I get up terribly early because packing is tricky.
First the ferry to Svínoy does not take cars. Second, there’s no restaurant or shop. Third, there’s a 1,6 km hike from the ferry landing to the village which means that it would be better to be light and small.
First time there’s no movement on the sea at seven o’clock. Quarter past I’m beginning to have some doubts. Google confirms it. They have secretly turned the clock back one hour. Second time at seven it’s better. Lights approach in the darkness and Syðradalur slides into the past.
I drive to Hvannasund from where goes a ferry called Ritan to Svínoy or pig island. Rising sun switches on an orange light. An overwhelmingly friendly man invites me onboard and warns that there are not many people on Svínoy. Good. A bunch of Danish schoolchildren are also traveling with me, inspecting their colonial legacy. They are having some kind of Bible study year which means traveling for nine weeks. They don’t go to either Svínoy nor Fugloy but just cruise.
Waves splash over the quay on Svínoy. The friendly man tries to tell me that I don’t have to get off there but can leave the ferry when it comes back from Fugloy and stops on the other side of the island. I don’t fancy going back and forth and it’s not a long walk so I’m off. The captain manages to drive the ferry nicely to the quay and the jump does not have to be very long. To make it more interesting the deck and quay are slippery with salt and the dog of a passenger wraps me in its strap.
Sun peaks out and the village is soon visible. No guesthouse sign. I seem to be missing some crucial information. Birds chirp, sun leans on the windowsills. No-one to see or hear. So that’s what he meant with not many people. I feel more and more like a character in a non-Hollywood movie. When the woman in Klaksvík recommended to ask locals about where to hike then she forgot to add that the local first has to be found and caught. I spot some movement near the sea and catch a young man. He admits that guesthouse is the last house of the village back in the direction where I came from, there’s a fence and stones in front of the house and the house is low and maybe brown. Around next corner a man exits a car, asks something about Klaksvík and tells me that has has unlocked the door for me and the room number is 3. I don’t bother with questions like how the car got here and why was the door locked but continue armed with all this new information.
There is a long white corridor in the brown house. The door to room no 3 is open. Inside are four beds and a huge bathroom. Over the corridor is a big hall, some Faroese books and board games in baskets and after it the kitchen. Like a children’s summer camp. I empty my backpack in the fridge. Every time when I cross the corridor all the lights switch on. Not a soul in the house. Some quiet noises, probably ghosts. There’s WiFi.
I walk over some sheep pastures, find a paved road, a geocache, many sheep and a view towards Fugloy. No pigs.
First time there’s no movement on the sea at seven o’clock. Quarter past I’m beginning to have some doubts. Google confirms it. They have secretly turned the clock back one hour. Second time at seven it’s better. Lights approach in the darkness and Syðradalur slides into the past.
I drive to Hvannasund from where goes a ferry called Ritan to Svínoy or pig island. Rising sun switches on an orange light. An overwhelmingly friendly man invites me onboard and warns that there are not many people on Svínoy. Good. A bunch of Danish schoolchildren are also traveling with me, inspecting their colonial legacy. They are having some kind of Bible study year which means traveling for nine weeks. They don’t go to either Svínoy nor Fugloy but just cruise.
Waves splash over the quay on Svínoy. The friendly man tries to tell me that I don’t have to get off there but can leave the ferry when it comes back from Fugloy and stops on the other side of the island. I don’t fancy going back and forth and it’s not a long walk so I’m off. The captain manages to drive the ferry nicely to the quay and the jump does not have to be very long. To make it more interesting the deck and quay are slippery with salt and the dog of a passenger wraps me in its strap.
Sun peaks out and the village is soon visible. No guesthouse sign. I seem to be missing some crucial information. Birds chirp, sun leans on the windowsills. No-one to see or hear. So that’s what he meant with not many people. I feel more and more like a character in a non-Hollywood movie. When the woman in Klaksvík recommended to ask locals about where to hike then she forgot to add that the local first has to be found and caught. I spot some movement near the sea and catch a young man. He admits that guesthouse is the last house of the village back in the direction where I came from, there’s a fence and stones in front of the house and the house is low and maybe brown. Around next corner a man exits a car, asks something about Klaksvík and tells me that has has unlocked the door for me and the room number is 3. I don’t bother with questions like how the car got here and why was the door locked but continue armed with all this new information.
There is a long white corridor in the brown house. The door to room no 3 is open. Inside are four beds and a huge bathroom. Over the corridor is a big hall, some Faroese books and board games in baskets and after it the kitchen. Like a children’s summer camp. I empty my backpack in the fridge. Every time when I cross the corridor all the lights switch on. Not a soul in the house. Some quiet noises, probably ghosts. There’s WiFi.
I walk over some sheep pastures, find a paved road, a geocache, many sheep and a view towards Fugloy. No pigs.
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