I have music. Found as a link on a Faroes publication I've not seen hitherto.
I tidy my clothes using just half the drawer space, there is ample room. I make my bed, pick up a stray cotton from the floor, arrange my desk and make another coffee. I'm already thinking maybe I might return here. Wondering whether busy Heidi needs someone to clean the hostel and make beds while she is busy working. I see there are two fold up foam beds in the dining room, no doubt provision for late ariving, unbooked guests or when the hostel is full.
I walked out last evening, drawn by the music. No, not Eivor, another religous gathering and 'service' with songs interspersed by much talk of yeesus. People sit in two cars with windows open, on the side of the road. A trio of children climb and play on precarious banks, the smallest, in nappies, risks falling onto tarmac below but I see no signs of parents. A woman stands videoing and I wonder about doing the same but am not drawn to do so. Two young women eat sugar cones overflowing with chocolate sprinkles and whipped ice cream, chatter yet listen. A slight, but leather faced man leans on a railing, listening attentively and then there's me. The band of five men almost equal their audience.
I move on and walk down to the water. I am situated behind a busy working fishing harbour. The scenery around me is softer, less high, the same geological formations just less imposing than the northern islands. Two hours south and I do believe the wind is a degree less nippy. Wild fuchsias bloom in the hedgerows, shrubs and trees grow, elderflower is just coming in to blossom, the grass for haymaking grows longer.
All of the gardens that I notice are tended carefully and sport flowers. Even the fish factory has tubs of blossom standing outside its glass doors whilst inside, rows of crocs are carefully lined on racks. Eivor sings to me as I write and the touch keyboard now has tiny vibrations coming from it as I type.
I wander up from the harbour, see the ever present racing rowing boats, now freshly washed and out of the water, safely inside their hut for the night. Everything in the Faroes is tied down, tied to eyes held fast in rock or with thick steel, latching them to buildings, sometime buildings are held together, supporting each other. Cars I have not seen secured, trailers always, I would not be surprised if in winter cars are not tied down as well.
As I wander along I clamber up a bank beside the boathouse, on to rugged steps. The path well worn, perhaps by teenagers, taking the short cut down to rowing practice. There are three levels to the town and I plan to walk each level just to familiarise myself with my immediate surroundings but something draws me on along the road, up the hill, wanting to see over, wanting to walk to the edge of land.
A close cropped, but steep, hay meadow has been shorn beside me and I see no main access to the field and conclude that someone must have pushed a machine to crop this meadow, no room for even a small tractor. I wonder how difficult it might be to control machinery on a steep slope such as this. A little further on I find the hay, now bundled into bales and being vacuum packed as I watch. The farmers are happy to stop work and talk to me. They have relatives in Aberdeen, like scotch whiskey and have visited the Orkneys and Shetlands many times. Looking at my photos, I realise there must have been room for a small baler to get in to the field, and I turn to the Internet to research.
http://whitefishbayfarm.com/eweturn/archives/1795/comment-page-1#comment-11019 this is a great article on hay making and answers many of my questions.
It is 9.45 am and time perhaps for my breakfast. I bought pickled herring last evening to have with my rye bread and cucumber.
I showed you my accomodation earlier, I'm interested that I've had no desire to show anything personal up until now. I'm wearing my 'best' clothes and have put earrings on for the first time since my first evening. My toes feel cold, I want to enjoy the air coming through the windows so put on an unmatching pair of socks on. Careless packing. I stop writing for a while and read instead. I discover it is possible to fly from the helipad at the end of the road three times a week and I am excited at the prospect. I now feel an urgency to go to the tourist office and enquire but suppress it and stay, it can wait until this afternoon.
