The Faroe Islands

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Storm petrels, shearwaters, Vikings, pallbearers, the North Atlantic, antiaircraft stations, Sámal Joensen-Mikines, Hotel Føroyar, Guðrun & Guðrun, Norse freemen, subsea tunnels, fermented whale, puffin breast & oystercatchers.

1. Gásadalur


Photos by Sara Fox

The islands do not appear. They are an absence of light in a white sea. Sea cliffs rise up as the plane cuts through the clouds. The North Atlantic falls behind a wall of basalt. We can’t see a runway. Just water, ledge and grasslands.

Many things end at the Faroe Islands. The North Atlantic Current, the Danish Realm, two thousand years of one-way trips from Europe. There are eighteen islands in the archipelago, set halfway between Norway and Iceland. Irish monks were the first to land there, two hundred years after Christ was born. Archeologists found their bones and a fire they made. Vikings came around 600 A.D. They established an outpost on their way to Iceland and, eventually, North America.

After that, more Vikings settled, then Icelanders, then whoever wrecked a ship on the nearby shoals. “I have some French and Netherlands blood in me,” our hiking guide, Jóhannus Hansen, told us a few hours after we landed. He led us to a steep, winding trail near the village of Bøur. Like most of the fifty thousand residents of the islands, Jóhannus didn’t come from anywhere. His family has always been from the islands. “They say eight generations back my ancestor had seven daughters,” he tells us. “He needed a boy to keep his land in the family when he died, so he brought his wife to a French ship anchored in the harbor. They had a son nine months later.”

Many things end at the Faroe Islands. The North Atlantic Current, the Danish Realm, two thousand years of one-way trips from Europe.

The French ship came up in conversation three more times on our trip. Many Faroese have genetic or anecdotal ties to it, and to each other. People on an island are connected like this. They speak their own language, practice their own traditions. Nearly two thousand years after the islands were settled, the Faroese have broken the isolation. They are connected by high-speed internet, ferries, subsea tunnels, passenger jets—and a growing number of travelers headed there to tour the last unknown island nation in Europe.

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Hiking the islands.


The fog is coming in, Jóhannus tells us. We have to move quickly. If it socks in and we are not ready, we’ll walk off a cliff. The tallest sea cliffs in Europe hem the shores of the islands. They cut a line at the edge of town, behind a gas station, on the sidelines of a soccer field. Some are over two thousand feet tall.

Jóhannus takes a GPS reading and points to a cairn. The wind picks up. Braids of moisture slip over a ridgeline high above. The trail looks very much like a grassy path worn into someone’s backyard, which is exactly what it is. It has been around for more than a thousand years. Farmers walked it. The mailman walked it. Villagers walked it to trade meat, grain, wool and whale oil. It leads to the village of Gásadalur. You have probably seen photos of Gásadalur. The village is a typical Faroese hamlet in that it is wildly picturesque. It is perched on the edge of a four-hundred-foot sea cliff with a freshwater spring pouring into the ocean.


There is a rock near the summit of the mountain. There was no graveyard in Gásadalur in the old days, so villagers brought corpses to nearby Sørvágur to bury them. There is a sign on the rock. It is the only place pallbearers are allowed to set the coffin down.

When Jóhannus was a boy he walked this trail with his family, all of them carrying six weeks of food and clothing on their backs. Most villagers used a state-subsidized helicopter transport back then, but his mother did not like to fly. So they hiked, then he and a dozen cousins slept in the loft of his grandmother’s Gásadalur house for the summer. They tended to the sheep, worked on the house and played and swam in the waterfall. An old lady with no family lived next to them and kept a shaggy horse named Dragon. The horse is thirty-six years old now and still roams the valley.

Jóhannus is twenty-seven and has cherub-red cheeks, blue eyes and a bit of light stubble on his chin. He is six feet tall, stocky and looks like a painting of a Scandinavian soldier from the seventeenth century. He wears traditional Faroese wool sweaters with stars and snowflakes woven in, high-tech trekking pants and low-cut hiking boots. He spends winters hunting seabirds and whales and summers taking tourists trekking and climbing with his company, Reika Adventures.


There are two hundred mountains taller than fifteen hundred feet on the islands. Mountain passes create borders, routes, enclaves, towns and economies. Villages like Gásadalur and Gjógv—on the northeastern tip of Eysturoy Island—are completely encircled by mountain and ocean. Geologists say the islands were created in a similar way that Hawaii was: multiple volcanic eruptions piling lava on top of one another. Sixty-five million years later, tectonic movement has shifted the volcanic hotspot that created the Faroe Islands under Iceland.

Black-and-white oystercatchers—tjaldur, the national bird—flit around our heads as we descend toward Gásadalur. Fog and light flow through the pass behind us, and wind tears up the grass. Gales are constant in the islands. They bring hail, snow, sleet, mist and rain in all four seasons. The climate is subpolar oceanic, which means it never gets too warm or cold. The average temperature in the summer is fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The average in winter is thirty-seven.

Jóhannus’s family house is welcome shelter. It is built like a traditional Faroese home: sod roof, tiny windows, wood siding sealed with black tar. For many years, the Faroese learned to live on what washed up on their shores. Buildings were constructed using lumber from shipwrecks. Their diet was, and still is, lamb, whale, fish and whatever seabirds islanders could shoot or catch. Jóhannus takes us to a shed to show us the net he uses to catch northern fulmar, a gull-like bird related to the albatross. He explains how he stands at the top of a sea cliff and waits for a hovering fulmar to get close. Then he nets it and takes it home for dinner.

Jóhannus takes us to a shed to show us the net he uses to catch northern fulmar, a gull-like bird related to the albatross. He explains how he stands at the top of a sea cliff and waits for a hovering fulmar to get close. Then he nets it and takes it home for dinner.

There was no salt in the islands in the early days, so instead of drying meat, the Faroese fermented it. Almost every traditional house has a meat shack out back, and most islanders still eat fermented whale and lamb. Locals call it “eating the rust.”

Inside his grandmother’s house, Jóhannus pulls a dried shank of lamb and a stick of whale meat from a closet. He shaves off the meat like prosciutto. It tastes like venison, with a deep, pungent aftertaste. The fermenting technique has become an international sensation recently. Chefs from all over the world fly to the Faroe Islands to learn how to do it. In 2014, a restaurant named KOKS, near the capital city of Tórshavn, was awarded the Nordic Prize for the best restaurant in Nordic countries.

Jóhannus misses Faroese food whenever he is away, he says. He typically can’t wait to get back. He has been to the new Burger King in town twice and doesn’t see what the big deal is. He craves whale meat and puffin breast cooked with yellow cake. He likes to party with his friends and catch seabirds in the net. On the longest day of the year, he and his pals hike all day to the northernmost island to watch the sunset. They like to see it unobstructed by anything. They build a bonfire, eat whale meat, drink beer and watch the sun fall.

In the winter, Jóhannus rappels hundreds of feet down cliffsides with a small bat to catch gannet. He takes part in the thousand-year-old tradition of the pilot-whale hunt, or grindadráp. None of the animals Jóhannus hunts are endangered. He is no more barbaric than a New York City executive—who puts bacon from a nameless slaughterhouse on his breakfast sandwich. Far less so, in fact. This is how people on an island survive, and when you live on a rock in the middle of the North Atlantic, survival lives at the forefront of your mind.

2. Tórshavn


W     e sleep twelve hours the first night. The sun sets at eleven and rises at four. Hotels have blackout curtains so you can sleep all day if you want. We stay at the Magenta Guest House in Miðvágur the first night, fifteen minutes from the airport. It is a traditional Faroese home that has been renovated by a woman named Marita. King Christian VII of Denmark slept in our bed at one time. A few of the couches and chairs are from a Danish royal palace as well. Marita makes a tray of food for us to take to our room in the morning: fresh coffee, bread, butter, jam, yogurt, gorgonzola. The silver tray looks like it belongs in a museum.


We pack and drive to Tórshavn for the day. The roads follow water here, tracking fjords, coves, lakes and streams. Highway 11 rises gradually over low passes, dives down ravines and then dips beneath the ocean in a subsea tunnel. There is little traffic, making the incredibly engineered system feel like a go-kart track.

It is still raining out, but precipitation here is not a hindrance. It is a part of the landscape, like a river or the sea. The deep-green grasslands suck it in. Slate-gray lakes collect it. The storms are part of the setting. They are harsh and magical, worthy of observing for hours at a time—like watching a fire. One time when Jóhannus was working on a fishing boat, he tells us, the wind blew so hard that the captain had to drive full steam into the wind for three days just to hold their position.

Tórshavn is on the island of Streymoy. It has been the Faroese capital since the Vikings established the oldest parliament in Europe on the Tinganes peninsula. The peninsula juts into the harbor near the center of town. Our guide there, Ellen, shows us a compass engraved in the tip of the peninsula. Norse freemen met there to make decisions about their land, waters, ships and community. Nearby, seven adolescent boys prepare to row a traditional Faroese boat—a long dory descended from the Vikings. The boys are on a rowing team and wear shorts and T-shirts. It is thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and raining.

The Danish did not allow the Faroese to speak their own language. They did not allow them to sing traditional songs. They forbade the sale of any goods except at the government shop.

There are a few buildings on Tinganes left over from the Middle Ages. The Danes constructed a government store there when it took control of the islands from Norway in the early 1800s. The Danish did not allow the Faroese to speak their own language. They did not allow them to sing traditional songs. They forbade the sale of any goods except at the government shop. When the Nazis occupied Denmark in 1939, the British sent forty thousand troops to the Faroe Islands to stop Hitler’s westward progression. The British didn’t care how the Faroese spoke or what they sang. Islanders revived their native language and culture and have protected them ever since.


Offices of the Faroese prime minister occupy the old Danish shop now. Brightly colored fishing boats and long, steel ferries crowd the harbor. Old Tórshavn is set on the peninsula near the prime minister’s office, and just a few blocks away are world-renowned fashion designers like Guðrun & Guðrun. Most of the designers make intricate, gossamer-like wool garments that have been featured in magazines and fashion shows around the world. In one shop, the owner says that Elle just ran a spread featuring their clothing. “You know this magazine, Elle?” the designer’s husband asks. “Is this a big magazine?”

Up the street is Tutl music shop, founded by composer Kristian Blak, who records Faroese music and tours the country with a music festival every summer. On the other side of the harbor is Steinprent, a lithography studio that hosts internationally acclaimed artists. Next door is Østrøm, a sleek, minimalist storefront dedicated to Faroese design. Gastronomy is on the rise in the Faroe Islands as well. We eat lunch at Etika, recognized as one of the best sushi restaurants in the world. Just a few steps from the harbor—and freighters full of fish—it is no wonder. We order miso soup with Faroese salmon, porbeagle sashimi, cod tongue, lettuce lamb rolls and Faroese spring water with a charcoal filter.

Down the street is Aarstova, set in the old home of the Áarstovu brothers, poets Janus and Hans Andrias Djurhuus. The restaurant serves traditional, rustic Faroese dishes like lamb shoulder, monkfish, langoustine bisque and smoked salmon in an elegant seventeenth-century dining room. Right around the corner is Barbara Fish House, which specializes in everything from the sea, plated on mismatched Danish china, in a candlelit wooden house. Just out of town in Kirkjubøur is the crown jewel of Tórshavn, award-winning KOKS, set in the owner’s old house on Hestur Sound.

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We head to Hotel Føroyar around five to check in. Føroyar is the only four-star hotel in the islands, and the sleek, industrial design by Montana and Philippe Starck hits you with light and long, open spaces the moment you step through the front door. Every room in the hotel looks out over Tórshavn, the harbor, Nólsoy Island and the endless blue plane of the North Atlantic. Danish architects Friis & Moltke buried the hotel in the hillside and added sod roofs, making it blend almost imperceptibly with the landscape.

That night, we head back to Tórshavn to give Barbara Fish House a try. The whitewashed interior looks like a Nantucket wine bar. The menu features a nautical chart on the cover and Nordic-inspired dishes like horse mussels, ceviche, salmon, ocean perch, scallops, potatoes and lemon sole. We order the chef’s menu, which came out one plate at a time for two hours, each with a paired wine. When we finally left, we headed straight to the hotel and slept for another twelve hours.



The sun does not come out in the Faroe Islands. The clouds go away and the sun is all that is left. The wind dies, waves die. Grasses rustle, then settle. White light falls in cylinders through the clouds. The circles widen on the ocean and the gray ceiling disintegrates. The clouds never fully give; there is always a haze from sea smoke, fog or humidity. White light fills the sky, pales the blue, flattens the island’s mountains.

There is color today, a sweet smell in the air. Tórshavn sparkles, and people wave when you drive by. We head to Sørvágur to catch a ferry and stop three times to photograph a fjord, a mountain, a lake. Fishing boats steam out to sea. Horses come in from the pasture to feed. The air is thirty-five degrees, but the sun feels like seventy. Freezing on one side, toasting on the other.

Every corner you drive around in the Faroe Islands reveals a different landscape. A wide valley meets a fjord. A run of mountains frames a river. Forty-five minutes inland, you see an ocean freighter loading fish beside a salmon farm. Walk to the end of a two-hundred-foot-deep lake and see it empty in a waterfall into the ocean. The Faroe Islands were built in layers and that’s how we see them now. The sea is first. Rock is next, then freshwater springs and lakes, then the soil, grass, lichen, moss, livestock and farms. Finally come the homes and villages where locals hunker down.


Homes cluster around Sørvágur harbor—a semicircle of red, black, yellow and white clapboard structures. The harbor is filled with double-ended fishing boats and a few pleasure yachts. The tapered ends on the fishing boats make them more comfortable in heavy waves. There are always waves in the North Atlantic. They are similar to the Viking ships that sailed here a thousand years ago. A replica of one is sailing right now to America. When Jóhannus saw the crew, they said they were exhausted and seasick.

The ferry is full of hikers. They run to the coffee machine in the bow immediately after the boat takes off. It is 8:30 a.m. We have been up since six. The water is blue-green, and shadows fall from the sea cliffs. Sørvágur Sound is guarded by two towering piles of rock that the Faroese call sea stacks, one with a hole eroded through its base. Farther north, between the towns of Eiði and Tjørnuvík, two stacks are called the Witch and the Giant. Legend there follows tectonics: the pair were sent from Iceland to drag the Faroe Islands home, but were stopped when the first ray of sunlight turned them to stone.

The ocean is cerulean and textured by the breeze. It is probably the calmest day in some time and a small boat would have a hell of a time staying upright. There is a monument for lost seamen in almost every town in the Faroe Islands.

The captain picks up speed as seabirds make lazy circles above the boat. Ocean swell picks up and the wind turns cold. This is the North Atlantic, one of the stormiest seas on the planet. The ocean is cerulean and textured by the breeze. It is probably the calmest day in some time and a small boat would have a hell of a time staying upright. There is a monument for lost seamen in almost every town in the Faroe Islands.

Our destination is the island of Mykines five miles west—one of the smaller islands that is not connected by road or tunnel. The bluffs in the harbor are two hundred feet tall and there is a hydraulic lift for cargo, luggage and fish. When you land on a Faroe Island, you always have to go up. Usually straight up. Our new guide, Johan, meets us at the dock. He is wearing black jeans, rubber farmer boots and a blue windbreaker. He is in his thirties and is quiet and sweet. He grew up in Sørvágur and spent time in Denmark—his cousin founded Guðrun & Guðrun—but he has been coming to Mykines for years. He usually stays with an older lady in her home. They smoke cigarettes in the morning together and watch the sun rise over the Mykines Lighthouse.

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There is a special kind of light on Mykines, Johan says. Artist Sámal Joensen-Mikines grew up on the island and became internationally recognized for painting the light. His paintings are composed of blocks of color and depict the darkness of island isolation, death and long winters. The light is there too, though, giant sheets of it running through his work. “Every island has its characteristic,” Johan says. “This is the island of light.” He points out to sea and we see it, a great apron of white light spreading east to west.

We walk to a small guesthouse called Kristianshús for coffee and sandwiches. The family that runs it raised the last children to go to the island school. Thirty years ago there were twenty-seven children on the island. We walk past the school to the white, sod-roofed church. Kristian Blak’s musicians play there and a preacher gives a sermon from the pulpit twice a year. At Christmas, churchgoers light the place with candles and Christmas decorations. Each pew has a number on it that corresponds to a family on the island. The pews are no longer full. Most children in the Faroe Islands head for the mainland eventually. These days, though, a good number are coming back, Johan says. The unrest in Europe is uncomfortable for the Faroese. The nation’s population is now almost fifty thousand, he adds.


Johan leads us away from town and a gang of cruise ship tourists. Every sheep has a lamb following it. The lambs wag their tails when they feed and hide behind their mothers when we walk past. We hike up the slope to a ridge that drops five hundred feet into the ocean. Grass grows right to the edge. Fulmar hover on the updraft and watch us curiously. The ocean lifts and falls, white foam running from the brown rock to blue water. We walk west along the island toward a long, grassy headland. The trail tracks the ridgeline and a barbed-wire fence that keeps the sheep in. It is a simple path through grassy farmland, something you might see in Ireland or Kentucky—except that three feet to the right, it drops eight hundred feet straight into one of the coldest seas on the planet. It is a blessing to be this high above the North Atlantic.

Halfway to the lighthouse, at the end of the headland, Johan veers off the path and down a steep walkway somehow set in the cliffside. There are steel bars planted in the rock and a steel cable between us and the ocean. Steps are carved out of the rock or built with wood. The trail wraps around the cliff into a cut. The western section of the island is an island itself, called Mykineshólmur. A one-hundred-twenty-foot steel bridge connects the two. “This is where we walk across the Atlantic,” Johan says. The gully is thick with seabirds and is emerald blue like you would see in the Caribbean. There are around a hundred thousand northern fulmars on Mykines, five thousand Manx shearwaters, a hundred thousand storm petrels and twenty thousand common guillemots. Around the corner in “Puffin Land,” there are a quarter of a million Atlantic puffins. The puffins live in tiny burrowed holes in the ground, but today most are fishing a few hundred yards offshore. There are so many that they turn the ocean black for a quarter mile.

We walk another half hour past a memorial to Faroese lost at sea, small barracks once used by the Danish government and foundations of old Danish bunkers. The wind is blowing twice as hard on the western edge of Mykines. We find a small nook carved out by sheep and eat our sandwiches. The light is full out here. It is blinding. The Faroese say the people of Mykines always have a suntan. The people I have met so far seem shocked to see strangers on their island. Johan introduced us to an elderly brother and sister after we landed. The sister is the official Mykines postmaster. The brother looked through a tiny pair of binoculars during the entire conversation, watching tourists walk through his pastures.

The gannets make the cliff faces white. The rock is brown and the grass is green and brown. In six weeks the grass with be deep emerald green, Johan says. It will be greener than any grass we have ever seen. The islands will be topped with the green, and from a distance, against the sheer brown cliffs and blue sea, the green meadows will look like tufts of grass floating in the Atlantic.


We walk around the lighthouse and back along the same trail. Johan picks a bunch of sea grass that he says is good for stomach cramps and we gather bird bones, tufts of wool and a cracked gannet egg. Back in town, he takes us to the old lady’s house where he sleeps. Most homes in the Faroe Islands look like grandma homes, packed with trinkets, grandfather clocks, porcelain figurines, antique furniture and lace. The ceilings are about six and a half feet tall. The floorboards are wide and worn. Johan shows us photos from a party he had there last Christmas. There are candles on the trees and a half dozen guests sitting around the table. There are plates and glasses on the table and a man with a big belly and a tie. We have a coffee and swap stories for an hour, then head back to the ferry.

The light fades as we steam back to Sørvágur. The Witch and the Giant rise up in the north. They look like they are drifting away. They are too high and sheer to stay in one place. Birds hover four hundred feet above the ocean, alongside the cliffs. A fisherman follows the ferry in a smaller boat, staying in its path. Then he weaves to the left, dives through the wake, kills the engine and grabs a buoy.


It is 8 p.m. when we land and the sun is still high. It will be light until midnight. Jóhannus wants to show us Sørvágsvatn Lake. It is spring-fed and is the largest lake in the islands. It is two hundred feet deep and one and a half square miles. Vágar Airport is on one end; the ocean is on the other. There are small rock walls to corral sheep and a long timber picnic table set by a sandy beach. Horsemen like to picnic there, he says. There is a WWII plane in the bottom of the lake and unexploded bombs. There were antiaircraft stations all along the lake, waiting for Hitler’s planes. There was never a battle here, though. German ships tried to shoot down the Mykines Lighthouse once. They thought it was a radio tower.

When we get to the far edge of the lake, it disappears into the ocean. It is a marvel. Water above water, connected by water. As if the water erupted from the ocean and poured back into the lake. Bøsdalafossur falls is an Escher falls in real life. We watch it as the sun cuts silhouettes out of the headlands. The bluffs are stacked along the coast, one after the other for miles, running northwest in every shade of gray.

There is a WWII plane in the bottom of the lake and unexploded bombs. There were antiaircraft stations all along the lake, waiting for Hitler’s planes.

We scramble over lava rocks to the top of a thousand-foot cliff overlooking the lake. Grasslands cover the top. Oystercatchers dive at us as we approach the summit. The grass stops and the cliffs fall away. The lake sweeps around behind us, cutting us off from land. It is an island on the island surrounded by two oceans. When farmers had slaves on the island and the slaves grew too old or tired to work, they were taken here and pushed off the edge. From the lake, it looks like the cliffside is etched with faces.



W     e spend our last night in Gjógv at the Gjáargarður Guesthouse. Driving at midnight on the island of Eysturoy, it is impossible to tell what is fjord and what is lake—except for the type of vessel floating on it. We take a left onto a one-lane road and follow hairpin turns up and down a range of mountains for twenty miles. There are turnouts carved into the fields in case someone is coming the other way. We eventually get funneled into a deep gorge that gives the town its name.

There is a natural harbor here and long, sloping pastures. The guesthouse owner, Eirik Suni Danielsen, tells us that many men died on the sea and that their mothers told them not to fish. There is a sculpture near the church depicting a mother and her two sons waiting for their father to come home. Children listened, Eirik says. “There are an extraordinary number of scientists and academics who grew up in the village,” he says. There are also a surprising number of summer homes in Gjógv, a controversial fact the Faroese are grappling with as tourism grows.


We wake at noon the next day, walk through town and drive back to Tórshavn. There is a surprising amount of traffic, and after a quick walk through the city we drive to the Hotel Føroyar to pack. That night we visit KOKS for a final dinner. It is the restaurant’s third night in a new location—the owner’s old home. She now lives up the street in the tiny hamlet of Kirkjubøur. The hostess is so excited about the move; she tells us about the build-out, the view, the staff who just that afternoon walked the shores of Hestur Sound to gather seaweed and lichen for tonight’s meal. “It’s like going home to go to work,” she says.

Chefs from around the globe visit often to study the food, which has its origins in survival. People in the Faroe Islands ate what they could, preserved it by whatever means they could. Because the Faroese live so close to that history, culinary tradition—and Faroese culture in general—are pure.

Waiters bring out a dozen courses for the next few hours: charred celeriac; raw sea urchin; gardenia petals and rhubarb compote; lobster tail served in smoking pine needles; sautéed cod; fermented lamb; porbeagle and nettle; crab and capelin. Chefs from around the globe visit often to study the food, which has its origins in survival. People in the Faroe Islands ate what they could, preserved it by whatever means they could. Because the Faroese live so close to that history, culinary tradition—and Faroese culture in general—are pure. They are untainted by the homogenizing effect of globalization. As if a reminder of this, the view for the entire meal is of Hestur Sound, and a column of fishing boats bashing their way through fifteen-foot seas.

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After dinner we walk to town. It is not dark, but most of the villagers are asleep. KOKS’s windows are golden rectangles on the hill. Waves pummel the shoreline as we make our way to the town landing. A group of teenagers are there. They are partying and carrying on, making the most of the night before they have to go home. Throughout the trip we have seen Faroese kids smoking cigarettes in highway tunnels to stay out of the rain, listening to music in Tutl in black hoodies and jeans. These kids are the same: young, full of energy and wondering what everyone is doing on the other side of the ocean.

The wind blows thirty miles an hour. The kids dance in front of their car headlights. It isn’t the Skjaldur, the medieval dance the Faroese performed—one step to the right, two to the left. The music has nothing to do with the traditional psalms of Thomas Kingo, who proselytized here for most of his life. But it is Faroese just the same, pure island culture that looks like it will be around for another thousand years.

The Details

Reika Adventures, Sandavágur,

Atlantic Airways, Vágar Airport,

62°N Car Rental, Vágar Airport,

Visit Faroe Islands, Tórshavn,


Hotel Føroyar, Tórshavn,

Magenta Guest House, Miðvágur,

Gjáargarður Guesthouse, Gjógv,


Etika, Tórshavn,

Barbara Fish House, Tórshavn,

KOKS, Kirkjubøur,


Guðrun & Guðrun, Tórshavn,

Tutl, Tórshavn,

Østrøm, Tórshavn,

Steinprent, Tórshavn,


Sara and Porter Fox make Nowhere Magazine in Brooklyn, New York.

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