We, our culture, and our language - our way of understanding and describing the world around us - are all products of place. We are intimately connected to the landscapes we move through, and the nature we inhabit. So just as the Sami people of northern Finland and Sweden, it is said, have over 20 different ways to describe snow in all its forms, the Faroese language has three different words for fog: mjørki, the dense, marine fog that lies in the valleys like a shroud (sarcastically called “Faroese sunshine” during the war by British sailors, who knew a thing or two about grey weather); skadda, the orographic nimbi that accumulate like cotton candy wrapped around the peaks of mountains; and pollamjørki, the thin ribbons of mist that lace the hillsides even on clear days, beautiful and beloved by islanders and visitors alike.
It is this lovely, latter type of velvet fog that clings to the valley walls when we awaken the next morning and peer out of the broad windows of our ground-floor apartment in Norðragøta. The mist is rolling in like a wave from the ocean to the south, while the first light of dawn begins to appear above the eastern ridge behind the house. After a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, sliced ham, and orange cream yogurt with muesli, we get in the car and retrace our previous day’s drive along the fjords of Eysturoy. At the north end of Funningsfjørður, at a roadside overlook above the village of Funningur, we greet the sun as it appears over the shapely peaks of Kalsoy - tomorrow’s destination. We drive down into Funningur, where not a soul is stirring, and park beside the turf-roofed church at the water’s edge. Beside the church, a burbling stream flows past clumps of dandelions and flowering cat’s ears, and empties into the sound. Jane explores the village and finds a yard of domesticated ducks and geese, while I shoot a timelapse of sunrise framed by the church, the fjord, and the distant mountains.
An hour later, we return to the highway and take the steep mountain road that runs between Funningur and Gjógv, passing under the shadow of the Faroes’ tallest mountains. After hairpinning our way to the top of the mountain pass, we park at a dirt turnoff above the valley and set off on foot up the rockstrewn slope toward the summit of Middagsfjall (“Midday Peak”). The climb is relentlessly steep, and in between gasps for air, we shield our faces from the blasts of arctic wind reverberating down the mountainside. At the top of the ridge, we are rewarded with a stunning view along the length of Funningsfjørður and out to sea beyond Kalsoy and the other Northern Islands. Far below us, the villages of northern Eysturoy are dwarfed by the surrounding topography, and the fish cages at the mouth of the fjord appear like tiny bubbles on a pond surface. Jane climbs to the top of the rocky ridgeline before we retrace our steps, descending toward our car parked beneath the broad, hulking mass of Slættaratindur and the sleek, arrowhead summit of Gráfelli.
We proceed along the road to the village of Gjógv (“Gorge”), at the northern tip of the island. Above the village, we stop for photos; Jane takes pictures of me standing on the grassy hummock beside the road, while I frame some shots of the village outfield - a curling stream cutting through neatly sectioned sheep pastures, which are dotted with glacial debris. Continuing on, we park beside the large guesthouse on the outskirts of the village, and walk down along the village lane. We pass a house with a yard festooned with all manners of decorations: Greco-Roman sculptures, a garden gnome, a standing flamingo. A decorative beehive and a cluster of birdhouses. We pass by an elderly Faroese gentleman, wearing a tweed cap and a knit wool sweater, who is painting his picket fence one fence-post at a time; his wife waves good morning to us from the front porch. Weaving in and out of alleyways between the brightly colored houses, we follow the stream as it runs through the village to a rocky boat launch at the shore. Descending a long flight of steps, we come to the massive cleft in the hillside that gives the village its name. Here, water drips down the moss-covered rocks in little rivulets, and even on this calm, sunny morning, water is sloshing around in the gorge as if it were an agitated bathtub. As protected as it is from the open ocean, one imagines it must be terrifying to land at this dock in rough weather. Indeed, the graveyard behind the village church has a memorial by the famed Faroese sculptor Janus Kamban, of a woman and two children looking out to sea; its inscription bears the names of over forty sailors - nearly every able-bodied man in the village - who died in a single horrific night during a winter storm in the early 1900s.
After exploring the gorge, we walk back up the hill to our car, and drive back southward along Funningsfjørður. We stop briefly at the head of the fjord (at the docks of the village which bears its name) to photograph a roadside waterfall beneath the mountain Múlatindur. The towering peak makes quite an impression, but unfortunately the falls are quite dry and difficult to compose with, given the proximity of the road, with its street lamps and powerlines. We resolve to return here later, to photograph the boathouses at the head of the fjord in the evening light. Returning to the south, we stop to pump gas at the Effo petrol station in Skálabotn before returning home to make our lunch sandwiches and take a long afternoon nap.
In the evening, we drive back to Funningsfjørður at park at the large gravel turnoff near the boat docks. I set up an abortive timelapse of the waterfall (cut short by the shadow rising up the mountainside as the sun sets beneath the west side of the fjord) but eventually settle on a timelapse of the clouds moving in over the boats in the fjord. Jane, for her part, mostly sits in the passenger seat of the car, playing games on her phone. We end the day with the same beautiful wisps of oceanic mist that started it. As the light disappears, the mist develops into shades of lavender and azure blue as it rolls down the mountainside, settling like a blanket over the valley as it drifts toward sleep for the night.
