already worked many hours and that I will also need time off. She says 'yes' but I'm unconvinced. chaotic, total chaos.

So I'm sitting here writing, in this stuffy, horrid 1950s concrete building instead of walking and exploring my surroundings. Nope, the Faroese guide for the football officials tells me the UEFA officials shower has flooded the wet room and water is overflowing into the hall. So she didn't check it then before going shopping. 

I leave my words, roll up my trousers and paddle, mopping water for the second day in a row. I then return to my writing but my host bursts in, she went to the shops but did not take the list so can I tell her again what she needs to buy and she will go and get it. In a more firm manner than I've used at all up to now, I say that she needs to get the shower dealt with and she is now on the phone beside me. 

She wonders if I am writing my faroese memoir, I say no I'm just reassuring friends and family that I'm ok as I don't get much chance to get on wifi. I'm pleased I have security locks on my iPad. 

At last, I go walking.

Earning my keep

Earning my keep 28.06

I have worked for six and a half hours so far today. The guest house needs a lot of tlc. Airbnb photos hide the shabbiness, the broken, the misaligned. Rooms that have been half cleaned and plants long since neglected. I get a sense that advertising has been limited until my arrival. Almost as though it's too much for one person to manage. 

I helped serve and clear breakfast, dusted, mopped, washed up, removed dirty towels from, I suspect, long since used rooms, picked crumbs and napkins from the floor in recently unused dining areas, removed an unopened bottle of wine from a cupboard in a loo, emptied full bathroom bins, checked rooms were ready for guests only to find several without towels, soap or glasses. 

Tasked with watering plants, mostly dying of drought or rotting, I moved some outside, on to a flat roof verandah type area, to tend. my host expressed surprise that I did so tho showed understanding when I showed her the dead leaves and bare stems. She sighed, mooted concern about the state of plants outside as well and said 'but where do you start?' The bin, I said and immediately cast out a dozen drowned pots sitting neck deep in water.

I've done a major sort, weed, trim, repot, relegate to bin and created a much needed plant hospital in one corner. Whether the hospital residents live or die is irrelevant, huddled together they look less weedy, less wilted, less sorry for themselves and allow the healthier specimens to look beautiful. Sweeping winter's detritus from the cream painted concrete resulted in a black muddy mess, worse than before I started, I asked if there was a pressure washer and was given a hose. Jeans rolled up and bare feet paddling in the water, I scrubbed and swept. It now looks fresh and cared for but i can't remedy the main problem, that the water runs away from, rather than towards the drain. 

My host is clearly grateful. I asked if it were her mother who had cared for the plants and she said yes. I wonder whether it may have been her mother who did most things and get the feeling that for all my hosts bouncy bubbly socialness, she may not have the rigour to manage.

Half stories, guarded words. If I were writing purely for myself there would be so much more I would say. 

I'm staying, not in the guest house but just down the road in my hosts house, next door to her fathers house and opposite her brothers. I've met many of her family this morning. My space is a furniture less room with a mattress on the floor and no curtains. There are too many hills surrounding us to know whether the sun actually dipped beneath the horizon or not last night, but I don't think it did. 

From the kitchen window I look out onto a sandy bay, one of the most used whaling beaches in the islands. The Grind, the harvesting of whales, is a contentious issue but rising levels of mercury in whale meat mean it is no longer recommended for safe consumption on the scale it was before and may well die out for reasons other than animal welfare concerns.  Behind the house are green mountains, I've seen similar before in the lofoten islands in Norway, a sparse and thin bright green layer, clinging tenuously to rock. 

I've not yet walked out to explore, I have a couple of hours rest before evening meals. this evening the guest house is full. Evening meals to be served at six and then again at eight thirty. I think there are about fifteen guest in total. It's going to be a busy few days. My host is excitable. I like being busy. There will be time to explore in due course, I'm in no rush. 

On the seventh and eighth of July my host tells me she will visit her grandchildren in Norway and I may have her car and take two days to myself to explore.

Never ending day....Monday

I thought i was done writing for the day but not so it seems. I'm enjoying this never never world. There have been times in my life when I have just stopped, mid journey, for nothing other than to savour the moment of nothingness, of neither departure nor arrival, the living in the moment-ness that can only come half way through a journey, or in the Australian deserts, the great outback, emptiness, nothingness, timelessness, oneness with the Earth and with myself.

Never ending day....Monday 28.06

I posted my  last post then leapt to my feet, In truth, my flight had been called to the boarding gates some time earlier. I stopped to buy water, glanced up and saw last call for my flight. I panicked, remembered a flight once missed and jumped the queue, thankful that the others in front of me didn't mind that I needed to do so. 

I rushed to my gate but it turned out to be a further than I thought. Sometimes corners can be very long. Gate 3, just round the corner, it's now 25 mins before my flight departs and I suddenly remember the 'boarding gates close half hour before flight', panicking now I turn the corner to see the sign, gate closed. I've been here before. A woman sat at the desk, faroes, I asked? Thankfully she pointed to the next gate, her own turning out to be 3a and I rushed through. Skin of my teeth. 

The flight is more than half empty, I have three seats to myself. We departed more than 15mins before we were due to fly.

I saw little of Edinburgh on my way through, I managed the tram journey without any geographical knowledge of where I was going but dutifully following instructions of strangers, choosing to ignore google advice to catch the T100 bus. Interaction with others never ceases to amaze. Snippets of wonder.

The sky is blue and the clouds thick, I've been through the bomb scenario and the locked pilots door scenario. I've crashed, blown up, Ive escaped though the slide chute into the ocean and been on fire. the bottom has dropped out of the aeroplane and we have had a major mechanical, caused by the mechanics using quick repair self adhesive aeroplane aluminium tape, a roll of which I have at home. Two rolls to be precise, two different widths, probably the only positive thing that resulted from a damaging relationship with an aircraft mechanic. 

I should be watching the window, ten minutes to landing but we have cloud, thick cloud and beneath that, I understand we have rain. I love the sound of the faroese pilots voice, it is deep and guttural, he reminds me of my overnight train journey from helsinki up to finmark. The clouds are now thick and grey, crashing now would be over in seconds, no agonising descent knowing we would die. I hate it I hate it I hate it.

Cloud. Ocean. Cloud. We are very low, I know we are low but nothing is visible. Ocean. Cloud. Cloud. Cloud. The wheels have just gone down and we haven't exploded, perhaps we will land after all. Cliffs. Green. Rain. Alive. It's over.

I said I would get a taxi from the airport and my host had not offered to collect me. I leave the tiny arrivals hall, look for taxis or signs for taxis but find none. I ask at the information desk. The girl comes out with me and looks with me and concludes that there are none. She finds someone and speaks to him, he approaches me and offers a lift to Torshavn but declines the job when I show him my address. He says I should have pre booked and tells me I must go and stand on the other side of the road, so I do. No taxis arrive or depart. One by one my flight companions pick up hire cars or are greeted by relatives. I stand in the drizzle and smile amusedly, where else might you find an airport with no taxis.

11.30pm and this is my bedroom window. No curtains and no night, just gloom. A flock of peeping birds just flew across the sky, seagulls sound familiar and cars splash with wet swishing tyres, this is the main road and I imagine will be busy for some time. People laugh and shout as they pass by.

It was something of a miracle when I discovered there are actually two guests due at the guest house this evening and it seems they arrived on the same flight as myself, if only I'd known it. Working for a travel magazine they are here to take photos and write articles, interviewing several people in a busy itinerary. Another Escape is the name of their publication, I wonder if Magenta guest house will get a mention. If all guests are as interesting as this couple, just back from Borneo, this could turn out to be ok. 

There is great jubilation that Iceland beat the uk in some football game this evening. My lack of knowledge about the game is construed as covering my disappointment, my protestations about lack of interest are disbelieved.

Bizarrely I understand that several Irish referees will be staying here tomorrow, I haven't quite worked out why but I'm pleased that there are guests and tasks. It's somewhat chaotic. my host is not what I expected and not the reserved person I was given to understand I might expect from the Faroese. 

Our communication up until now, has not been brilliant, hence the taxi fiasco. it turns out her mother died three months ago and the Facebook person I thought I was talking to is her son who is in stavanger, Norway?? Apparently, he sent me a Facebook message, half way into my flight, saying his mother would pick me up, which needless to say, I did not get. The upshot of their being no taxis was that the man the information desk girl spoke to, decided to fleece me by charging me £20 for a five minute journey, I was happy to pay. Meanwhile, unknown to me, my host went off to the airport looking for me (and the new guests) not knowing that we had arrived nearly half an hour early and none of us would be there.

 I was dropped off by the 'taxi', recognised the building as magenta guest house but found no one home. It was raining. I have four different phone numbers for Marita but none of them worked. I went round to the back of the building, climbing steps to the first floor where lights were on, I knocked but still there was no answer. Slightly perplexed and miffed, I pondered on the idea of just walking away and putting my thumb out, going who knows where, but before I did so, tried the door. I've stayed in many remote places around the world where doors are never locked and it turned out this was one of them. 

I entered and sat down wondering what to do. My phone was nearly dead so found a socket and put it to charge. I nosed around a little bit and then sat down again, still wondering what to do. And that's where Marita found me, sitting in her guest house having given up on trying to find both me and her guests at the airport!

About half an hour later, the guests arrived, having hired a car! Like I said, it's chaotic! It's now 12.30 and there's no change in the light. 1.30 and no change in the light. I turn my bed so I sleep at the foot, I am less in line with the window. Cars and people have not yet abated. I will sleep at some point but I know that just resting is good.

Companions

Companions 27.06.16

Peterborough station is a bleak place. I remember sitting there with carla and nicola many years ago, mid journey to Leeds, unable to drive, incapacitated by a shoulder operation. I like its efficiency tho, no guessing which end of the platform I need to be, it's clearly marked A-M so no last minute dash as the train draws near. 

I'm unsure a window seat was a wise selection. I feel trapped by a blind, garrulous, self professed train geek who seems to have an innate sense of time and distance and frequently announces that there'll be a line coming in from the left or the right and seeking clarification of afore said information. I saw him embark with assistance at Peterborough, tapping his cane but being unable to 'mind the gap' unaided. 

He seems to know intuitively where the overhead luggage rack is and likes to assist others despite his lack of vision. He struggled with finding the brown sauce on his plate when eating his sausage roll but has just told me, unaware that I'm typing, that I must look out, after the viaduct, for the most stunning view of Durham cathedral. I'm unsure it was actually that stunning but indeed he was right in his description of the river, the castle, cathedral and promontry. He gets off at Newcastle, welcome relief. 

Four of us, all from Norwich, all seated together. Now that my earlier compatriot has departed I'm engaged in conversation with a guy working through his bucket list. Few of us have any way of telling how soon we will die and it is salutary to listen to someone who is living on borrowed time. Motivation perhaps to develop my idea of 60 things to do when I'm 60. I have started a list and do have it with me. 

I thought it might be another blog in itself but it may become incorporated. I made an unplanned beginning at my birthday camp, skinny dipping at nearly midnight on the first evening, crossing off both skinny dipping and night swimming, I think they count despite being two days before my birthday. No doubt there will be a few items covered in this journey, what comes first, chicken or egg, list or action? is it significant or just serendipity when the two coincide? It feels more like aspirations than a bucket list, just time to reflect on things I would like to do now that I have the time and choices.

I realise that the one pair of trousers I should've brought with me I failed to even consider! My thin walking, easy dry, long/short trousers. Foolhardy. My two pairs of jeans will hold water but the easy dry walking trousers would not have fitted with my working remit which governed my choices. I'm already thinking of things to send home and things I might ask carla to bring when we meet in July. Yes, I have a built in 'get out clause' in July. I fly back to the uk on 28th, due to return to the faroes 1st August. It will be a year since ben died. A years experience that I cannot begin to comprehend for Nicola and poppy. 

It is a wondrous thing about human nature that we remember the good things in life, that our memory sifts out the things that may not be helpful to remember. Facebook works like this too, I love the way it reminds me of things ben and I did together, of journeys we took, of how we supported each other at times in our biking friendship. 

whether I manage to travel northward beyond Edinburgh in August I'm unsure, I may go walkabout instead, I'm carrying lonely planet Highlands and Islands of Scotland with me. I have a few connections.

It was news of bens brain tumour around ten years ago that took me to Newfoundland, a country I had wanted to visit for many years. flying across the Atlantic, some twenty five years earlier, I had spotted white sails in the ocean. I was amazed, how could they be sails, we were too high, yet the unmistakeable triangular shape and brilliant white against the blue ocean told me they could only be sails. I asked the stewardesses, yes, they agreed they were yachts but I was not content. Eventually, one of them asked the captain for me.  They were icebergs! He said we were flying over Newfoundland. It took me until news of bens brain tumour to make the decision to visit. that's another travel story that doesn't belong here yet has been brought to mind by my journey companion talking of his visits to the oncologist and the cost of his medication precluding him from living abroad. I love train journeys. This one has been generously assisted by three generous glasses of first class wine. 

I hate airports. I stand in the check in queue and don't want to go. I shuffle forward contemplating the decisions I make and the things i put myself though even though I don't want to do them. Like a tow rope I am dragged slowly forwards until it is too late, my belongings have gone. 

I now sit, cocooned in a ball of sound, not really aware of my surroundings. Distant music thrums and coffee machines whir. If I concentrate I can pick out individual sounds but it is as though I am not really here. My long day of travel will soon be over. My stomach churns, I do not want to board. 30 minutes remain. Soon I just pack this away and proceed to the boarding gate. The plane is boarding

Al fresco

Al fresco 27.06.16

If I'd thought about where I might eat my breakfast this morning, it wouldn't have been al fresco at the top end of london st. 

Waking early and with the house all packed and cleared I've walked out to treat myself to breakfast at gonzos tearoom but unusually it's shut. Pandoras kitchen makes a good alternative, tho a steep flight of curved stairs don't look attractive to my backpack so I'm hoping the sun is more persistient than the rain and am sitting outside enjoying the experience of beginning to be a traveller. 

The rest of the world begins its working day. I've left my nice bottle of cold water in the fridge and forgotten to re-glue the crack on my thumb with new skin this morning but am otherwise intact so far! My best hope is a journey similar to that of a friend when she visited the faroes. Dense fog meant they couldn't land so they returned for a night in Scotland. The second day they tried again but despite circling for some time it was again too dense and they slept in Norway. Third day lucky and they made it. she said when they were landing she was mightily pleased that they had not attempted a landing in fog.  

Choosing a seating position is a skill I realised I'd forgotten only once seated. Whilst enjoying people watching, nevertheless, having the main stream of pedestrians inspect my portobello mushrooms with rocket on sour dough does not enhance my eating experience. No doubt this is not their usual 8.30 Monday morning experience and undoubtably many look on enviously. I'm pleased when someone sits at another table with a plate of full English and feel less conspicuous.

Hefting my pack onto my back I consider that eating needs to be minimal if weight lifting immediately after. I step into the road but with alarm step back quickly. Disoriented already, I'm unsure whether I'm looking for cars from the right or the left. I smile at myself all the way to the station arriving in good time for my 9.25 train. Priority is breakfast second course, coffee. Clutching my 'grande' I check the boards only to discover that my train time is 9.57! 

With my backpack on my back, day sack on my front, coffee in one hand and tickets in the other I look for a seat but find no benches. Perching on a concrete pillar I wait for my train and already begin to wonder what I can discard from my pack.

I doubt whether I will continue to share this stream of consciousness for it feels like a comfortable rambling inner dialogue, morning pages rather than travel writing, a thinking and sifting of immediate experience. A text came in from Martha, staying in my garden house. Three days ago she told me the toaster wouldn't stay down to toast her crumpets. I asked her to try toast and to let me know if it still didn't work so I could replace it. Having not heard from her I assumed all was well. Timing is everything.

We cross the yare and I feel a lurch in my heart, when will I return? it was the same feeling I had as I looked around my slightly echoey house this morning. Cleaned and tidied for others, I love it's light and its spaciousness. it looks an attractive spot to lay ones head and I am lucky that it is mine.

I'm also in love with my iPad and far from wondering whether it could ever replace a journal, I now know that it already has and wonder if I can progress to turn my phone into a hotspot. Apple, I hate to say it but I'm also in love with you despite my protestations.

Wind

Westerly or southwesterly 4 or 5, increasing 6 at times.

Sea state

Slight or moderate becoming moderate or rough.

Weather

Showers.

Visibility

Good, occasionally moderate.

Disintegration

Disintegration 26.06.16

Perished scraps of translucent, skin like, shreds cling to the clothes rolls as i draw them from my pack. not yet left home but my belongings look as though they've been on the road for months. stubborn flakes of disintegrated lining that wont brush or shake free. 

for a few seconds i contemplate a last minute purchase but instead opt for a waterproof rucksack liner and will just pretend ive been on the road for months.

in truth im having anxieties. my placement has always been clear but mixed messages have reached me about tasks, expectations and indeed, even who else might be there. will i fit in? will i want to be there? will i walk away? 

ive packed smartish clothes to welcome guests to the swish 1950s boutique guesthouse but my hosts' marketing strategy appears in need of development. i understand it may turn out that there are few, if any, guests this season. the alternative, demanding the packing of old working clothes, will be to scrub and clean the outside walls of the three storey guest house, before painting them with some specially ordered treatment, designed, no doubt to keep out the average twenty one days of rain in every summer month.

i re-roll my clothes and stuff them into the pack less efficiently then previously with the waterproof liner now challenging any attempt at precision in packing. lumps stick out, the pack is taller and now lopsided. i grimace as one of the clips becomes temperamental.

last minute research this afternoon revealed a couchsurfer living on another island and ive sent an introductory message. ive logged in to bewelcome, virtual traveller and trip advisor telling anyone who might look in of my plans and inviting contact. it was quickly apparent that the faroes have a small footprint in travel networks and im not expecting a deluge of invitations. 

and this evening's shipping forecast led to me burning my pinenuts....

fair isle, faroes, south east iceland, cyclonic 4 or 5, increasing 6 at times, rain or showers, fog patches, moderate or good, occasionally very poor.

Packing

Packing 25.06.16 

ok, so i packed. lightly. my aim was to have the top portion of my backpack empty and i did it. i remember earlier heavy packs and how hard it was to throw possessions away, i didnt want to do that again. 

i then spent quite a bit of time watching youtube films and clips of the faroes..... in summer..... hmmm. 

i now have another pile ready to pack.....waterproof trousers, boots, thick socks, another fleece... maybe the swimming kit will have to be discarded tomorrow.... and more.....

camera or no camera? i have iphone and ipad but phone battery dies quickly and will i carry ipad around? probably not. too many electrical plugs and adaptors just feels tiresome though.

Wildness

Wildness 22.06.16

wildness / wilderness what is the difference?

am i wild in my wilderness or can i be wild in my life??

i love belonging to wildness, to not belonging, of permission to do nothing, to be, to exist.

my opportunity to be wild seems to decrease when i am known. i need to be with the unknown to be free. 

From Taransay to the Faroes

From Taransay to the Faroes 21.06.16

I had no history of travel as a young woman, no yearning for distant land, it wasn't an experience or expectation I had grown up with. Giving birth widened my horizons and saw my expectations, knowledge, interest and understanding of the world increase. Carla, Nicola and I hosteled around the UK with brief strays into Europe, usually at Easter, saving summer weeks for camping at Waxham.

But it was a chance snippet in the Guardian that ignited my travel spirit, 'Castaways wanted' by the BBC. It talked of living with nature and forming a community on a remote Scottish island that made rules for itself, living simply without interaction from the outside world. Having never felt at ease in my world as I knew it, I applied. I made it through initial application, telephone interview and 1:1 televised interview. Final selection followed, a week at the Centre for Alternative Technology. By then Castaway 2000 was something I believed I was born for and I eagerly prepared for a year on Taransay. 

But it was not to be. I was devastated. I had been first to find water. I had been first to light fire. How could I not be going?

I was mentally ready to leave when I met Susie in a pub one night, a strong and unpredictable Australian woman. She said she lived near Perth, had never 'driven up the west coast', suggested we 'put a mattress in the back of the ute and drive'. Emotionally, I was already planning on spending a year away from work, from my daughters and my world as I knew it. How could I refuse? 

So it was that I took the gap year while my daughters went to University but my Australian journey does not belong here. I fell in love with my wildness, the emptiness of the landscape, ever changing plans and decisions that grew from chance meetings.  

I returned in November 2001, but struggled sharing my home with students and living in a crowded city. I left again and spent five months in Arctic Finmark, learning the language, and meeting the Sami. That story does not belong here either.

Throughout my journeyings, I loved the moments when I would find an internet cafe and lose several hours writing long, meandering emails to friends. I would become lost in my thoughts and contemplations of my many wild and woolly moments, my writing was raw and real. I often think about returning to it and trying to make sense of it all.

I always thought I would travel when I retired. It turned out 2013 wasn't the right time for me but 2016 has ticked on, bringing with it my 60th birthday, and I have found myself enjoying 'me' time and time to think again of travel. Despite my love of Australia it has nevertheless always been cold climes that have attracted me rather than hot. So here I am, nearly ready to go to the Faroe Islands for at least two months. I have a much more 'grown up' plan than previously which carries both promise and uncertainty. Im unsure I'm very good at being 'grown up' and maybe therein lies a story or two.