Friday 29 July 2016

Leg room

Leg room  29.07.16

I have a seat with leg room, maybe i was first to book. I still have not shown my passport. Nobody cares if i am me. Unlike busses it looks as though atlantic airways depart early. Eleven minutes before departure and we taxi into position. I can see ground around but no mountains.

People talk about fishing, most say they will be pleased to leave the weather behind. I have non speaking companions and am happy not to face questions about how i have found the islands. It is unnerving taking off into fog. No views on arrival, helicopter flight cancelled by fog, nothing to see on departure. No aerial views for me in this land they call maybe maybe.

We bounce through turbulence with noise and vibration reminiscent of magnetic resonance machinery. The overhead screen dances to its own rhythm, hissing and spitting open, clicking and purring shut, four annoying beats a minute. i wonder what else malfunctions aboard.

Sun shines high above cloud, belies the foggy truth hiding below.

Thick woolly duvets skip over dark crumpled sheets. Half way there half way to go.

Dried salt lake cloud mass soon becomes fresh fallen snow with rivers of blue as land appears. Grey sheets now dazzlingly washed.

Thursday 28 July 2016

Last minute panic

Last minute panic  28.07.16

Ultra fine drizzle spits on my face, it is 6.14am and my raingear is safely stowed away. Goosebumps on my arms waiting for my bus. As always i am early but at this time in the morning i anticipate my bus will be early not late. I think the rain will be fine.

6.30 and i start to panic. 6.35 and i put out my thumb. I will stand just before the bus stop and count to ten cars before i really panic. Hitching and counting takes my mind off the time and my anxiety. Two. It is the national day of the year today. Perhaps the bus will not run. Four. It has to run there will be an incoming flight to greet. I realise that this is not so, my flight is the first in or out of the airport today. 

I try to decide at what time i will go knock up marit to get a lift. Five. I wonder about just taking her car, the keys will be inside, i can dump it at the airport and her son can take her later to collect it. Six. The bus is fifteen minutes late and i no longer notice the fine moisture on my arms. 

Bingo. A black guy winds down the window, an oriental guy is driving. I usually just get in but today i need to confirm that they will take me to the airport, just five miles down the road. I dont want to leave the bus stop. Not yet. The black guy consults the oriental who is speaking on his phone. He nods ascent and i am in. They have just finished working at the Torshavn festival, home to bed. They passed the bus about five minutes ago, i laugh at myself for being over anxious as always.

7.30 and i am phone checked it, self scanned baggage and waved through security. As yet i have not spoken to a person, nor shown my passport, all self service automatic.  only a machine has checked my boarding pass but hasnt asked for passport. The fine drizzle is, of course fog. Not being able to take off hadnt occurred to me before but now it does. 

Balls up!

Balls up! 28.07.16

Oh my goodness! I return from Torshavns national day celebrations to find two guests still here. They say they are staying tonight as well. I ask if i can get them anything but they decline. A middle aged man and his mother. Somehow they dont quite fit in.

Breakfast this morning was a do it yourself affair, i treated them as the other wedding guests, very independent, dont give them any extras, they are on a cheap deal, breakfast is a do it yourself affair, put the stuff on the kitchen table, let them get on with it. Sitting talking for the last hour, it turns out they are not part of the wedding party but a couple from Torshavn here for a weeks holiday! Ohmylordy!!

And as im thinking back, i realise they came straggling down as i was fretting, wanting to leave. I remember their confusion about having to boil a kettle for themsleves and wondering where they should sit. I was ready to walk out the door. Two guests i was told would be having breakfast, just two guests, but ive been making coffee and getting extra food out since 9.15. Im not best pleased that two has become sixteen.

Oh my lordy these must have been the two who had booked breakfast at ten, full paying guests, and they got the poorest treatment of the lot. What a way to do business,  she stuffed up there. And our conversations this evening have not been ones i would have had if id known they were full paying guests, not friends from the wedding. No wonder they didnt quite seem to fit in. I cant apologize to them enough, it is very clear that an apology was needed but also clear that miscommunicstion from above was the cause. But why, if you have full paying guests would you not make your staff aware, and why say breakfast will be a do it yourself affair?

Theyve complained tonight that their radiator doesnt work, the bathroom shower is back flooding the hall again, the light in the bathroom doesnt work, the wedding was very noisy and service at breakfast was non existant. Hey ho! Nothing like getting a good reputation with the locals!

Biding time

Biding time  28.07.16

An hours bus journey going nowhere. I wanted to take a ferry, Ternan for Nolsoy was waiting but i wanted a long journey, at least two hours in either direction, a lostness in time, writing frenzy. Instead, i take a bus, heading, i think, for the Nordic centre where i can use wifi with coffee. i still dont seem to have grasped the implications of driving on the right hand side though and the bus heads out into the suburbs instead. I dont jump off, itll go full circle. For a moment i think it might be interesting just to sit and watch as people in national costume get on but then get off again, today is the beginning of national day celebrations, the killing of norwegian king olaf.  nobody else in full kit gets on.

Im unsure how i feel about national costume, i wouldnt want to wear anything that announced my nationality, would i? What is there to be proud of? It always feels to me as though it might portray a narrow, insular attitude. the pride with which pople wear it surprises me. In some respects it makes for an easy life though. What shall i wear for a wedding, oh yeah, national costume. What about a party? Oh yeah, national costume. What shall i wear for work today, ah shucks, yeah, national costume. Does it serve as a normalisation process, make people all the same, I wonder. No, im sure the degrees of ornamentation put people neatly in categories even though im told this is no longer so.

Red-black finely woven wool pleated into a long skirt, with apron, a red jacquard, bodiced jacket, fastened with ornamental chains and an individual shawl. The wearing of national costume has had recent resurgance i understand, had nearly died out but the last twenty years have seen it worn with renewed pride and habit. People frequently make their own, even weaving the fine cloth. This was what the women i met inTvøroyri were weaving.





Boy, if i thought i felt trapped on nolsoy, how much more trapped did i feel in Midvagur this morning. Its like being in a museum at the end of nowhere with a very limited bus service and nowhere to go. At least Nolsoy was homely and close to Tórshavn when the world then opened up and i could go anywhere, do anything.

Tasked with giving breakfast to all the guests who stayed over from the wedding, ive just run away after doing so. Sod it. The place is, day after wedding reception mess, all rooms need servicing but im out and away. For the whole day.

I start hitching, it is spitting slightly, but the first vehicle to come along is a bus, running late! It is not due to stop in midvagur, and im not at a bus stop but i try to hail it and it stops for me. Magic. It was as I realised that i was too late to catch the only bus until four this afternoon that prompted me to say, fuck it I'm off. People had been straggling down for breakfast. i had hoped i might be able to jump on the 10.30 but as the time came and went, i resolved to hitch anyway, and once that decision had been made, timing was imperative. I left quickly knowing i must escape before marit arrived. Snidey cow. 

There, i think im finally done with trying to make allowances for her. Yesterday she was playing hierachical games with me being given nice jobs. Cissy was set to do the hoovering, i was sent to pick wild flowers to make ten small arrangements for the wedding. I was 'privileged' to hear her tutting about Cissys timekeeping. Divide and rule tactics serve to warm me to Cissy not rail against her.

Having been awake since 4.30 am in the morning, i was so tired mid evening, that when the wedding guests descended into the bar, i decided to go to bed. I knew that sleeping with a noisy wedding party going to bed between midnight and four am, if at all, would not be easy, so thought id try to get a few hours in. Wrong. Children were crying, the walls wafer thin and people standing outside under my window, talking and smoking. I figured if you cant beat them then join them. marit had made it clear earlier that Cissy and i would be welcome to join the dancing.

The room is packed, a man plays guitar and sings, Cissy and i prop up a corner, taking a second beer from Marits office, as agreed. The groom spots me and waves. Cissy has gone for the time being, she prances, throwing her mane like a stallion on heat as she bounces around the room. She has many attitudes that i do not warm too, i think we would not make good playmates. The groom formally invites me to the wedding and says i must help myself to beer. So i do. And another. 

The singer goes, disco music starts, tables are moved to clear a space and it looks as though there will be dancing. The couple get up and dance a slowish dance while the crowd gather, getting closer and closer, squeezing them together before retreating. The groom is manhandled outside and one of his shoes is removed, his sock is pulled and the toe cut off. This apparently symbolises being married. He will not be allowed to go anywhere now because he has no socks to wear.

A few moments later a large, very matronly woman in national costume, comes to me and snaps aggressively at Cissy and i, says we should be working, the bride is unhappy and has complained that we are not working. She says Marit said we would be helping. Stunned, this being the first we have heard of it, we both ask what would you like us to do? The woman spits, well cant you see what im doing? She is carrying plates and glasses, has been clearing all evening. It would make total sense if Cissy and i had known. Im sure we would both have been pleased to have a role, be involved. I dont know what Cissy did. i feel angry with Marit, regret that my presence has upset the bride, but dont like the womans aggressive approach so i help myself to two more bottles of marits beer, leave and go to my room.

The beer ensured i slept through whatever noises others made. Hence not giving a fig this morning about leaving the place in a tip. Cissy has gone off for a couple of days so ill have the rest of the day off too.

Wednesday 27 July 2016

In progress

In progress 27.07.16

The wedding concerned is in progress as we speak. I'm in bed. Best place.

I could start with the lies.
I could start with stealing beer.
I could start with crying children.

But i will probably start with an unhappy bride and im unhappy she is unhappy.
I can't begin to write it all again. 
The music from below thrums loud. I am pleased i have another beer to drink. 
Tomorrow may be a long time coming.

An invitation at last

An invitation at last 27.07.16

Sometimes nothing changes.

Cant be bothered. Fed up with you.  Fed up with writing. Something is going wrong and i dont understand. You are constantly losing taking my words, why would i want to write it all again, how could i? 

Hating my ipad at the moment. Thinking it might be to do with saying i dont want auto correct.

Fuck. A whole weddings writing has disappeared!

Tuesday 26 July 2016

Sometimes nothing changes

Sometimes nothing changes  26.07.16

arrive back at my workaway placement as agreed at 2.45pm, my host is not here. Ive been thinking maybe i got it wrong, maybe I expected too much, maybe i misjudged the situation. Tables are all laid and the place generally looks clean except for bedrooms with dirty towels lying around and unmade beds. I hear noises downstairs in the industrial kitchen and cafe area and go down to say hello. 

She is not here either. I find a team of people preparing food in the kitchen and decorating tables in the cafe area. I introduce myself and offer help, they say they are colleagues of my host but decline assistance. I walk to her house but she is not there either. i return to wait at the guest house. Dirty breakfast things are lying around, the dishwasher needs emptying. I deal with both.

On the bus journey here i am surprised how excited i am to see high mountains and yet they remind me that these mountains themselves would be dwarfed by others in the northern islands. Ive been living a softer lower, less rugged life. It has suited me. Waterfalls stream down rock faces. Two weeks of mostly grey, rainy days and small channels have become rough, white cascades. I love the knowingness of the journey, the anticipation of the next village, hill, tunnel or service station.

An hour later, a girl walks in, we exchange polite introductions, turns out she is another workawayer, Cissy, has just been here a few days. It sounds as though she has clear boundaries, has already stated which days she will be having off. She has heard we were busy when i was here but has been concerned about not having enough work to do so says maybe its easy, for her, to choose when to have time off.

Interestingly, Cissy also seems to have had communication difficulties in her few days here and wonders why our host is not here when she was asked to meet at this time to lay, the already laid, tables. She says she is staying in Sandavagur, in another house our host owns. Has walked two miles to meet here at this time.

Cissy is pleased to hear of free camping on Nolsy, free accommodation on the Nordlysid in Torshavn, trips on the northern postbus. She is due to workaway here for two months but is already having her doubts. She was expecting to be doing painting and handyman tasks as there would be no guests. Hmmmm sounds familiar. 

Around six pm a guest arrives whom neither of us are expecting. There are as yet, apparently uncleaned rooms upstairs and neither of us know whats happening.  Annoyingly, my phone is refusing to make calls, again, and she has run out of credit. We establish the guest in a room, i begin to turn around the three beds that need doing as she heads off to find our host. She doesn't return. I finish the rooms and clean the bathrooms in which the bins are full of dirty sanitary products. There are insufficient clean towels and piles of washing that need doing. 

An hour later Cissy and my host appear clutching a bowl of chickn curry. They have eaten and brought me leftovers. There seems to be a problem tracking down a key. Cissy gets taken home, i find myself a beer. And another for later.

It sounds as though I might quite like this disgruntledness. I think though, that what I like, is Cissy finding it difficult too and although she is much more generous than i in her understanding and acceptance of our hosts human frailty, nevertheless, her experience validates mine.

Time rolls on. It is ten pm. From nowhere my host arrives, starts talking about her mothers death andher inability  to  cope with it, how her head is all over the place and she doesnt know whether she is coming or going and how everything reminds her of her mother. Of how she is the youngest and she knew her mother best, shared christmasses and belongings. How she is grieving when her siblings take her mothers things that she feels are hers. She pauses. I say it must be so very hard with her mother being so much a part of everything she has here in the guest house and tears start to fall. she says she cannot grieve, not yet, and our conversation moves on.

We physically move to the wedding reception tables. She frets about the place settings, asks whether i think the napkins should go here or here. I think about Cissy living, neither with our host nor in the guest house but somewhat removed from the situation, i am jealous. Unsurprisingly my host doesn't like my thoughts or suggestions about the napkins.

I am sleeping in the single room. The room where i permanently hit my head on the lampshade. My bedroom until i fly home.

Feeling content

Feeling content  26.07.16

I suspect this has not been an exploration of the faroes as much as an exploration of tina. Of what does the next twenty years hold for me. How do i want to use my time. I want something more than just being, just existing.

I recall now that i grew to love my time in australia but struggled so terribly in the first few months. The same was true for finland. I remember that now. I like the way my mind romanticises the rewarding times, the companionship and new experiences yet tucks away, acknowledging yet disregarding, the challenging nature of being alone and on the move. Freedom comes at a price.

I have no desire for long term travel again. At least, not for the time being, not for this next year, or the next. It was something i always knew i would do when i retired yet circumstances meant that i chose not to do so. Until now, when my choices led me to a tiny group of islands with all that brings with it. 

I have learned to respect but not quite love the Faroes. In time, i will love them more. Hannes, Julia, Joan and Joel will grow as significant people i have met in my time here and i hope to follow their movements with interest. For a while at least.

For today, i must pack. Make my final move for my last two nights back in Midvagur where Marit and the wedding await. 

My room is empty, my bags packed. With the decision to leave comes permission to return. I do after all still have a flight booked and ten days in august when my house is rented out. 

Working with gypsy travellers i learned not to say goodbyes. Goodbye suggests a not seeing whereas hello always holds promise. Families not seeing each other for long periods would make no show of sadness or excitement on departure and arrival, just a matter of fact hello-ness. Nevertheless i was touched when Joel came to say goodbye this morning as he caught the early ferry, realising that i would be gone when he returns.

Half an hour before my ferry. I drink coffee and ask about the little nolsoy festival. I discover it has swimming events. It coincides with the time i must be away from home. Maybe i return as a tourist, not a traveler. Come for the festival, in a proper room with a proper desk that I can work with. Stay for a week or ten days. Come ready to belong, to be a part of it, even volunteer if there are roles that need doing. Involvement is good. Hannes has room at the moment, i do not feel ready to book now but risk them being gone if i do not do so. So be it.

I shall sleep on my little plan.

Monday 25 July 2016

Graveyard

Graveyard 25.07.16

Perhaps this place is a little like the graveyard of ambition. And a breeder of sloth. Without anything to rail against i find myself with little to say. Stuffy house stuffy brain. i constantly open windows only for them to be closed again.

I spend my day wandering, taking photos of strangers, buying rhubarb lemonade, chocolate cake, perusing the tiny handicrafts shop, calculating swim lengths, cooking pasta and boiling eggs. Somehow i dont fetch my felt roll out. I may not swim this evening. Ten pm feels rather late. I have been invited to the womens choir rehearsal but think I will not go. The pickled rhubarb and angelica jam i hoped to find is not for sale. 

Every garden has a trampoline for those dark winter days when going out is not so attractive to children. My chocolate cake comes with candied rhubarb on the top and garnished with purple vetch. I watch the ferry deposit passengers, many with ballons and suitcases and wonder what the celebration. 

I savour my last day on Nolsoy and find nothing here i want, nothing I regret not having done. Except perhaps the nighttime storm petrol walk. And pickling rhubarb. I think that if i returned i might pickle rhubarb and angelica jam to sell.

Tomorrow i return to Marit and Midvagur, to help with a wedding party. Perhaps at last i will see a chain dance, just in time to go home.

Ferrybound

Ferrybound 25.07.16

Yesterday i was ready to move here for the winter. Today i wake feeling trapped and ready to come home.

Its unfair to say i woke feeling trapped. I woke thinking ive been still for long enough i want to go out for the day. Maybe ill go to Sandoy, just for a wander, just for the day. And then i realise that i needed to be up and out by seven am to catch the ferry to go anywhere, that i am stuck here until this afternoon. Island life suits me well whhen im wanting to be still. 

I sat in the pub last night, Yddgrasil playing, slighly hazy perhaps from the beer, romantiscing about being here in the winter, weaving and writing, watching northern lights. Weaving the colours of the fog and the skies. Writing the words of the desert. Swimming the harbour. 

Today, i know that my eternal dissatisfaction with whatever i have, means i might find myself frozen, unable to create, unable to write. Stuck. Fogbound. Ferrybound. Im ready to leave here today but have one more night, will go tomorrow on the twelve thirty ferry. I have twenty eight hours left and it feels twenty four too many.

My choices here are limited to a short easy walk, a long challenging walk, swim, sit in the cafe. I am surprised how fickle i am, that i can change so rapidly from staying to leaving. I want the next stage, i want the flight home. I want to stop searching. I wonder if i might make my garden house my studio and my house, hostel like accomodation. In a sense it has been fun, living here with four other travellers. No, of course im not serious. Seeing how others leave the kitchen annoys me and its not even my house. But people on the move are interesting.

I met german Julia from Tvoroyri, last night in the pub. She, waiting for the ferry back to Torshavn and then an overnight ferry journey home. It was good to see her and talk. One band had finished playing, the second not yet started. I was drinking Gull, she hot chocolate. Sometimes, oft times, i think others much more together than i in every respect and for a moment wish id not been drinking. She complememted me on my writing, nit the first person and i wonder what i will do with it. Perhaps that is my next journey, down to London to meet with Jonathon Lorie, a travel writer i respect who offers advice.

Thinking is exhausting. I can only live in the moment. Yesterday morning i was after the tiny little unused house, to return here for august. Last evening i was changing my flight and returning for the winter. This morning i am going home. 

Saturday 23 July 2016

Errr triple dip

Errr triple dip 23.07.16

What time is it polite to arrive if told we are eating at 5.30 i wonder. Its hard to know in another culture and with someone I barely know. Do i arrive early, on time or late?

Walking around the northern end of the island, talking with Joan, she says she was sad to miss this mornings swim but doesnt think she will find anyone to swim with this afternoon. I find myself saying, maybe, let me know if you dont find anyone. 

First swim this morning it was grey, second swim it was starting to spit but swim number three was nearly as wet out as in. Windy rain now beats down on windows. Not an evening for street music in Torshavn!

I saw fish dumplings for sale on a fish stall in Torshavn last time i was there, 95% fish, he said. I also see them now in supermarket freezers and have been asking how to cook them. Fry them says Hannes. Boil them, says Joan. Whilst swimming, Joan invites me to supper: baked fish dumplings. 

I arrive on time and ask what is a polite time to arrive here? Many people arrive too late she says, on time is good. We eat about an hour later. If invited again, ill be sure to be late. 

I find it hard to fathom the behaviour of others. Joan, pronounced jo-han is being over kind i think. A small woman with wiry and wavy hair, dark spectacles and an impish grin on her face which tilts sidewards, lips pursed, when thinking. It was she who invited me to the swimming group, gave me angelica jam to taste, recipe for pickled rhubarb, introduced me to her family, invited me walking and now invites me for fish dumplings. I am greedy for knowledge but find myself guarded, feel she is being too friendly. i remember misunderstood approaches before, lesbians or those with a religous zeal, seeking converts.

Six of us sit to eat a meal of tennis ball sized, baked fish dumpling, potaoes roasted with herbs, boiled potatoes. No other vegetable, butter, sauce or gravy. The dumpling has a gelatinous texture with little taste, the roast potatoes are good. Baskets of drying herbs lie around the room. Jars of home dried herbs, a large nasturtium leaf in a glass of water, a bunch of overblown vetch in a vase, all sit on the table. clover blossom, picked on this afternoons walk is drying in a dehumidifier. Chicks, recently hatched, cheep in a corner. Joan offers me sea salt, i decline and comment on salt quantaties i often find here, she talks of wanting to make her own sea salt. I ask about the herb on the potatoes, nettles she says. 

We wash up, her husband plays the organ, practising for the chuch service tomorrow. I am invited to attend but remembering my unexpected pentecostal experience in finland, i politely decline but say i will see how i feel.

I think i am ready for home.

I lie in bed, it is morning. Yesterday we spot a tiny house while out walking, it faces the ocean. Built by a man, since died, nobody seems to know who owns it, nobody uses it. It looks to have an outside light so probably has electricity. It is a small house and might suit me well but is isolated, on a track leading up to the low northern hills. Joan will make a call enquiring. If this turns up, i may return.

I send an email to atlantic airways asking about changing the date on my flight. Returning in winter i could rent a comfortable house in the middle of the village.

The sun is shining. Moments of blue show through but layers of grey cloud predominate. The sun goes. A few white fluffballs look to stand no chance of playing in the sky for long. The forecast for the day is cloudy with sunshine this evening. A prime day, perhaps, for the six hour trek to Bordan lighthouse and back but i feel little interest. 

The wind blows, it is sunday. I would like a day at home, cooking and making textiles. Perhaps i will return to my roll of felt wrapped in plastic. Likely by now, a rotten smelly mass of flower parts moulded into fibre. Or not. I think my wool was too hairy, my layers too thin.

I think back to my thoughts on holidays past and conclude that learning suits me well.  i wonder whether a creative course with own flights might suit. A course to get me grounded in a country, understanding the customs, money and transport before staying on to explore, maybe just another two weeks alone. Long enough to explore, not too long to wonder why. I recall an intent for this summer, a bridge break in Croatia followed by two weeks free roaming and then off to a Swim Trek around Croatian islands. I came close but dates didnt work easily and when i considered my range of clothing needs, abandoned the idea. Too ambitious. 

I think though that a bridge break with enormous suitcase containing rucksack could work. I feel reasonably confident i could leave a case at a bridge hotel, book one night there for my return. does that mean im coming home to bridge? I had thought i might let it lie for a while, fully expecting both partners to be in new stable partnerships. I am surprised i look in to check results. John, you are not playing. Jane, you dont appear to have established a partnership.

I think i am coming home. I add to the list of things i want carla to bring to leeds for next weekend ready for my return. 

My house is empty until 7th august. If i come home, i would need then to be away again until the 18th august, eleven days away. A good length of time for a holiday perhaps.

Double dip

Double dip  23.07.16

So swim i did, with three other ladies. Maybe 50m max with me swimming longest and not wanting to get out but i needed to stay with them to use the boatshed for changing so got out soon after they did. 8 degrees they say but i think maybe 9. Not so cold. They say they swim all year round but i am surprised that its a quick dip and out, just as our bodies are getting used to the water.

I return to find Joel, an australian staying here having finished his morning yoga and fancying a dip. Wet cossie goes on and back i go. This time, i am pleased to swim out to the little boat in the middle of the harbour and back again. The tide is in and the seaweed grows tall so even though i could stand chest high in water i am nevertheless brushing seaweed much of the time while swimming, freaky seaweed that tries to wrap itself a little around my legs as i breast stroke. I wish for my hat, goggles and neoprene boots. 

I wonder about currents, have not seen any of the ladies swim out at all only along and back but our swimmimg spot is well within the outer harbour walls. nevertheless it feels easier going out than coming back and i have an unneccessary moment of anxiety when i turn, it definitely looks further to return than to swim out. I am pleased to have micro towel, sarong and baggy tshirt so i can change easily but the harbour is in full view of the village and i am aware of this. i cannot yet presume to use the fishing shed when not with the ladies but hope that in time, i might do so.

My body is now feeling cool. i drink latte and eat beetroot, cream cheese and pickled rhubarb waffle. it is good. The cafe overlooks the harbour, it is quiet and still. Joan comes in and invites me to walk with her and a friend this afternoon, the lower northern hills behind the village and i am pleased to say yes. 



Music from across the water in Torshavn sounds, excitement for next weekends festival is growing already and today there will be free music in the streets all day. i may cross later, take the 7.30 ferry out and the last 10pm ferry home. 

Eg komi

Eg komi  23.07.16

It is saturday morning and i am excited to be going swimming. Carefully timed to avoid the rush of visitors who will arrive on the ferry in an hours time. The harbour where we swim is the centre of the village and we try not to attract too much attention.

I looked on FB and saw a post 'eg ateli maer í morgun árini 10.30' someone replies adding an unhappy face and i reply eg kumi. It looks right, it sounds right, others posted the same words last week but then i become anxious for i think ann-mari, the poster, told me last week she was going away on holiday. I reply again, in english to check i have understood. I have. I wish i hadnt doubted.

Later, i have an invitation to go to the outfield. I understand that the village is known as the homefield and all land outside the village, the outfield. The day is grey and raining. 

Friday 22 July 2016

Tired

Tired  22.07.16

I am so tired i forget from one moment to the next what i want to say. It was something about planning on practicing being away from home for three months, something perhaps to repeat each year, help me to appreciate what i have when i am home.

I spent a long time in my first year of retirement half heartedly looking for a bolthole that i could afford but cabins at Hemsby and static caravans at Hunstanton were the only things to come up, over and over. In fairness i never actually went and looked but dont think it would quite do it for me. Maybe that's an idea though, actually go and see. Then i played with the idea of a van i could sleep in but that didnt happen either. Im still seeking something.

Maybe it might be the development of a skill, a study course, something to structure my time. I fill my time easily at home, over fill it, but there is something satisfying about the focus involved when engaged in something outside of myself. I feel a lack of otherness, there is only me. So when i say i have come away to escape committments, I think I may really mean to escape from me.

If i were home i would read jonathon livingston seagull and the little prince right now. They might help to ground me.

Thursday 21 July 2016

What its all about

What its all about 21.07.16

What is it all about i wonder. I try to fathom what my hopes were when embarking on this trip such that i might now understand what i am seeking. Experience, experience, experience is all i can find. An understanding of a country, its people, landscapes wildlife and climate. Ok been here done that, now what?

As i approach the last week of my time here with no further decisions needed about where to go, i need instead to make decisions about whether or not to return. For what, is my question, for what?Getting my australian journals into electronic form is the only reason i have found, although the challenge of hitching a lift on a cargo boat adds excitement, but the complexities of how to move easily carrying weighty journals and no place as yet, to return to make the prospect both of interest, yet daunting.

I could return to Nolsoy, to Levi's little room for £15 a night but it is small and without a desk, the house full of interesting people and already feels too much family like. There, that was that my intention, to escape family and expectations made on me or more perhaps the expectations i place on myself as regards my life and immediate family. 

Yes, I was searching for freedom, to take away my sense of routine and obligation towards others, to have some time just for me. Moving to a house i already describe as too much like family is not the answer. i need a small hideaway, somewhere i can be self sufficient and alone but find company of friends if i need it.

No, it is more than that, it is me wanting to understand what there is for me now in life. I am not content to stay home, clean after AirBnB guests (although they certainly give me the money to run a car and not fret too much) but i dont want this to be all there is for the next twenty years. Airbnb, bridge, biking and grandchildren is not enough, i feel ill fitted for this role and still want more from life. Perhaps live somewhere new, learn something new.

I have never understood holidays, dont know how to 'do' sitting around by a pool, eating and drinking. Dont know how to live in close proximity with strangers nor yet be comfortable alone without an ease of movement and ability to feed myself sustainably. So i dont know, am i on holiday or on a quest? Perhaps i would be more settled if i understood the difference.

Perhaps i can find an answer if i think of 'holidays' i have taken over the years:

An expensive Holiday Fellowship walking week: prissy, nothing in common with my room mate. A very disappointing 40th birthday treat for myself, the concept of which i had totally misunderstood, made me feel eighty not forty. Sherry on arrival. Dressing for dinner.

CTC cuba bike touring trip: over the edge a bit too hard, too little fun or music, too much bland samey hotel food and no contact with ordinary people. I understand the simultaneous Exodus trip was more expensive but local accomodation and contacts, more laughter and local foods.

Bridge fortnight in tunisia. Dare i say i enjoyed this? Enjoyed the luxury of the facilities, the learning purpose, the mixture of excursions, exploratory in nature, with plenty of room for personal explorations.

Spinning week in yorkshire, when i was seventeen or eighteen, camping and a weeklong workshop. I enjoyed that, loved learning, loved being there yet without actually having to explore and be the tourist.

Machine embroidery week in Northumberland. I barely left the grounds, enjoyed the company of my roommate and worked long hours. I dont remember the food and have no idea now of where we were. It was unimportant. Total immersion.

Two weeks wandering the hebrides: moments of aloneness, togetherness, loneliness, generosity, drunkenness, decisions and indecisions, moments of fear but long summer days, machair, sea and the company of others also moving on. Two weeks, not long enough yet somehow just long enough.

An unplanned whole year in australia, bridges burned, nothing to come home to. A sense of being compelled to do something with my time, to make some sense of it, which slowly grew into a freedom of moment and a freedom of movement.  It takes time on the road to be on the road.

One long weekend organised trip whilst in australia, walking to wilsons prom, climbing sand dunes, crazyness and achievement. The joys of sharing a warm can of beer.

Swim camp in spain. Never intended as fun, very isolated and controlled but a good technique experience. Wouldnt do another.

You might think that at 60 i might know what pleases me yet it is so hard to fathom and money is always the curtain shrouding it all and shaping each experience as it grows. The long, overland, rough exploratory, back of lorry, holiday trips have always attracted me but been priced out of my budget. I guess i try to recreate them in a small way alone.

What defines a holiday and what a journey? I have come on a journey yet am expecting it to be a holiday. I find those who travel with a prescribed agenda have a romanticised notion of the freedom of travelling alone. They know nothing of the loneliness or the constant need to be thinking ahead, planning the next move, picking up the pieces and always always, wearing stale clothes.

The ferry is immersed in another fog field. I set my alarm last night for six am and have escaped on the 6.25 am bus. Forgoing breakfast, for which i had paid, i am on the 7am ferry. It is another day in the fog and i would rather spend it in Torshavn than Sudoroy.

Yesterday was brighter than it might have been and i easily found a lift beyond Sumba, to the lands end, the most southerly point, Akraberg. We walked to the lighthouse. An american was packing up camp at the lighthouse where he had stayed overnight, risking being swept over by the wind. Three times in the last ten days emergency services have been called to accidents high on the hills, people getting lost in the fog or falling fatally. This is not a country to be treated lightly. 

I cannot yet read the clouds but i know when they suggest it would be folly to explore height. My danish driver tutted and tutted endlessly about the american, whilst wiping sheep muck from her shoes, before starting out on the high buttercup route back to Vagur. By now, the road was shrouded in dense fog, the apparently stunning Beinisvøro cliffs nowhere to be seen. She was an inexperienced driver, a woman my age but stalling on hairpin bends and terrified of the roads, hesitant and anxious. I wanted to drive her car for her and it made me recall a moment from a distant winter journey in Newfoundland, when an officer of the law turned and said, 'I'm sorry mam, but you're gonna hafta drive this vehicle' as it materialised that the guy giving me a lift had no licence.



I walked to Vágseidi harbour. i have lost a piece of writing, it has disappeared. I sat at the old rocky harbour and wrote about my desire to understand the geology, making comparions between this ancient volcanic rock and iceland. I wrote about wanting to understand and read the clouds, yet today I find my writing gone. I have lost a chapter, i suspect i did not save it but started a new post on top of it. I mourn my ramblings.




I walk to the small lake where children play, pond dipping and paddling. 



I call in at the tv and radio shop and ask to view the Ruth Smith exhibition, i see her work differently now, my Danish lift told me stories of knowing her children, of how they were ill dressed and  neglected, how all she would do was paint paint paint. She drowned around the age of 45 in a suspected suicide, i look on her work with changed perspective.

I meet a stained glass artist, view her work in the library but do not fall in love with it as i have with that of Trondur Patursson. I try to hitch to Fámjin, and get a lift on my last hope car for the day. After walking two or three miles in spitting rain, i decide to call it a day when he stops.  Fámjin? he says, i cannot take you far. We speed through the tunnel and soon i stand at the end of a small single track road, Famijan is a further 9k along a tiny winding mountain road. I check the busses and find the second, and last bus of the day, will leave Famjin in seventyfive minutes time. I fasten my coat and wait for cars to come my way, i only need to get there, order a waffle and coffee from the outdoor cafe and view the original faroese flag, made in protest by a student wanting independence in 1919.

A bright, smiling, student health care worker picks me up. We have a half conversation about care, about children in care. there are questions i need to ask, but the edge of what is polite and what is safe during a nine kilometer car journey is unclear to me. I ask the reasons children go into care, she struggles to answer. drugs, alcohol, abuse, neglect, I offer, she agrees but still struggles to find the words she wants and then says, you know some people cant even look after themselves and then they cant look after their children. She drives faster than i like on narrow roads and hairpin bends. My older sister is also training in social health care she says. She drives confident that nothing is coming the other way.  my younger sister is with a foster family. Im sorry is all i can say and she shrugs, its ok. I see the car before she does, to my right a steep drop, in front a descending hairpin bend and crash barrier. She shrieks and pulls over, we dont quite touch the crash barrier or the car, she reverses and drives on.

I arrive to find the cafe is closed. The tide is out, the bay a dark rocky seaweed garden with rocks nosing from water beyond. A narrow channel through the rocks and shallow water is marked with poles, boats nestle in the harbour, fishing these waters demands care. Wandering beside the fishing huts i learn the elderly owner of the cafe is dying of cancer. I wander and wonder about life and death.



The faroese flag was not fully recognised until the second world war when the british demanded faroese ships fly it, rather than the Danish flag as denmark was now occupied, germany territory. The intervention of the british was a turning point in faroese independence. as significant as it is for the faroese, for me, the flag is just a flag and a reason to visit, the germans, chattering in the church ignore my greeting and give me no eye contact. i turn for home.

I leave the village, happy to walk out onto the mountain road, knowing that a bus will come and will stop when i hail it. Two unusually large cars pass me by, mercedes. Most people here drive small cars as befits small roads. I see two souped up, escort like, cars wind up out of the village and wonder where they have appeared from, i did not see them and the village is an end of the road place. I turn towards them, hold out my thumb and am surprised as the bright red, almost rally car, with danish plates whizzes to a stop beside me. A smiling face and long blonde hair greet me and i climb in. She is a teacher and has been visiting family with her aunt, indicating the blue car in front of us. We compare notes about pressures on pupil progress and behaviour in class. She regrets that denmark is heading the same way as the uk. I am lucky she is heading back to her father in Vagur which is also my destination.

It is late aftenoon and I sit in the library reading faroese history and legend until seven pm. 

Wednesday 20 July 2016

Rain or thundery showers, fog banks.

Rain or thundery showers, fog banks.

How could I even think about drinking in such a small town? Or think that I might stand a chance. In fairness it was the book telling me that this is second in size to Tvøroyri that made me think it a possibility. I love to stay at places where the book says don't even bother to stop here, pass right on through but for now I will withhold my judgement about Vagur.

Straight off the ferry, I ask for the town, the driver assumes I will be staying at the hotel but I say no, private house and show him the address I have. Women on the bus make comment and he agrees to let me know when we arrive. This will be the first place where I am actually booked for bed AND breakfast!!!!

Dense fog accompanies us. At one point the top of mountains become clear but i know not whether we are immediately passing land or water. I arrive at my lodgings with the bus dropping me off outside the door which is fantastic except it means I now don't know for leaving, where the actual bus stop is! The lady is looking out of the front window and I wave to her. She greets me at the door and we ascertain that we have no language commonality. She proffers me an old envelope on which is written, I do not speak English, what time would you like breakfast? Now I would have quite liked to have some flexibility and I have been ready to say I would like cold water, hard boiled eggs, cheese, cucumber and rye bread if possible please at no fixed time between 8 and 9 but I show her 08.30 on my mobile and will take what I get.

I establish where I will shower and eat breakfast and where I might eat this evening by a guttural mimicking of nibbling my fingers and uttering the name of the hotel in an, I hope, quizzical manner. She makes a phone call and I think I am speaking with the hotel but it turns out to be a bored sounding daughter, like ohmygod why have I got to do this, but who gives me the information I need.

I wander down the main road, find the harbour and discover a concrete church. More interestingly though, an old sailing ship, that I think cleaner and better kept, but probably many years younger than Nordlysid. I wonder what she is doing here and I wish I could speak with my host. Many buildings appear empty and very neglected. Attempts to make the place interesting with large 1920's images somehow just seem to accentuate the sad state of it today.

Feeling hopeful about the 'brightly painted' hotel, i make my way to a grey building and walk in. A family are busy eating but the place is otherwise empty. I walk to what purports, perhaps, to be the bar and read an ancient, dogbeared and dirty menu. Half way through trying to comprehend this ancient parchment, i hear, TIna, shrieked and there is a man I recognise, but who for now, cannot place, sitting with two women and two children. Slowly my brain chugs and I work out this is Marits son. I am introduced to his wife, children and mother in law. We make polite exchanges. I don't know if I should sit down to join them or how many tables away it will be polite to sit. Neither seem right, so I do the one that best suits my comfort, I sit two tables away, leaving them to their family chatter.

I mostly manage to interpret the menu, I can have pizza, chicken and chips, fish and chips or kebabs, with cake and ice cream should I be desperate for dessert. I find no beer listed and no sign of any service so turn to them for advice. They point out that beer is on the top shelf, not on the menu and that the girl serving is on her own this evening so I must wander into the kitchen and call her. I do so. Premptorily she tells me she will be out to serve me as soon as she is able.

Why am I writing these minutiae? Its even boring me! no reason I think other than stumbling upon Marit's family and that, in my naivety I was hoping to find life a bar, in a working town, which I have not. I fear my evening will be spent alone in my room, no further forward with any knowledge of my surroundings. I will endeavour to walk on and at least find the Ruth Smith gallery this evening. Right now though, I am inclined to catch the return ferry tomorrow morning!

Just as I leave, asking for and being refused 'it is not allowed', a takeaway bottle of beer, a french speaking couple walk in. Maybe I ate too early. Now 8.30, perhaps I can eat later tomorrow evening. How might it be tho to live somewhere so very very quiet. I could buy myself a low alcohol beer from the supermarket to have back at my B and B but have no opener.

What a horrid place this turns out to be. Rough, guaze like sheet that is like sandpaper to my body, noisy main road again, disappointing hotel. Can i find positives? Ive been invited in to see beautiful smelling, pure wool, a rare commodity over here. This town is the home of the spinning mill, one of two reasons i was keen to visit. Walking along, looking in windows, i am surprised, when a shop door is opened and i am invited in. i  suggest i will not be buying but the invitation stands, you were on Smyril line, he says, i saw you and i concur. 

I ask him about the spinning milll and he tells me it closed some seven years ago. with pride he explains how he now sends his wool to bradford for scouring, on to lithuiania for spinning and back to the faroes for sale. He has no idea that this might not instil the sense of awe and respect in me that he envisages it might. No wonder the town is dying. 

How soon can i leave?
  1. Faeroes

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    • Wind

      Cyclonic becoming southerly or southwesterly 4 or 5, occasionally 6 at first.
    • Sea State

      Moderate.
    • Weather

      Rain or thundery showers, fog banks.
    • Visibility

      Moderate or very poor.

Our turn

Our turn 20.07.16

I love the sound of the fog horn. It is now our turn to regularly blast out with a long low boom. I recognise the tenor I heard this morning and now know from whence it came. I try to track back, to recall at which point in my childhood the fog horn became my friend. I know that it was my friend, holds familiarity but can't quite place when and where, or why.

We did not live near the sea nor holiday there, other than one occasion I recall at Heacham and another in Wales. Occasionally I would go fishing with my father and older brother but seldom, I liked the romanticism of sitting on the beach all night with tilly lights but found it cold and boring, but did they fish in the fog? I doubt it.

I am being watched, I know he is watching me but I do not care. Nearing the end of a two hour ferry ride I have just bought my third small bottle of beer. I could do with a nights free drinking, have not had one since I have been away. An evening of letting go, just being. My time has been full of being careful, of other people and moving on, of finding my feet yet i find myself still moving on. Tonight, i would like to be an unknown, without expectations. I have no special hopes for my time here in Sudoroy, if there is a pub, I just may seek it out. My book suggests otherwise. It lists supermarket, hotel, library, bank and shopping complex and ATM machine but no bar. I will try thr hotel.

Low cloud hides the base of the land but a clearing in the cloud shows a finger, a stack, a rocky end of land visible only from half way up above the ocean. We pass the stack brfore i catch it but catch the low lying cloud.


I have not seen cloud sit so low but then be clear above, other than high up in an aeroplane. The Rock has now gone. All is grey once more, dense cloud, I see nothing but banks of grey. We are near, the fog horn continues to call, I feel us begin to turn in and am excited to arrive. I have an hours bus journey ahead.

Tróndur Patursson

Tróndur Patursson 20.07.16

Mesmerised, I listen and watch an hour long documentary on an attempt to sail by traditional bamboo raft from Hong Kong to South America, across the Pacific Ocean, in search of evidence that ancient chinese civilisations may have arrived on America's shores some two hundred years before Columbus.

Five explorers, headed by Irish historian, Tim Severin and involving sailor, fisherman and artist, faroese Trondur Paturssun, the film is awe inspiring as is Paturssen's work created in response. The day is another grey and rainy mistiness with low visibility. My helicopter flight has been cancelled, the fog being too thick. I spend my time in the art museum watching the film and then chasing examples of Paturssen's work. 

I now sit on the ferry, more reliable than a helicopter and with efficient transport links at either end. I absorb the bright blue light and ponder hours spent on oceans.









Fog horn

Fog horn  20.07.16

I wake to the sound of a long clear boom followed by a higher, and shorter reply. I wonder whether the height and length of the note signifies the size of the vessel that makes it. i journey forward today, but wonder on the wisdom of doing so. The foghorns suggest my helicopter ride may not be the sightseeing delight I had envisaged. The forecast for the next two days gives me little hope that my return to Sudoroy will be any more revealing than my last.

I lay in bed and ponder my situation. It would be easy to stay but I now feel too comfy. two Australian guys arrived last night, recording programmes for a radio show for Australian classic fm, bringing with them the gin bottle, this house is becoming too cosy and I feel my time squeezed between companionship and reflection. In a sense, I like my aloneness for it forces me to use words as my companion. 

For two days I have sat with the knowledge that I will return in August and last night became excited when Hannes, my host, suggested it easy to hitch a lift on a cargo ship to the Shetlands and indicated an ability to help me do so. This morning, I wonder instead, about changing my August flight for a return in January, desirous of being here when the waves crash all the way over the village, when the ferry will roll steeply from side to side and when the northern lights will dance in the sky.

Ten past nine and I am packed ready to leave. I have an hour before I need to depart for my ferry. I have lightened my pack yet again for I will leave half of my remaining belongings here. I have no need for dirty washing, sleeping bag, cooking basics or swim kit for the next two nights. Scattering my belongings around a country is something I have done before. Some will be reclaimed, others discarded or forgotten. 

My pack will be light. I have perhaps a 3 k walk from the helipad on Sudoroy to cafe Mor Mor where I will while away the three hours I must wait for a bus to take me on to Vagur. Helicopter travel needs more planning than ferries it seems. It is possible I may find a taxi to share that someone has preordered, indeed could order one for myself but think that the walk will be manageable with a light pack. The contents of my day sack have also been reduced and the pack itself now sits in the base of my rucksack, leaving me to carry my iPad and clutter in pockets.

I am ready to leave, I feel the need to escape this 'family' I have just made for myself. I cannot create when in the company of others, I need my solitude to take time for me. My body still sways with the movements of all the boat journeys I have taken. It is not an unpleasant feeling but disconcerting and I look forward to a flight.

Tuesday 19 July 2016

There and back again

There and back again 19.07.16

You know when something feels right and then it feels wrong and then right again, well that's just where I'm at right now and also maybe where I was at this morning albeit in a very different manner.

I set out to try to find the walk to the storm petrol colony that runs alone the east coast of the island but find my way barred or the whimbrel telling me madly that I may not pass his way. 


Instead I wander paths that do not seem to distress the locals and before long realise that I am on the beginning of the reknown six hour there and back hike, the one I said I was not going to do. Finding myself on the path, it seems churlish not to give it a go. I know that the worst section, the steep climb is at the beginning, maybe I can just climb to see what it's like from the top and then descend again, just to see how challenging it really is.

At some point I remember that my other plan had been to walk to the puffin colony on the flatter, north of the island but I'm here now. Several large container ships and tankers sit in the water outside Tórshavn harbour, I'm told the shipping industry is in a bad way and they sit here for months. With a leisurely approach I climb steadily looking at the steep rocks immediately above, unable to see a path through. Slowly, section by section, just as I think there is no path, the way becomes clear. I turn to look back at Nolsoy before I commence the steepest section.


At times I am on my hands and knees, I dare not look up nor yet down but can only focus on the small trail ahead. There is see a path of sorts, but footholds are not clear and loose surfaces or peaty bog make the challenge more than just the ascent itself. 

I cannot now begin to describe with any clarity, the intensity of emotions I went through, determination, fear, wonder, surprise, bemusement. The thing that kept me scrambling was that soon after each scary, scramble there would be a flatter respite. I kept telling myself I could stop at any time but at the same time knew I would not do so. 

I found an easy pace where I did not exhaust myself and ninety minutes after beginning, found myself at the top of the climb, skirting the side of the mountain, now just an easy walking descent to reach the lighthouse at the other end of the island.


I walk along the flat track, cairns now clearly marking my path and watch the sky carefully. This mornings early clear blue has been replaced with layers of cloud that have begun to descend on mountain tops around. 


The light is no longer bright, the wind picks up. I walk on for a further half hour before decide to pick a cairn in the distance and no matter what, will stop and turn. I've seen no one ahead or behind me while out. if the clouds descend there will be no way to make it down the steep section, I will have to sit and wait it out. I recall that my waterproof leggings are not in my bag.


I feel slight alarm as the big cairn announces that my steep descent is about to commence but it turns out shorter and easier than I expected, tamer. Sitting on my butt and shifting down a ledge easier than holding tightly and pulling myself up, much less nerve wracking  than I expected. 



The rain sets in about an hour after I return.

I write some hours later. I can't believe I didn't do so at the time. My writing now feels flat and unreal. I felt full of joy, anticipation, fear, achievement, amazement, my head was full of running commentary on my steps and now I'm, so what, yeah. I anticipated finding a spot to sit at the top and record my ascent but with clouds drawing in, no opportunity appeared. I thought then that I would find a spot once I'd descended the steep bit but again no such spot appeared. As I neared the village, I was sidetracked by the enormity of the ferry dwarfing the village as it pulled in to harbour. I sat on a log and just watched, eating rye bread and smoked mackerel as hoards dispersed. Some were greeted and a large band of tourists gathered to be addressed by a leader. I was unusually not tempted to get closer to listen in. I swung my legs, very much feeling the local watching the world go by



I now know the trek is not beyond me, I could master it if I were to start early enough in the day and walk with others, I now know I can do the most challenging bit. If only I were staying here longer.....

Which brings me back to my opening paragraph.....You know when something feels right and then it feels wrong and then right again, that's where I'm at right now.

I leave here the day after tomorrow ... Or do I? .....i have negotiated a £15 a night bed in Levis little room if I want it, the bed with the uncomfortable mattress. It's available until the 12th August when Levi comes home. It seems I am in the equivalent of norwichs golden triangle, a tiny island community of teachers, artists, musicians and craftsmen. This afternoon I've eaten angelica jam, nettle tea, been given the recipe for pickled rhubarb, joined the secret swimmers group, been shown a book of poetry by a twenty two year old and a book of ancient Faroese plant uses written by her mother, seen a Hammond organ (with more pedals than I thought possible to exist) being played and sat in a very quiet pub, listening to the stories of my German host. I've had more conversation in three days than in the past three weeks.