A land that time forgot
A landscape of waterfalls and sheer cliffs inhabited by hidden people, the Faroes archipelago offers true escapism, SARAH MARSHALL discovers
panes where curtains barely twitch, and an honesty box overflows with rhubarb, one of the few items that easily grows here. It’s a throwback to a time when the postman would have been nursing his tired legs.
For a destination which ‘closes for maintenance’ three days a year to keep the beast of over-tourism at bay, a lull in visitors must surely have been a relief?
Tensions were once so high, I’m told, a disgruntled farmer installed a debit card payment machine on his gate, to curb (or arguably capitalise upon) the number of hikers unwittingly walking across his land. But Johannus assures me most people are eager for visitors to return. “We’re very welcoming people,” he smiles.
I have a chance to sample that hospitality – known as heimablidni
– in the company of Anna and Oli Rubeksen, ninth generation sheep farmers who open their sea-view home for supper clubs.
Dressed elegantly in a silk shirt, her cheeks flushed with blusher, Anna is nothing like the hay-baling shepherdess I’d imagined. Yet she and her husband still herd their
150 sheep alone, often scaling precipitous grazing areas in deep snow and violent winds.
Far outnumbering people, sheep are integral to the Faroese way of life; find them dotting landscapes, decorating folklore and – ultimately – gracing dinner plates.
SkerpikjØt – wind-dried mutton – is a speciality here. Left to hang in a ventilated shed for up to nine months, it’s essentially rotten flesh, but when Anna serves the dish, it’s too rude to refuse.
A luxuriant starter of codfish and egg bathed in silky butter gives me enough faith to trust anything the self-taught kitchen whizz prepares. And as it turns out, the tender, slow-cooked meat is surprisingly palatable, although its vinegary, pickled flavour is one I think I’ll leave the locals to enjoy.
Evening light streams through Anna’s windows, silhouetting hulking islands offshore. It’s a reminder the sun does sometimes shine on these exposed, steep rising basalt lands, so often smothered by low-lying cloud.
Given that conditions are so changeable, Anna promises me there are always rays spotlighting part of the archipelago. Hesitating, she adds: “Probably”.
It explains why the fickle Faroes have earned their nickname ‘The Land Of Maybe’.
If days can be bright, local legends are almost always dark. From tales of eagles swiping babies, to myths of suicidal humans disguised in zip-up seal suits, no story has a conventional happy ending. Both