The topic of infidelity in relationships popped up unexpectedly. What started as an innocent joke at a friend's party last weekend eventually escalated to a full round-the-table survey. Each guest present was asked if he or she had ever cheated on a girlfriend or a boyfriend.
The results were thought provoking. Not counting myself (whose answer those of you knowing me in person will guess, anyway), all but one girl confessed to have systematically cheated on a partner. She, too, stumbled somewhat on the definition of cheating at first – but, after the majority had settled on having slept with someone while in a relationship with someone else, she reiterated her stance: "If kissing doesn't count, then no, I've never cheated".
I am not known as a hardcore conservative in romantic matters. Yet the results were nothing short of a revelation. Was the whole world regularly cheating on their partners? Confused, I asked the party’s loudest propagator of infidelity how it was possible to sleep with someone if you were in love with another person. Sleeping aside, how was it comprehensible to even let the idea of another person crawl into your head when it was – presumably – occupied by someone already?
The explanation did not make itself wait. "Simple", he said. "You just don’t mix love and sex".
No alarms, no surprises
On my journey home, I gave the matter a deeper thought. It occurred to me that I should not have been surprised by the results at all. Cheating was not as uncommon as I, in my denial, was trying to present it.
Some recent memories came crawling in. During the past couple of years, I have met three interesting men. Three men with decent credentials: diverse backgrounds, interesting lifestyles, cool hobbies and satisfactory ability to keep an entertaining conversation for at least an hour (very few score highly on this one, hence the emphasis). I won't even mention cute. They were three interesting packages, each in his own right: three nearly perfect men.
Nearly perfect except for one thing. One tiny detail they all had forgotten about at some point of their lives. All three had girlfriends. Surely it would be too much to expect three perfectly eligible men NOT to have girlfriends. In fact, I would have been unpleasantly alarmed had they been single. In a natural course of things, the older I get, the more men around me are taken; and the best candidates get snatched first.
Let us proceed in order though, starting with Guy Number One – a highly intelligent individual, rising banking star and tolerable conversationalist. After we had shared several chats of escalating intimacy, he reluctantly confessed he was in fact not single. Quite the contrary: he was living with his girlfriend of seven years and felt the pressure to propose from every angle. Family and friends' Christmas messages had long stopped focusing on Christmas proper and instead wished them to "finally get married next year". Hint, hint.
My first reaction was a sorry feeling. The situation was frankly looking dire for Number One. Dire because he had no intention to marry his girlfriend of seven years. Dire because all their friends were expecting them to. Dire because the girl had left her home and followed him to a different country. Simply kicking her out was not really on the table.
But behold; things were looking even worse for the girlfriend. In a streak of landslide sincerity, Number One went on to admit that he had cheated on her eight times. EIGHT times in seven years, with eight different women. Things weren't going great between them, you see. He couldn't face splitting up from someone who loved him so much though, so he cheated on her behind her back instead. Impeccable logic.
At this point, I excused myself and left. Perhaps more cheating buddies came after the eighth, but I didn't follow up.
“Yes and no”
Enter Guy Number Two. A passionate traveller / photographer residing outside London with whom we quickly developed regular correspondence and more or less regular face-to-face contact. He had finally asked me to join him on a 10-day holiday. Sadly, the dates weren’t convenient; I declined and suggested to visit him in a month’s time instead, which he welcomed. The necessary arrangements had been made, and things were heading steadily to a happy end.
Except I suddenly had second thoughts. A female Facebook user left some public comments which made me doubt Number Two’s single status. The not-quite-just-friendly-anymore correspondence we had developed, the visible side of his everyday life and the joint holiday offer had all led me to make certain conclusions about Number Two’s availability. The time had come to question it though and, without further ado, I put the question straight: was the Facebook person his girlfriend?
He could have said yes. He could have said no. He could have said I was talking nonsense. He could have said he didn't know what I was talking about. He could have said anything – except for what he actually ended up saying.
Yes and no.
Yes and no, he said. Things were apparently not going great (recognise that classic phrase?) and the two of them were taking a relationship break. They were sort of together but sort of not at the same time. It's like they were allowed to see other people but hadn't officially split up. It was moreover a long distance relationship. It was complicated. I was promised more details when I would come to visit in one month.
Except I didn't come to visit in one month. I mean, seriously – would you, in my place?
A "splitting" request?
Finally, Guy Number Three. A sweet, not overly talkative guy blessed with a pair of wonderful blue eyes. A friend who'd leave funny comments on my Facebook; a friend because I knew he was a lost case. For he, too, had a girlfriend, who moreover looked like a supermodel on my background. I was not going to waste my time with Number Three at all. I just resorted looking at a photographed version of those blue eyes before going to sleep sometimes. Dreaming, after all, is not a crime, especially for a single girl.
The guy must have had telepathic abilities, however. After several rounds of drinks with friends one night, he opened up a bit about his official relationship. Like a lightning on a clear day, he announced that he was planning to split up with his girlfriend in October. For, due to some administrative matters, she'd have to leave the country then, never to return. The poor thing was not blessed with an EU passport, you see, and could not hang around the UK at mind's delight.
I would expect anyone splitting from a serious partner to be at least marginally sad about the fact, devising plans to reverse the inevitable. Yet the issue seemed settled. Number Three and his other half were splitting up in October, not a day earlier, not a day later (I was tempted to ask for the exact timing but bit my tongue). Things were not going great (of course they weren't) and he was looking for an excuse to end the relationship.
I will not bother telling you what happened later. It suffices to say that Number Three made it unmistakably clear where his true preferences were. And the girlfriend? It is not even September yet, so they are still together. Inshallah, if I waited just another month, the blue eyes would finally be mine. Not sure what you think, but something inside is giving me a feeling that I won't.
Having said that…
The three guys in question did not have much in common. In fact, they were different in quite a number of ways. They came from different countries, spoke different languages and worked in different fields. I met them under three completely different sets of circumstances. Even their eyes were of different colour. No, despite the common perception, I do not always go for blue-eyed men.
The only thing the three did have in common was the lack of guts to split up with the girlfriends they did not love and were not intending to marry. In the meantime, they had guts enough to fool around with other women. My personal definition of cheating does not only focus on sex; the closest I could describe it would be a romantic physical experience with someone who is not your existing partner. Romantic physical experience can be kissing, holding hands or even sharing an intimate drink. If you think this sounds harsh, just imagine your partner having a giggly drink together with a cute colleague. You get the idea.
Even with this in mind, I will not go as far as labelling any of the three as cheaters. Who am I to stigmatise? I will not even bother judging the guys; if anyone, I should be judging myself for not seeing through them quicker and – especially – for not learning properly from my early mistakes.
After three mishaps, the lessons are indeed a legion. Thy shalt not waste a second on a taken individual goes without saying. The less obvious lesson – yet none the less useful for that – is never believe a potential romantic candidate who suddenly proclaims things are "not going great" with their second half. Tell them to discuss the matter with their mother instead. Noble feelings like compassion from your side are better invested elsewhere.
If, moreover, the person in question goes on to present exuberant excuses why they drag on a painful relationship despite dancing on the verge of separation (expiring visas, job situation, compassion for the other, peer pressure, long distance, relationship breaks all fit the bill) – run for your life. Don't fool yourself; you won't be helping the poor darlings to solve their life problems. For these are mere excuses for their own lack of guts to make a responsible move.
And for all you hot-and-cold individuals unable to break up with the partners you have no serious plans for, I have another message. Surprise – engaging a third romantically minded party in your tête-à-tête will not straighten your ailing relationships. Cheating is seeking elsewhere the thrill long gone from your existing lives. It doesn’t address any of the issues you and your partner have been having. It is running away from your problems – not solving them – while creating more problems for others.
As a final word, I wish we would all SPEAK more. Discuss the existing problems openly with our partners instead of letting the mess escalate in silence. Open up to our best friends and closest relatives if we need help. Involve a professional. Work together on the bits we can still save. Break up if we do not see a future together.
And if we end up looking for a passing thrill – nothing more than a mindless escape – first make this clear to whomever we are engaging. For, God forbid, the other party might just end up falling in love – and, before we know it, there is not one but two people seeking explanation to our ever changing behaviour. A parenthesis desperately trying to make it to the table of contents; isn’t that just sad? The things are not going great sounds like peanuts in comparison.
Before I forget though
A former colleague invited me for coffee the other day. Amid the usual inquiries about our common buddies, I asked my counterpart how his girlfriend was doing. I remembered they had been together for 12 years and felt obliged to show some interest.
His reaction would defy any description. A combination of disappointment, resentment and physical pain ran across his face. In my head, I desperately drafted an apology: for something terrible must have happened to the girlfriend. At the very minimum, she must have contracted a terminal illness and was nearing her final days. I bit my tongue over and over again. How insensitive was it of me to ask questions like this?
Finally the former colleague took a deep breath and composed himself enough to speak: “I do not have a girlfriend, Anna. I have a wife now. But…”
Whirlpool memories flashed through my brain. I could barely control laughter. But? “Things are not going great?” I helpfully suggested.
He nodded.
And, to my (now perfectly uncontrolled) laughter, the curtain fell.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
The Faroe Islands: Second time around
This time last year, I unexpectedly found myself in the centre of attention. This blog received thousands of views, a number most unusual for a humble affair of its sort. The mother-in-law of the Danish Prime Minister sent me a message. The life of anjči rose to fame literally overnight, living the dream of many professional and amateur travel bloggers alike.
Why? Some of you might remember my last year's visit to the Faroe Islands: a short stay with lasting impressions and resonating consequences. Back in London, I wrote a story about my trip, not expecting it to score beyond moderately versus my posts on popular destinations like Venice or Rio de Janeiro. After all, very few people in my wider circles knew what the Faroe Islands were – with about half later admitting to have mistaken the Faroes for the Portuguese Faro, anyway.
I don't blame them: the Faroes' location is best described as remote. Composed of 18 islands varied in size, the archipelago sits in the North Atlantic Ocean at the latitude of 62°00'N, away from Europe's mainstream travel routes. Its closest mainland territories are Iceland to the northwest and Scotland to the south – or, strictly speaking, not really mainland at all.
Discovering my Faroese side
Life does occasionally bring pleasant surprises. Within minutes, the Faroes blog became my all-time most popular. Thanks to Sámal Bláhamar, a Faroese tour guide, the link to the story appeared on a local news portal and took a phoenix flight through the internet. The Faroese Tourism Board listed the post in its recommended readings. The Faroes' enthusiasts from all over the world suddenly seemed to know me. Even the Danish Embassy in London (and their grandmother) got in touch. It was like everyone remotely involved had read that story.
Most importantly, the blog was picked up by the Faroese Society in London, marking the beginning of our very special relationship. In the past year, I have met the Head of the Faroese Representation in the UK, sampled local delicacies at a Faroese Christmas gathering and celebrated the Faroese Flag Day with members of the Faroese government. In a nutshell, I have strangely become part of a rather exclusive community in London – that of the Faroe Islands.
It is not a surprise therefore that my second visit to the Faroes had to be planned soon. When to go? Atlantic Airways, the Faroese flag carrier, fly direct to London only in the summer, Copenhagen being the sole gateway to the islands for the rest of the year. As tempting as the Faroes are in the winter with their occasional glimpse of the Northern Lights, it is the summer when the weather is decent enough for large public events. Unsurprisingly, most festivals take place between early June and mid-August. Including Ólavsøka – the largest Faroese celebration and certainly a good time for a visit.
Ólavsøka Eve
Celebrated on 29 July, Ólavsøka (literally Olaf's Wake) takes its name from St. Olaf – formerly a king and now the patron saint of Norway. Almost a thousand years ago, the Faroe Islands were one of Norway's tributary territories. The archipelago has since drifted under the Danish Realm where it has an autonomous status and Denmark maintains control of matters like foreign affairs and justice. But the Faroe Islands' historic links with Norway are revived every year on Ólavsøka, commemorating what is believed to be the day of St. Olaf's death.
Numerous festivities take place in the capital city of Tórshavn. It all begins on 28 July – the so-called Ólavsøka Eve – with a big parade followed by the national rowboat racing competition. An old saying that every Faroese is born with an oar in hand gets put to the test as hundreds of men and women compete in boats of various sizes to the cheering of thousands of viewers flocking to Tórshavn for the occasion. The Faroes' population just undershoots 50 thousand, and about half as many islanders study and work in larger countries. A fair share of those expats travel home for Ólavsøka – which, similarly to Christmas, is seen as a good time to catch up with family and friends.
My flight landed late and I only caught the closing moments of the competition. Sámal Bláhamar picked me up in Tórshavn. Through the capital's busy streets, we walked towards the Parliament building from where I continued on my own. "By the way", I heard Sámal say behind me, "Good luck tonight. Many are known to find a girlfriend or a boyfriend on Ólavsøka".
I shrugged sceptically and pretended to be entirely preoccupied with my phone. Sadly, not even that was on my side: in a series of welcome messages from my Faroese friends, one sounded strangely familiar. "Be careful", it read. "Cupid often works overtime during Ólavsøka".
What was the whole world going on about? Rather entertained by the shameless local superstitiousness, I turned my attention to Tórshavn's people. Most locals were wearing the Faroese national costumes – including the children who decidedly made for the cutest participants of the festival. Their ability to run around in long skirts and thick waistcoats without making too much mess positively impressed, too.
As the night drew near, fewer and fewer children remained in the streets. Their place had been taken by an older – if only slightly – crowd of teenagers emerging outside from the various house parties. In the best traditions of the Faroese hospitality, strangers greeted each other by offering a sip of their drink. The men's national costume is apparently designed to honour that old custom. A closer look reveals a wider gap between the waistcoat's two top buttons: just enough to slip that flask of liquor through.
Come midnight and Niels Finsens gøta, Tórshavn's central street, was full of festive looking folk, most with beer in hand. It wasn't always like that: just years ago, sales of alcohol during Ólavsøka were heavily regulated. The Faroe Islands are known as a conservative society where strict public norms take time to loosen.
Public norms aside, I hear you say: what about the famous Ólavsøka cupid? To keep this blog short and sweet, I suggest we do not dwell on the rest of the night and fast forward to 29 July. As a final word of advice though, not even the fiercest of cynics should underestimate the romantic powers of Ólavsøka.
Ólavsøka
With some consideration for the party diehards of the night before, the formal part of Ólavsøka does not begin until after 10am. The members of the Faroese Parliament, clergy and major civil servants proceed from the Parliament building to Tórshavn Cathedral (Dómkirkjan), where a service is held to symbolise the close links between church and state. The small cathedral is tightly packed during the Ólavsøka service, which the national television broadcasts live across the archipelago.
I never imagined Tórshavn so crowded: thousands of locals and visitors literally flooded the streets of the world's smallest capital. Fronted by Bishop Jógvan Fríðriksson and Prime Minister Kaj Leo Johannesen, top officials soon emerged from the church and made their way back to the Parliament. After stopping to take in some al-fresco choir singing, they settled in the Parliament building, where the Prime Minister's speech officially kicked off a new parliamentary year. The ceremonious part of Ólavsøka was over.
It is estimated that around 10 thousand people, or 20 per cent of the Faroese population, travel to Tórshavn for the Ólavsøka festivities. This means that the number of people in the capital shoots up to at least 30 thousand for two days, leaving the rest of the archipelago somewhat deserted. My quick trip to Vestmanna was a spooky experience: the town I remembered so full of visitors to the world famous bird cliffs barely came across as inhabited. Tórshavn was certainly the one place to be during Ólavsøka.
As every year, the culmination of St. Olaf's festivities fell on midnight, when a thousand-fold crowd descended onto Tórshavn's central square to perform a joint a-capella recital of precisely 20 Faroese songs. Starting with the national anthem, the songs varied in length and cheer; my favourites were Aldan (The Wave), a powerful version of Annika Hoydal's 1979 classic, and, unexpectedly, the Scottish Auld Lang Syne relayed to Faroese lyrics (Hvør skuldi gamlar gøtur gloymt). Had it not been for the humid +11C weather and the curly ð's scattering the verses, the occasion could easily have fit a New Year's party.
The singing took around an hour, but the main fun had not yet started: for it is the midnight dancing that really makes Ólavsøka. The Faroese chain dance is a direct descendant of the medieval ring dancing performed by a group of people hand-in-hand behind a leader who sings the verse (skiparin in Faroese). Over the centuries, medieval ring dances have all but disappeared from Europe as the church saw a threat in their pagan origins – and today survive only on the Faroe Islands.
I quickly felt dizzy from watching the dancers: crowds of people below my viewing spot on top of a fence turned into a mass of moving heads and hands, all swirling rhythmically to the narrative. The steps were simple (two forward and one back, as one heavily inebriated local next to me popularly explained), but the mood of the dance varied with each story: softer for sad lyrics, merrier otherwise.
On and on the dancing went, intensifying with each verse. The atmosphere was wonderfully festive. I smiled and thought it was lucky that the space between the dancers was so tight: most people around me had visibly spent most of the day drinking. Like true survivors, they were determined to last until the wee hours of the morning. My Ólavsøka was however over. Till next year, at least!
Suðuroy, the southernmost island
Imagine my utter admiration when, around 7am the morning after, I found the streets of Tórshavn still not entirely deserted as dozens of party animals were fighting their last battles. A familiar face or two blinked out of the fading crowd, but there was no time for tearful reunions: my ferry to Suðuroy was already leaving.
Literally translated as South Island, Suðuroy is indeed the southernmost of the Faroes. It is also the archipelago's most remote island and takes a 2-hour ferry journey from Tórshavn to reach. Most passengers that morning were the natives of Suðuroy conveniently returning home from Ólavsøka. Needless to say that all of us slept soundly during the entire voyage.
In hindsight, one day for Suðuroy is perhaps ambitious but good enough for a taster of the island. From the port, I headed to the village of Sumba – a gateway to Cape Akraberg, the Faroes' southernmost point. After making my way through dissolving mist past dozens of freely wandering sheep, I hitched a ride to Suðuroy's second largest settlement, Vágur. Strangely dubbed lacklustre by a certain guide book, the cosy Vágur marks the start of some excellent hiking trails.
With hours to spare until my ferry, I continued from Vágur to the village of Fámjin. The 2-hour walk covered some dramatic scenery past Suðuroy's high peaks (Borgarknappur and Borgin), mountain lakes and ubiquitous sheep. Mist was king at the heights of over 500 meters, making the elusive mountain path nearly impossible to follow. Rather timely, a helpful local emerged out of the fog – as if by magic – to put me back on track. Warmth and hospitality of Suðuroy's people has become the island's unofficial trademark and is legendary around the Faroes.
As if to confirm this reputation, another local wholeheartedly drove me from Fámjin to Suðuroy's northern villages. We picked up his sister in Hvalba, waved to his nieces by the roadside in Tvøroyri and greeted his wife and children in Krambatangi. Within barely 20 minutes, my driver met six of his family members in three different parts of the island – nothing unusual for a small community like that of Suðuroy.
Mykines, the seabirds' paradise
The last day of my trip brought a visit to the most westerly of the Faroe Islands. Most birdwatchers will know of Mykines. The rocky island may have the year-round population of only 11 people, but is home to thousands of birds – above all, the puffins. Their burrows densely cover the western side of Mykines, making the catching of the birds – which the locals say are extremely delicious to eat – a relatively easy task.
If Suðuroy is the Faroes' most remote island, then Mykines certainly ranks among the least accessible. In the winter, it is only a 3-weekly helicopter that connects Mykines with the rest of the Faroes; and the summer boat services are entirely reliant on weather, itself highly uncooperative.
As if there were any doubts about the perilous nature of the surrounding ocean, a monument to drowned sailors loomed solemnly on an elevated patch of land facing Mykines's namesake village. The plaque bore the names of other departed locals, most of whom found their deaths falling off the cliffs while catching birds or gathering sheep.
The main attraction of the island is a small islet of Mykineshólmur separated from Mykines by a 35 metre deep gorge. A sturdy steel structure enabling the crossing is believed to be the world's only bridge across the Atlantic Ocean. Thousands of seabirds find their homes in the steep cliffs surrounding the lighthouse at the far end of the islet – the first sight of many boats approaching Europe from the west.
My second visit to the Faroes came to a cosy end in Kollafjørður with a wonderful dinner in a family setting. Environmentalists are kindly requested to skip the rest of this paragraph: the most controversial of the Faroese delicacies, pilot whale meat (tvøst) and blubber (spik), were both duly supplied. While the latter is certainly an acquired taste, I recommend slipping a piece of potato between thin slices of each for an authentic Faroese "sandwich". Skerpikjøt (dried mutton) is also worth trying; keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the person across the table makes the experience somewhat easier to, well, digest.
As the Faroes' famously rugged contours were disappearing in the mist below, I momentarily wished that I, too, had a family to visit there every year. Be it the archipelago's eerie isolation, the sheer unpredictability of its weather or the landscapes – so splendidly windswept in a dramatic North Atlantic setting – one thing holds true. There is something irresistibly enticing about the Faroes, which draws back even a seasoned traveller.
~~~~
View my photos from the Faroe Islands: the first visit to in August 2010 and the Ólavsøka trip in July 2011.
Read my last year's blog story, The Faroe Islands: Europe's best-kept secret.
VisitFaroeIslands.com.
Why? Some of you might remember my last year's visit to the Faroe Islands: a short stay with lasting impressions and resonating consequences. Back in London, I wrote a story about my trip, not expecting it to score beyond moderately versus my posts on popular destinations like Venice or Rio de Janeiro. After all, very few people in my wider circles knew what the Faroe Islands were – with about half later admitting to have mistaken the Faroes for the Portuguese Faro, anyway.
I don't blame them: the Faroes' location is best described as remote. Composed of 18 islands varied in size, the archipelago sits in the North Atlantic Ocean at the latitude of 62°00'N, away from Europe's mainstream travel routes. Its closest mainland territories are Iceland to the northwest and Scotland to the south – or, strictly speaking, not really mainland at all.
Discovering my Faroese side
Life does occasionally bring pleasant surprises. Within minutes, the Faroes blog became my all-time most popular. Thanks to Sámal Bláhamar, a Faroese tour guide, the link to the story appeared on a local news portal and took a phoenix flight through the internet. The Faroese Tourism Board listed the post in its recommended readings. The Faroes' enthusiasts from all over the world suddenly seemed to know me. Even the Danish Embassy in London (and their grandmother) got in touch. It was like everyone remotely involved had read that story.
Most importantly, the blog was picked up by the Faroese Society in London, marking the beginning of our very special relationship. In the past year, I have met the Head of the Faroese Representation in the UK, sampled local delicacies at a Faroese Christmas gathering and celebrated the Faroese Flag Day with members of the Faroese government. In a nutshell, I have strangely become part of a rather exclusive community in London – that of the Faroe Islands.
It is not a surprise therefore that my second visit to the Faroes had to be planned soon. When to go? Atlantic Airways, the Faroese flag carrier, fly direct to London only in the summer, Copenhagen being the sole gateway to the islands for the rest of the year. As tempting as the Faroes are in the winter with their occasional glimpse of the Northern Lights, it is the summer when the weather is decent enough for large public events. Unsurprisingly, most festivals take place between early June and mid-August. Including Ólavsøka – the largest Faroese celebration and certainly a good time for a visit.
Ólavsøka Eve
Celebrated on 29 July, Ólavsøka (literally Olaf's Wake) takes its name from St. Olaf – formerly a king and now the patron saint of Norway. Almost a thousand years ago, the Faroe Islands were one of Norway's tributary territories. The archipelago has since drifted under the Danish Realm where it has an autonomous status and Denmark maintains control of matters like foreign affairs and justice. But the Faroe Islands' historic links with Norway are revived every year on Ólavsøka, commemorating what is believed to be the day of St. Olaf's death.
Numerous festivities take place in the capital city of Tórshavn. It all begins on 28 July – the so-called Ólavsøka Eve – with a big parade followed by the national rowboat racing competition. An old saying that every Faroese is born with an oar in hand gets put to the test as hundreds of men and women compete in boats of various sizes to the cheering of thousands of viewers flocking to Tórshavn for the occasion. The Faroes' population just undershoots 50 thousand, and about half as many islanders study and work in larger countries. A fair share of those expats travel home for Ólavsøka – which, similarly to Christmas, is seen as a good time to catch up with family and friends.
My flight landed late and I only caught the closing moments of the competition. Sámal Bláhamar picked me up in Tórshavn. Through the capital's busy streets, we walked towards the Parliament building from where I continued on my own. "By the way", I heard Sámal say behind me, "Good luck tonight. Many are known to find a girlfriend or a boyfriend on Ólavsøka".
I shrugged sceptically and pretended to be entirely preoccupied with my phone. Sadly, not even that was on my side: in a series of welcome messages from my Faroese friends, one sounded strangely familiar. "Be careful", it read. "Cupid often works overtime during Ólavsøka".
What was the whole world going on about? Rather entertained by the shameless local superstitiousness, I turned my attention to Tórshavn's people. Most locals were wearing the Faroese national costumes – including the children who decidedly made for the cutest participants of the festival. Their ability to run around in long skirts and thick waistcoats without making too much mess positively impressed, too.
As the night drew near, fewer and fewer children remained in the streets. Their place had been taken by an older – if only slightly – crowd of teenagers emerging outside from the various house parties. In the best traditions of the Faroese hospitality, strangers greeted each other by offering a sip of their drink. The men's national costume is apparently designed to honour that old custom. A closer look reveals a wider gap between the waistcoat's two top buttons: just enough to slip that flask of liquor through.
Come midnight and Niels Finsens gøta, Tórshavn's central street, was full of festive looking folk, most with beer in hand. It wasn't always like that: just years ago, sales of alcohol during Ólavsøka were heavily regulated. The Faroe Islands are known as a conservative society where strict public norms take time to loosen.
Public norms aside, I hear you say: what about the famous Ólavsøka cupid? To keep this blog short and sweet, I suggest we do not dwell on the rest of the night and fast forward to 29 July. As a final word of advice though, not even the fiercest of cynics should underestimate the romantic powers of Ólavsøka.
Ólavsøka
With some consideration for the party diehards of the night before, the formal part of Ólavsøka does not begin until after 10am. The members of the Faroese Parliament, clergy and major civil servants proceed from the Parliament building to Tórshavn Cathedral (Dómkirkjan), where a service is held to symbolise the close links between church and state. The small cathedral is tightly packed during the Ólavsøka service, which the national television broadcasts live across the archipelago.
I never imagined Tórshavn so crowded: thousands of locals and visitors literally flooded the streets of the world's smallest capital. Fronted by Bishop Jógvan Fríðriksson and Prime Minister Kaj Leo Johannesen, top officials soon emerged from the church and made their way back to the Parliament. After stopping to take in some al-fresco choir singing, they settled in the Parliament building, where the Prime Minister's speech officially kicked off a new parliamentary year. The ceremonious part of Ólavsøka was over.
It is estimated that around 10 thousand people, or 20 per cent of the Faroese population, travel to Tórshavn for the Ólavsøka festivities. This means that the number of people in the capital shoots up to at least 30 thousand for two days, leaving the rest of the archipelago somewhat deserted. My quick trip to Vestmanna was a spooky experience: the town I remembered so full of visitors to the world famous bird cliffs barely came across as inhabited. Tórshavn was certainly the one place to be during Ólavsøka.
As every year, the culmination of St. Olaf's festivities fell on midnight, when a thousand-fold crowd descended onto Tórshavn's central square to perform a joint a-capella recital of precisely 20 Faroese songs. Starting with the national anthem, the songs varied in length and cheer; my favourites were Aldan (The Wave), a powerful version of Annika Hoydal's 1979 classic, and, unexpectedly, the Scottish Auld Lang Syne relayed to Faroese lyrics (Hvør skuldi gamlar gøtur gloymt). Had it not been for the humid +11C weather and the curly ð's scattering the verses, the occasion could easily have fit a New Year's party.
The singing took around an hour, but the main fun had not yet started: for it is the midnight dancing that really makes Ólavsøka. The Faroese chain dance is a direct descendant of the medieval ring dancing performed by a group of people hand-in-hand behind a leader who sings the verse (skiparin in Faroese). Over the centuries, medieval ring dances have all but disappeared from Europe as the church saw a threat in their pagan origins – and today survive only on the Faroe Islands.
I quickly felt dizzy from watching the dancers: crowds of people below my viewing spot on top of a fence turned into a mass of moving heads and hands, all swirling rhythmically to the narrative. The steps were simple (two forward and one back, as one heavily inebriated local next to me popularly explained), but the mood of the dance varied with each story: softer for sad lyrics, merrier otherwise.
On and on the dancing went, intensifying with each verse. The atmosphere was wonderfully festive. I smiled and thought it was lucky that the space between the dancers was so tight: most people around me had visibly spent most of the day drinking. Like true survivors, they were determined to last until the wee hours of the morning. My Ólavsøka was however over. Till next year, at least!
Suðuroy, the southernmost island
Imagine my utter admiration when, around 7am the morning after, I found the streets of Tórshavn still not entirely deserted as dozens of party animals were fighting their last battles. A familiar face or two blinked out of the fading crowd, but there was no time for tearful reunions: my ferry to Suðuroy was already leaving.
Literally translated as South Island, Suðuroy is indeed the southernmost of the Faroes. It is also the archipelago's most remote island and takes a 2-hour ferry journey from Tórshavn to reach. Most passengers that morning were the natives of Suðuroy conveniently returning home from Ólavsøka. Needless to say that all of us slept soundly during the entire voyage.
In hindsight, one day for Suðuroy is perhaps ambitious but good enough for a taster of the island. From the port, I headed to the village of Sumba – a gateway to Cape Akraberg, the Faroes' southernmost point. After making my way through dissolving mist past dozens of freely wandering sheep, I hitched a ride to Suðuroy's second largest settlement, Vágur. Strangely dubbed lacklustre by a certain guide book, the cosy Vágur marks the start of some excellent hiking trails.
With hours to spare until my ferry, I continued from Vágur to the village of Fámjin. The 2-hour walk covered some dramatic scenery past Suðuroy's high peaks (Borgarknappur and Borgin), mountain lakes and ubiquitous sheep. Mist was king at the heights of over 500 meters, making the elusive mountain path nearly impossible to follow. Rather timely, a helpful local emerged out of the fog – as if by magic – to put me back on track. Warmth and hospitality of Suðuroy's people has become the island's unofficial trademark and is legendary around the Faroes.
As if to confirm this reputation, another local wholeheartedly drove me from Fámjin to Suðuroy's northern villages. We picked up his sister in Hvalba, waved to his nieces by the roadside in Tvøroyri and greeted his wife and children in Krambatangi. Within barely 20 minutes, my driver met six of his family members in three different parts of the island – nothing unusual for a small community like that of Suðuroy.
Mykines, the seabirds' paradise
The last day of my trip brought a visit to the most westerly of the Faroe Islands. Most birdwatchers will know of Mykines. The rocky island may have the year-round population of only 11 people, but is home to thousands of birds – above all, the puffins. Their burrows densely cover the western side of Mykines, making the catching of the birds – which the locals say are extremely delicious to eat – a relatively easy task.
If Suðuroy is the Faroes' most remote island, then Mykines certainly ranks among the least accessible. In the winter, it is only a 3-weekly helicopter that connects Mykines with the rest of the Faroes; and the summer boat services are entirely reliant on weather, itself highly uncooperative.
As if there were any doubts about the perilous nature of the surrounding ocean, a monument to drowned sailors loomed solemnly on an elevated patch of land facing Mykines's namesake village. The plaque bore the names of other departed locals, most of whom found their deaths falling off the cliffs while catching birds or gathering sheep.
The main attraction of the island is a small islet of Mykineshólmur separated from Mykines by a 35 metre deep gorge. A sturdy steel structure enabling the crossing is believed to be the world's only bridge across the Atlantic Ocean. Thousands of seabirds find their homes in the steep cliffs surrounding the lighthouse at the far end of the islet – the first sight of many boats approaching Europe from the west.
My second visit to the Faroes came to a cosy end in Kollafjørður with a wonderful dinner in a family setting. Environmentalists are kindly requested to skip the rest of this paragraph: the most controversial of the Faroese delicacies, pilot whale meat (tvøst) and blubber (spik), were both duly supplied. While the latter is certainly an acquired taste, I recommend slipping a piece of potato between thin slices of each for an authentic Faroese "sandwich". Skerpikjøt (dried mutton) is also worth trying; keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the person across the table makes the experience somewhat easier to, well, digest.
As the Faroes' famously rugged contours were disappearing in the mist below, I momentarily wished that I, too, had a family to visit there every year. Be it the archipelago's eerie isolation, the sheer unpredictability of its weather or the landscapes – so splendidly windswept in a dramatic North Atlantic setting – one thing holds true. There is something irresistibly enticing about the Faroes, which draws back even a seasoned traveller.
View my photos from the Faroe Islands: the first visit to in August 2010 and the Ólavsøka trip in July 2011.
Read my last year's blog story, The Faroe Islands: Europe's best-kept secret.
VisitFaroeIslands.com.
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