Day 12 - Shetland to the Faroe Islands

I have waited 12 years for this journey, this is the second time I have booked and paid for the ferry from Shetland to the Faroe Islands, I never made the trip in July 1994 for several reasons – but that is a different story. I am now finally on board the Norrona and bar us sinking I should wake up on the Arctic archipelago.

Standing in line to load my bike, I meet Pauli, a local Faroese and studying in Aberdeen. A pleasant chap who seems unsure of which accent he should use to speak to me in his perfect English. It starts off in a soft East coast Scots, then switches to harsh Cork Irish (he explains that his flat mate at Uni is Irish) and then to a Danish-Faroese accent. He is also on a bike and he kindly agrees to meet me onboard for coffee and will show me the best places to visit on the islands.
As the bow doors of the Norrona opens like the jaws of giant whale, trucks and trailers come off and a few of us passengers are allowed on, in the belly of this ship there is a helicopter trussed up on flatbed, bound for Iceland I am sure.

I’m in the lounge onboard the ship and the famous Richard Clayderman song is being played (I think it is “Ballade Pour Adeline”) on a Celtic guitar by a moustached man in a mustard corduroy jacket. The bar is filled with the Scots and their kilts, they have been following me I’m sure of it, all the way from Aberdeen. I’m waiting for the crescendo piece of the song, the piano chorus that defined elevator music for the future, you know the piece that everyone taps their fingers to, and suddenly all the Scots launch into a vocal version of the chorus, instantly the air in the room becomes laced with alcohol and those previously sober are now drunk through no fault of their own.

I leave the lounge and bump into the German helmet – I am being stalked! He has now, not had any sleep for 36 hours and is impressively inebriated. His stagger has nothing to do with the fact that we aboard a ship, about to enter the North Atlantic.

As the Norwegian Celtic guitarist, starts up with his version of “Blue Suede Shoes”, the Scots start to dance and beckon me to join them, is there not some tartan ribbon I can pin to my drab man made-fibre wardrobe that can show my support for the Scottish but allow me to wander freely as ghost aboard the Mary Celeste, unmolested by these merry, good natured drunkards?

Speaking of man-made fibres, I am amongst great company here, everyone in this lounge is sporting Rohan trousers and a Fjall Raven fleece (Scandinavian version of The North Face), there are lots of beards, bird books and Brasher Boots as well as foreign versions of Wanderlust, Trail Walking and the Rambling Times.

I’m sharing my cabin with a pair of Lichenologists (I wonder what the collective noun is for that?) they are from the UK and on their way to Iceland for the Global Symposium of Lichens, they are both wearing matching outfits of various hues of green, brown, taupe and yellow – against the grey walls of the cabin they look rather like the cryptograms themselves. In the bathroom there are matching soap dishes and toothbrush cases.....hmmmm, I better go and find the bar.

I bump into Pauli, and invite him to dinner, I think it wise to get the low down on the islands and their culture from a local, I wonder if he has ever seen a Grindadrap (the Faroese whale hunt) that I read about as child and have been morbidly fascinated with ever since. We become friends and agree to meet up again during the week.