This one, which looks like polished mica, is for my brother: may he wander far from home but always come back to share it with me. This one, which feels like a frozen tear, is for my old caretaker: may she always be so kind and loving (and not complain when I am away from home too often). This one, a big black lump of basalt, is for my family: a rock from which I have been able to strike out from. This one, which looks like a pre-historic egg, is for my friends on the road: May they all feel as happy as I do... And so on, until my arms ache from lugging bits of geology up and down scree slopes and the cairn resembles the great pyramid at Giza.
I had been kicking around the Faroe Islands for a few days and had pitched up in the capital Toshaven the previous night. After spending the obligatory ten minutes wondering how difficult it was to have to mow the grass on roofs of the pretty little coloured houses and working out that a meal in a restaurant was way beyond my means. I felt I had exhausted all possible sources of amusement.
The kind lady in the tourist office had suggested that, I might enjoy the short walk over the fens to Kirkjubor (which is pronounced nothing at all like it is written. In fact, nothing is pronounced like it is written in the Faroe Islands - which can lead to some interesting conversations). After weighing up the options - going for a walk or walking around the world's least happening capital again I opted for the walk. Perhaps, if I had realised that the word fen (which means flat land where I come from) means bloody great hill in the Faroes, and short means anything approaching 25 km I wouldn't have been so enthusiastic and might have even set out with more than a handful of sweets and half a stale loaf of bread (which was so hard I used it to put a dying lamb out of its misery).
The path down from the newly enlarged cairn was easy to follow and despite the lack of people around (I saw three the whole day, and one of those was deaf) was well trodden. The sun was just warm enough to stroll along with a shirt, the sea a few hundred feet below the cliff edge I was following was just the correct shade of turquoise for my liking and the grass was just the correct shade of green as to be aesthetically pleasing. Even the clouds were my favourite kind , those little fluffy bobs of cotton wool that are probably called neo-cumulo- something or other. It was as idyllic as I could ever possibly hope for. I stood for a long time gazing out to sea, lost in my thoughts and thinking: this is how life should be. Eventually, after raising my hip flask to the sky and toasting this magnificent day, I dropped down into Kirkjobor.
Of course, happiness is transient and comes at a price. However, I put aside, for a brief second, the feelings of longing for home and my family and basked in the glow of walking hard in a beautiful land with no-one but myself to please. Chatwin, that most ephemeral of wanderers, claimed that if man walks hard enough there is no need for God. I have to agree and there is simply no better feeling than to be free in a strange land with no time constraints and an optimistic outlook. Days when I am surrounded by such beauty and am out walking alone in high places make me believe that the kingdom of heaven really is within.
Actually, I nearly didn't make it to the village as I was so entranced by the view from the top of the ridge that I almost pitched my tent. Sitting, dangling my feet over the cliff edge and watching fibrils of mist roll down the banks of the islands opposite whilst the sun slowly dappled the sea and distant shore with beaten-gold light was deeply moving (though it could have well turned out even more moving as a large chunk of the cliff suddenly crumbled into the sea as I was leaving my vantage spot) and I felt deeply blessed to have both the time and opportunity to have seen it.
The village of Kirkjobor was as good as I had hoped in a turfed-roof and church-by-the-clear-blue-sea type of way. I sprawled in the sun with my shirt, listening to the sound of the surf and thinking: how terribly brilliant this is. I paddled in the sea to cool off my smoking feet, pottered around the ancient church and partially restored houses and felt overwhelmingly smug with myself.
A pretty young Danish girl with an even cuter little boy in tow stopped to chat. She told me a little about the history of the church and the village but the warm sun prevented me from learning anything useful. I have the vague recollection of her telling me about the King of Iceland (or perhaps it was Norway) living there and doing something with forty fishes and a cake of soap, but I can't be sure. I was too busy drooling over the awesome scenery to take much in and she soon dragged her son away muttering something about crazy Englishmen.
Turning down a kind offer from the local bus driver to drop me back in town, I once more set off for the hills. Despite having walked further that morning than I have done for years I knew that the midnight sun would mean that I could take my time on the stroll back. I was also looking forward to taking another 200 photographs on the way back as I wasn't sure that the million I had taken on the way out were adequate to express the beauty of the place.
The climb back onto the ridge caused my lungs to scream out in protest and my feet to begin to bleed profusely. Half way up I swore that next time I wouldn't leave my boots in the back of my car caked in mud for six months before setting off on a hike. Two-thirds of the way up I swore I wouldn’t go hiking again in a while.
Once I had finally regained my breath and had a few swigs from my hip flask I finally felt a little bit better about the world. It was then that I noticed that thick swirls of mist were rolling down the ridge towards me and before I could get my bearings the world had vanished into a swirling grey haze. I sat down to look at the map and work out the best route back. I was slightly astonished to find that I had already walked about 15 miles that day (though closer inspection of my feet showed that it felt much closer to 150).
The walk back was distinctly eerie. Not only was the path difficult to find there was also the added excitement of the crumbly cliff edge to deal with. I spent a long time gingerly feeling my way along, wondering if it would be best to plunge several hundred feet onto razor sharp rocks or die of exposure amongst the sheep. Neither seemed much of a good option. Every time I stopped to get my bearings and turned around I was sure that I was being followed. Every now and again I caught faint whistling on the breeze or smelt cigar smoke wafting towards me. It was terribly disconcerting.
I tried not to let the mist dampen my feelings too much. As it closed in around me like a winter duvet I realized how different the day would have been if I had spent it groping around in the mist. I would never have seen the beauty of the place or laid my stones on the magical cairn or, perhaps, even made it to the village. Perhaps, I thought, still searching for the path, this is how my life is. Surrounded by beauty but hardly ever seeing its true value. This thought made me suddenly lonely for my little family.
