I drive over the brow of the hill through Sandavágur and notice the turning to Trøllkunufingur, I decide I would like to return there, to have the place to myself instead of the company I picked up last time. I mentally make a list of other things I would like to do before I leave here: drive the roads behind the guest house, to see if I can find a path leading up the mountain, return to Gásadalur's high cliffs gazing out to sea, buy a travel card from the airport, visit Oyrarjgógv,
The long tunnel leaving Vágar, that initially alarmed me, stretches three to four miles and I have learned there are penalties for going too slowly in a tunnel. No signs indicate this and Marit can't quantify her statement by telling me what merits 'too slow'. As I enter the tunnel, I copy her behaviour, lifting my sun glasses from my eyes the exact second I enter, it works well.
Now on Streymoy, I pass the turn to Vestmanna and remeber my desire to return to the jagged rocks and vertical cliffs, to the feel of the ocean, powering through strong currents. Stories are frequent about the danger of the currents, which are easily visible, glistening on the surface of the water, patches of calm amidst chop.
The road beside Kollafjørdur is unusually dry today. The winds are strong, blowing away heavy cloud leaving bright sunshine and blue sky. As I round the corner to drive up Sundinini sound, I notice a scrap yard on my left. Nothing behind me, so I stop and look, perhaps only a dozen cars but clearly a scrap yard. As expected, none have licence plates on them. Marit has told me that what I am looking for is impossible, the laws about licence plates are too severe. I've heard that in other countries before but will persist in my search, I'll call by on my return.
The road beside Kollafjørdur is unusually dry today. The winds are strong, blowing away heavy cloud leaving bright sunshine and blue sky. As I round the corner to drive up Sundinini sound, I notice a scrap yard on my left. Nothing behind me, so I stop and look, perhaps only a dozen cars but clearly a scrap yard. As expected, none have licence plates on them. Marit has told me that what I am looking for is impossible, the laws about licence plates are too severe. I've heard that in other countries before but will persist in my search, I'll call by on my return.
I pass the road to Saksun remembering my missed walk to Pollurin tidal lagoon because of the throng of people, perhaps that's worth a return. Tjørn I loved but feel no compulsion to re visit. The long bridge across from Streymoy across to Eysturoy, famed for being the only bridge across the North Atlantic, is visible for several miles before I reach it. This will be further east than I have yet travelled. A lorry has been behind me for a while and I realise too late, that I would have liked to pull in and let him pass by.
As I approach, a temporary traffic light sign surprises me, I think these must be the only traffic lights in the Faroes and stop at the red light. It is clear the bridge is being resurfaced, the red light stands in the middle of the road. The lane I am on, and my onward lane have been scraped, but are perfectly drivable, the lane to the left is steaming fresh tarmac. Nothing indicates which lane I should use and nothing stops me using either. I wish the lorry were in front of me. I wait what feels like an age at the red light when, thankfully cars finally approach across the steaming tarmac suggesting that the new surface should be my choice. The lights turn green and I gingerly mount the new tarmac step and begin to edge forward. The lorry is impatient behind me and it soon becomes apparent that the right hand lane is being resurfaced as we drive past. I don't get a chance to look out across the waters as I drive on to Eysturoy.
The lorry breathes behind me and I pull in to let him pass. Speed limits are 50 and 80 but scant regard seems to be paid to this. In the car with Marit, she drove 106kph through the tunnel. I learned not to copy the locals in this respect when driving in Iceland. A mighty £105 on the spot fine ten years ago taught me that. Over here, Marit says there are no speed cameras and the lights that continually flash at us, as she drives, are simply telling her how fast she is going. Nor she says, is it likely to be fined for speeding. She tells stories of being very apologetic to officers when parking in the wrong place or contravening other rules of the road butbsays that while they occasionally are stern with her, no other consequence is elicited.
The lorry has passed by and I look at my map. Right turn to Strendur or Klaksvik will be next and then another tunnel. I have read about the Faroese delight in clawing holes through mountains and indeed there are many tunnels, both long and short.
The rain set in a while ago, all around me is cloudy gloom. I see no signs to Klaksvig, the second largest town in the Faroes, but Strendur is marked. I begin the drive down Skálafjørdur when I spot the rustiest piles of heavy machinery scrap, with an odd vehicle here and there. Mentally noting the position I am pleased now to have two possible lines of enquiry to acquire a license plate for my collection and a third will be the rumour of a small antiques shops at the edge of Reyni, old town Tórshavn. A fourth option, to persuade a 'friend' to let me 'steal' theirs and pay for the replacement has not yet been viewed with positivity, nobody has chosen to name their price. I clearly haven't met the right people. The fifth option, actually stealing one is simply not going to happen. I did have a little go yesterday, trying to prise the edge of Marit's from her car, just to see what it might entail, but I think it is not so simple and I am not brave enough to approach an empty vehicle, however remotely parked, with no person in sight, and try to shimmy the number plate from it. You just never know when someone might appear and despite Marits claims about the police I don't fancy my chances if caught.
Turning the tight hairpin immediately after Strendur brings sumptuous views of layer cake mountains in a moment of blue sky. I can tell this drive would have been stunning if the day were clear. I stop for my first photo of the day. It has taken me an hour and a quarter to drive thus far.
I proceed along the narrow road to end of the road Selatràd, my destination. I am now less afraid of these tiny single track roads which sit above the surrounding terrain, no doubt to prevent them being flooded. There is little traffic and I have come to terms with the give way to the right rule. If there is no pull in to your right but you see one to the left, sit in the middle of the road, waiting for the car to come which will pull in to its right. Unless it's a lorry and then pull in to the left. I get that. What I haven't figured though is the hill priority, vehicles going uphill have priority over those going down and I think that means that I should pull in to the left when a car comes up towards me but have not yet done so and have incurred no drivers wrath. Indeed, neither has anyone done so for me.
The hostel that I have chosen for my first stay when I leave my workaway placement is described as 'sitting at the bottom of a terrace of steep hills overlooking Sundini sound'. Around sixty five people live in the hamlet, there are no services but a self catering kitchen and I understand the hostel adds life to the village. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to that last statement.
I find the hostel, as described to me in an email. Little is signed so descriptions are important. I find a large white house (I am amused as my auto spell immediately gives the combination of White House capital letters!) described as the main building, with a falling down black building to its right and a long red dormitory block on its left. The setting is beautiful but this is another of those small villages that feels rather derelict and uninviting.
I find an old man with some children, playing, half way up the drive, I stop to speak with him but he speaks no english and the children, aged around eight or nine, titter at the sound of my voice. One girl is clutching a hand full of fluff, gathered from cotton grass, I smile and motion towards it, showing pleasure at its softness and expressing surprise that she has gathered so much. I want to converse to find out if it is possible to work with cotton grass but the girl turns away from me. This does not feel promising.
I show the man the name of the hostel in my guidebook but that does not help either. Eventually, I put my hands together beside my ear, lean my head, close my eyes and snore. Yes he nods and points to the long red building. I continue up the drive and park. The children now play on swings and play equipment, there is a sign on the dilapidated building that says Info and I approach hopefully. The children repeatedly call out a phrase but if I try to talk with them I just get titters. This is unusual, most children here can say hello and goodbye, are unphased by the sound of an English tongue and often have favourite TV characters that they like to repeat the names of.
The info building is deserted, long wooden benches and the play equipment make it look a place with potential tho and well used. I go over to the main building with the children calling the same phrase over and over. Later, I think maybe they were saying, there's nobody there, but at the time I have no idea. I find many doors, knock at each and try the handle, hoping to call hello or find a welcoming sign, but the doors are firmly locked. Through the windows I see a couple of couches in an otherwise barren room with chairs and other furniture piled high.
I make my way to the sleeping accomodation. I peer through the windows and see that each small cubicle room holds a bed with a mattress, nothing more. It looks simple but uninviting. Window after window, the bed is the same, unused, I think nobody is staying here. I then realise that the windows on the other side of the building would look out over the sound, that's where people would choose.
At the end of the building I find an unlocked door. I enter. A long gloomy corridor is in front of me. Everything is silent, I call hello but hear no reply. I feel as though I trespass, knock on a few internal doors and try them but they are all locked. As I pass along the corridor, I realise the door I have come through is closing and my light departing. I push a light switch and am pleased to find dim illumination. I must press switch after switch as I move along the corridor to reach a door at the other end, also locked. I find no toilets or wash facilities. I leave the building and look through the windows facing out over the sound. They are equally devoid of life apart from beds.
Down by the water, canoes sit upturned and I conclude that perhaps this is an activity centre and that when the email said weekends were full but there MIGHT be vacancy mid week, what they meant was its completely empty except for weekends. I retreat. This is not the place for me.
I am pleased to have had opportunity to visit. Much as I would love the isolation and stillness, to explore the tiny settlement, I nevertheless need others around me in the evening. I am relieved I have told Marit that I will leave, rather than just depart, and will stay at the guest house one more night.
Neither hostel has asked for money upfront or any form of booking confirmation. I recall my conversations and recall that my other choice, set in a busy little centre a two hour ferry journey away had availability mid week, I will extend my nights there, the setting not so idyllic but amongst people, busyness, travellers moving to and fro, for that is what I now need.
As I leave, I stop for the short but dramatic drive to the tip of Eysturoy and see the biggest heads of cotton grass I've seen, blowing wildly in the wind. I look out to the ocean but also back towards where I would have been staying and am glad to leave.
Moving further along the road, I notice pill boxes and other concrete evidence of war time occupation. I wonder if the red building was a military barracks. I am pleased to have left.
There are a few tasks I need to attend to, more towels to wash, dry ones to remove and fold and wet ones to put in the tumbler. I decide to make coffee. The kitchen bins have begun to smell. Left, since her brother cooked two nights ago, I have not been in the kitchen since.
I glance around, dirty pots in the sink, an industrial oven size tray of vegetables beginning to smell under a cloth, a pot of salad with the cucumber now just slime, in the fridge. I put the dishes to soak, throw the food and empty the bin. I empty the bin by the coffee pot too and drips of thick, almost black, ink like liquid, fall to the floor and leave puddles on the counter behind them. For now I empty bins and wipe surfaces.
It is a sunny day, the air crisp and clean. I pull a chair outside and sit in the sunshine typing. I've asked about chairs for the verandah, she says it is not possible but I do not understand why. The tiled ceramic table makes a pleasant spot to sit. In the sunshine, corrugated rooves creak away although from indoors the sound cannot be heard.
Despite my reservations it actually turned out to be rather pleasant sleeping in the guest house last night. I closed many doors trying to shut out empty spaces. I found switches and switched off all the lights that have been permanently on since my arrival, day and night. Once my space had been made smaller, I felt less lost and alone but I missed the birds, calling me to sleep for I am further from the water. When I wake, I miss the view of the water but it is after seven. With both curtains and being set back a little from the road, the night has been darker and more peaceful.
I return to my yesterday.
Driving back, I carefully watch for my scrap yard but fret I may have missed it until it suddenly appears, set back down a steep drive, I turn in slowly. There is one building and the track leads me in to a deserted harbour. It is clear than most of the industrial rusting remains are nautical. I am wary of wandering too close, of nosing too deeply. I would rather there were some one here I could ask about doing so.
I feel the same sense of trespass and wariness that I feel when approaching unknown scrap yards that look rough at home, expecting a fierce alsatian to bound at me without warning. Last time I felt this nervous anticipation, Claire and I were exploring unknown territory on our bikes. A scrap yard appeared to have established itself across a right of way. Gingerly we turned corner after corner moving though the piles of metal and brick, came across dogs in pens before finding we were hemmed in by a fence. Undeterred and not wishing to retrace our steps, we quickly threw our bikes over the fence and clambered after them, adrenaline pumping. We made our way onto a broad green lane that once was accessible from the road.
Alone, and in a foreign country, I do not feel brave enough to risk this adrenaline rush and I disppointedly note that none of the vehicles sport license plates. I want to do so but do not search the piles of detritus that might hold hidden treasure.
My journey now takes me along a buttercup route to the long awaited Gjøgv, (pronounced dgedge). I am now used to driving without signs, to narrow hairpin climbing ascents but as I climb, I am faced with dense grey as I drive into cloud. It is a balance, the longer I am on these hairpin climbs the more likely I am to meet another vehicle and it is not possible to see pull ins beyond a few meters ahead, but the faster I go the less safe I am from sheer, tumbling edges beside me. Slow it has to be.
I feel more than slightly irritated meeting enormous motor homes with foreign number plates, it hardly seems the roads for these but clearly a popular stopping place is ahead. Wild camping is not permitted anywhere on the islands and nor is stopping on the side of the road in a motor home. These are the first I have seen since my arrival.
The road climbs, winding until I reach a tiny settlement in which I find nothing spectacular enough to think it is Gjógv. I try to find my way out but end up in small narrow streets with a few modern houses on either side. Eventually I turn and retrace my steps, disappointed not to have been inspired. I pass the camper van stop where maybe a dozen or so, sit by the side of the road, a sign indicates that camping is also permitted but I see no tents.
As I return, I come to a junction i can see that I missed as I came up. Instead of Gjógv, I have been to Elduvik, described by my book, as a dying village nestled at the foot of peaks, reaching 549 metres, with barely fifteen people living there. I am pleased it wasn't Gjógv but had it been a sunny day the drive would have been spectacular.
The road to Gjógv is not dissimilar and if it was not for the fact that I actually saw a sign, I could almost think I am retracing my steps. I am driving beside Funningsjførdur but see nothing of the water. Glimpses of stunning terraced rock faces become visible every now and then and I note that this could be a journey worth repeating. I understand there is a popular guesthouse and wonder if I will choose to make this a stop on my journeying at some point.
I arrive in Gjógv to the sight of teenagers playing in a small pool of water. Raft boats have been made by slicing a barrel in half lengthwise and placing planks above them. Sitting in the barrels and paddling with a piece of wood requires skill and balance.
I notice the domineering turf roofed guest house and decide that this is probably not for me after all. I park, but a sign that tells me privat parkeering so inmove on, intrigued that this sign was easily readable. I reach what appears to be a coach park and look back across pretty coloured houses set into the edge of rock. I understand, the sea can only be reached by climbing down steps where fishing boats in the gorge must be winched in to prevent them being smashed on the rocks.
The day is still wet and grey, I am wearing my fleece and it it is nearly five pm. If the weather were otherwise I would walk in to the village to explore but feel that as I am having a driving day I will return the way I have come and leave the village. As often happens I find myself in a tangled maze of streets with no knowledge of which way to go, unknowingly having taken a turn other than that on which I arrived. I know that at some point I will reach a dead end, a turning point and will be able to try to leave again.
I find myself in a dead end car park and see a sign that for a cafe, I decide it is time for me to experience the waffles that dominate cafe life here. It is windy and cold, there is only outside seating but I decline jam and cream as I order my waffle and am offered ice cream instead. I decide i will eat, standing up, in the small kiosk cafe. I've never really understood people's predilection for waffles and this experience does not change my view, neither does the liquorice ice cream tempt me back for more.
Before I start to eat though, I notice an outside seating area with glass wind breaks so climb the steps to trestle benches and discover that I am actually at the steps leading down to the harbour. I enjoy the view in front of me for a few moments, surprised I had not seen it as I approached. Minutes later, a coach load of tourists arrive and begin wandering, becoming ant like, on the hills beyond. I can see that this place has its attraction, a working village with many hill walks and interesting spots to explore. I think perhaps I will check out the guesthouse before I leave after all. I put on my new waterproof over my old fleece and discover that both are berghaus and that their zip systems have not changed over the years so I have an option of zipping my fleece into my outer layer. Small moments of comfort.
I am pleased that I wait until multi coloured and fluorescent jackets disappear from the hillside, trundling back to their waiting coach. I enjoy a few moments of photography although my hands protest every time I remove my gloves. My hat sits snugly on my head, I think I might seek out my buff and put it in my daysack for moments such as this.
Satiated for now, but with a desire to stay, I return to my car and look for the way to the guesthouse. It is not hard, all roads lead to the guesthouse. It is an imposing building on several levels. I decline the steps to the veranda and choose what appears to be a quieter entrance, round the back, with an open window looking on to the chef, working in the kitchens. It turns out to be a main entrance and I am whirled into a commercial world of visa signs, knit wear and jewellery. It feels plush and expensive.
The air is warm and the tables look inviting. Instead of turning me off, as was my immediate impression, I think I might like a little luxury and perhaps this could be it. I find a member of staff and ask after rooms, the chef comes and gives me a flier with website details. Prices, he says, are from 850 kroner to 1150. Ah right, it wont be here then. £85 a night is just a little too much luxury for me to manage.
My buttercup route takes me on to another small town, Eidi, where I do no more than take a picture from the car window, stopping to read if there is anything of merit before joining the main road that will take me back to Midvagur in just over an hours time. My plans, I think, are developing nicely.
Faeroes
- Wind
- Variable 3 or 4, becoming easterly 5 or 6.
- Sea state
- Moderate, becoming rough or very rough later.
- Weather
- Rain at times, fog patches developing.
- Visibility
- Moderate or good, occasionally very poor.
