The Land of Maybe Not—A Surprising Look at Life in The Faroes
- Linda Cortright
- Nov 9, 2024
- 10 min read
Updated: 4 days ago
My first day in the Faroe Islands the sun is shining and there is only a faint breeze infused with a gulp of salt air. I don’t even need a jacket. But this is not what I expect. On average, it rains 300 days or more, and the wind blows at 60 mph for eight months of the year. This explains why the grass is the color of lime Jell-O and there isn’t a tree much higher than my kneecaps that’s able to survive.
The Faroes is a series of 18 major islands (779 including islets and skerries) and was christened “Færeyjar” from the Old Norse: fær (sheep) and eyjar (islands) and to that extent, I am not disappointed. There are sheep anywhere and everywhere. They are adept at defying gravity along the cliffs, standing on only a hand’s width of solid ground. And they are prone to wandering into tunnels as a sporadic parade of Volkswagens, Toyotas, and busloads of tourists hurry by. They come in solid white, brown, black, and gray. They also come in muddy brown with white spots, mushy oatmeal with yellow eyes, asphalt black with … well, you get the idea. In fact, there are over 300 names for Faroese sheep markings—Shetland sheep have just 30.
Although “sheep” comprises half the country’s name, they are only a fraction of the story. Life in the Faroes is more aptly described by “kanska,” the Faroese word for “maybe.” Maybe we will go fishing; maybe we will make hay; or maybe we will get married. It comes down to the elements. If the sea is too rough, the wind too strong, the ground too wet, or some combination thereof—the plans are soon revised. As it happens, there is no “maybe” about my plans. Within an hour of my arrival via a small expedition ship, I set off on foot to explore Vestmanna, a “large” village (population 1200) on the island of Streymoy.
I don’t have a map because I don’t know where I’m going, which is rather the point. I just want to wander. I want to get a feel for life on this volcanic archipelago that’s halfway between Iceland and Norway. It hangs in the ocean like the proverbial lost sock. I have only a few preconceived notions beyond the islands’ irascible weather, including its colorful houses painted red, yellow, blue, and even black (a leftover from when houses were coated with tar for insulation). You can’t paint your house the same color as your neighbor’s—it’s just not done.
The Faroes are all also known for their old-fashioned sod roofs, providing natural insulation. Some roofs are neat and well-manicured by the sheep, and some have wild grass growing atop reminiscent of the hair on my childhood trolls.
I am cautiously curious about skerpikjøt, a uniquely Faroese dish of wind-dried mutton. I am no stranger to trying local cuisines from around the world, the kind that no one ever asks the for recipe. But my palate is only adventurous to a point. Everyone who mentions this distinctly Faroese treat always seems to twist their nose and kind of twitch at the mere suggestion. The New Yorker's Rebecca Mead described it as “a pungency somewhere between Parmesan cheese and death.”
I begin walking along the short road that leads from the harbor to the village and go left. There is a line of boat houses called “neyst” that warrant closer inspection. Rowing is an integral part of Faroese culture. It engenders a spirit somewhat akin to American softball with youngsters grabbing hold of the oars before they can walk, but also the national fervor that football (soccer) holds throughout the rest of the world. Faroese roots are intertwined with men who arrived and survived because of boats. A fact that remains largely unchanged. Rowing is equal parts social and competitive. It’s also how children learn from a young age to withstand the weather as they head into the fjord at all times of year. But the boat houses are quiet when I walk by. Perhaps, there will be some action later.
In the first 10 minutes only one car passes by. No one is out walking their dog or tending their garden. I don’t see anyone huddled in a coffee shop or a clothesline strewn with fluttering white undershirts and colorful knickers. I remember in the Falkland Islands (another “lost sock” in the sea) where the wind blows half as hard for half the year, they use special hurricane pegs, or clothespins as I was raised to call them. They are made of metal and clamp down like a viper. You could lose the side of your house in a gale before your clothes would break free. But I don’t see any trace of them here.
I keep walking and peering through windows in that voyeuristic way that all tourists do, but nothing seems particularly remarkable beyond the overwhelming quiet. The most frequent sound I hear comes from the water. It’s not the ocean, but the marathon of freshwater streams and small waterfalls that zigzag down from the mountains.
Without warning, the road I have been following comes to an end. I can either turn back and retrace my steps to the closest cross street, or I can cut through the cemetery. The choice is easy. I hate turning around and so I hop (sort of) over a shallow brook and begin walking through tombstones dominated by Jensen’s, Hansen’s, and Petersen’s. The same surnames you would find in a Danish or Norwegian phone book. Although to be clear, a cadre of Irish monks arrived here three hundred years before the Vikings showed up in the ninth century.
As I walk thoughtfully among the stone standards, I’m mindful that this is not a hiking path. The inscriptions are in Faroese, and quite a few appear to be decorated with a boat. I can’t help but wonder if some read, “Lost at Sea.” Indeed, the ocean has not been kind. Every year on November 1st, they celebrate “Alla Halganna Dagur,” an annual remembrance in honor of those who died at sea. Most of the churches have small ship model suspended from the ceiling; it hangs as a protective totem for generations of fishermen past and present.
Despite the mortalities, the fish industry shows no sign of declining; it compromises 97% of the country’s exports. For several reasons, salmon has favored well in the Faroes. The steady wind makes for turbulent waters and thus containing more oxygen—which the salmon apparently like. And unlike Scotland where the waters get too warm, and unlike Iceland and Norway where the waters get too cold, the ocean temperature doesn’t vary much beyond 6-10 C making this windy outpost the Goldilocks of salmon—it’s just right.
The introduction of salmon aquaculture has greatly reduced the number of traditional fishing vessels. From my position (among the dead) I can see several gigantic hula hoop style nets of farmed salmon floating in the fjord, some contain as many as 100,000 to a ring. They are fed through a labyrinth of pipes connected to the mother ship that dispenses pellets of dehydrated vegetables, fishmeal, and antibiotics that is computer controlled. It’s a lucrative business and far safer than heading into open water. The first billionaire (in Danish kroner) in the Faroes owns Bakkafrost, the largest employer in the islands and the third largest fish farming company in the world.
By the time I reach the top of the cemetery I’m a bit winded. The incline is much steeper than it appears, but at least I am no longer trespassing among the departed. Another car passes by, and I offer a wave that consists of casually opening my hand at waist height. It’s the same wave I offer back home. It means, “I see you. I don’t know you. But let’s be nice.”
No response. Then again, we Americans are known for being excessively friendly; a fact my dear English friend is forever reminding me.
After less than a mile, I can see the road is going to dead end (again) and this time I cut over well in advance and up to the next street. Immediately, I feel a change in the wind at the new elevation. I’m wishing I had brought my jacket after all.
No matter where I travel, I always ask myself, could I live here? It’s not that I want to leave my secluded home in Maine, often referred to as the “Temple of Silence,” but it helps me frame the similarities and differences in how we humans all basically do the same thing. We get up. We work. We have children (or not). We hope for happiness instead of sorrow, and we try to leave the world a better place. Whether I’m on a crowded street in Shanghai or some remote village in Zambia, the basic objectives remain unchanged.
I have decided, in less than 15 minutes, that I could live in the Faroes. Not only is it exceptionally quiet (no leaf blowers, here), but the lack of blinding sunshine is a big selling point for me—and my dermatologist. The apparent lack of dogs, however, is disconcerting. At 66-years old, I will still cross the street to pet a dog on the opposite side. I have been doing it my entire life and make no apology. It is the only drawback in going to Antarctica, penguins maybe adorable but you can’t pet them.
Thankfully, on my second visit to the White Continent I discovered a solution to the dog-less habitat problem. Provided the ship stops in the Falklands en route to Antarctica (and many do) there is a much beloved three-legged dog working the docks in Stanley. His job is to come onboard and sniff out any rats before the ship sails to South Georgia where millions of dollars were spent to eradicate them. They are rodent non grata having scarfed down an appalling number of bird eggs over the years, including the threatened South Georgia Pipit.
By contrast, Faroese rats have big competition when it comes to stealing eggs. Humans have been rappelling down the cliffs for centuries, filling their baskets, their bags, and their pockets with a variety of pelagic eggs snatched right from the nest. And it’s not just the eggs they want, they take the chicks and sometimes the adults as well.
For this tender-hearted vegetarian, the reality of traditional Faroese food systems is not an easy chapter. I remember reading how the St Kildans in Scotland’s Outer Hebrides survived because of their ability to scale the cliffs, killing birds and snatching eggs by the tens of thousands every year. Often, they used a fowling net to capture the animals both young and old and then deftly pull their beak backwards with just two fingers until their neck snaps.
They did this over, and over, and over again. With limited resources for fat and protein on the island, the St Kildans had little choice—and unlike the Faroese, they weren’t bringing in great hauls from the sea.
The last St Kildan “left” the island (actually, the entire village was evicted) nearly a century ago and I have mistakenly calmed my aching heart that this avian slaughter has ceased.
It has not.
Many Faroese still actively hunt chicks and almost without exception, they do it at the risk of losing their life. Technology has had almost no impact on those who dangle from the basalt outcroppings for the ultimate “take out” meal. A few years back, a crew of men were hunting—some do the climbing while others stay on top, letting the rope down or pulling it back up. Apparently, one of the climbers got his finger caught in a crevice as he was reaching for an egg and yelled for more slack. Mistakenly, the men thought he wanted to be pulled up and so they quickly wrenched him back, leaving his finger behind.
They now rely on walkie-talkies to communicate.
My survival has never been on the line. I have never lived more than a 20-minute drive from a ready-made food source. I have no idea how I would cope if faced with going hungry or snapping something’s neck. I have evolved, perhaps, a bit too far from my cave man roots. In the Faroes, who share a similar availability to food as I do, they continue this tradition because it is just that … their tradition.
Scientific (and unsentimental) reports indicate that the number of birds killed annually in the Faroes are within sustainable limits—a fact that speaks to how native people are ultimately the best at managing natural resources. The Faroese have cut back almost completely, however, on killing puffins, whose numbers began declining in the early 1990s as climate change began to impact the sand eel population, a necessary staple for feeding chicks.
Unlike guillemots and gannets that build their nests along the exposed cliffs, puffins prefer to burrow, sometimes up to five feet. Puffin hunting involves extending one’s arm as deep into the hole as possible, inevitably getting pecked and clawed into bloody ribbons until the prey has been seized. The reward, a local delicacy consisting of cake-stuffed breasts served with rhubarb jam.
Perhaps, I would not be as happy living here as I might think.
A web of fog suddenly descends over the mountains snuffing out the sunshine. Now, the landscape is more closely aligned with how it typically looks—someone has turned down the saturation level in Photoshop. Even the brightly painted houses seem to have lost their luster and the air grows damp as if laden with cold dew. I have walked almost to the edge of town. There is just one more road above me with a handful of houses before the land drifts seamlessly into the mist.
I continue walking, but I will run out of road soon. I may have lost a lot of my cave man instincts, but I still have a primal need to explore. Inevitably, it is when those unplanned moments arise that the angels do their work.
A small brown dog has sighted me and begins barking. We are easily 50 yards apart. He is standing by the house, and I am on the street at the end of the driveway. Rather than give him the casual wave, I call out “Hello” followed by, “Aren’t you beautiful.”
He probably doesn’t speak English, but praise is a universal language. He stops barking, perhaps waiting for further adulation, and I continue talking. I am oh-so hopeful we will venture closer so I can pet him, but he maintains his distance. Eventually, a man emerges from the house and once again I call out “Hello” followed by a large smile. “Your dog is beautiful” I tell him and within a few minutes I am not only standing at the driveway and petting the dog, but the man has invited me in.
Not only did the angels provide me with a much-needed dog fix, but this man raises sheep. I am all but whooping with excitement having found someone who can teach me about his life on “sheep island.” I just hope the lesson doesn’t begin with a plate full of skerpikjøt.
Part 2 of “The Land of Maybe Not" will be available on November 24.
Great! I am so looing forward to your next post.🙂
Looking forward to part 2!
Wonderful post Linda. As always I feel as though I have traveled with you. Looking forward to the next post! 😃 Sandy S.