Sunrise comes super early to the Faroe Islands but not that it really mattered. My weeklong stay was dominated by foreboding, pewter grey skies, fog, rain, wind, and often all of the above simultaneously. This was also true of Iceland during the ten days preceding my flight to the Faroes, but somehow this felt even worse. The islands seemed genuinely angry at my arrival and its displeasure was measured in buckets of the falling wet stuff.
I jokingly made reference of this to an English-speaking gentleman at the airport and he (jokingly?) said it might be the Huldufólk, The Hidden People or elves who reside in another dimension. The native range of these mythical creatures apparently extends to both Iceland and this small Danish island in the North Atlantic.
“You do believe in elves, don’t you?” he asked in a lyrical, Scottish brogue but without any hint of irony.
“You ever hear of Bigfoot?” I responded in my best sarcastic American snarl. He has, in fact, not heard of Bigfoot
“Never mind,” I said.
So for the next four and a half days, I cursed the rain and my doomed trip to these beautiful set of islands. I cursed my lack of planning (I was sleeping in the car), the cold nights, the jet stream, and the stupid elves too. Especially those vile little creatures.
You do believe in elves, don’t you?
Shut up, please!
So, you are probably reading this and thinking, so what about the image at the top of the page?
The ideal script would go something like this: It’s my last night in the Faroe Islands and I’ve been shut out. The bad elf voodoo has brought me to me knees and has finally made me a believer. As I drift off to sleep that night, I repeat the refrain, I do believe in elves. I do believe in elves. I do believe… The next morning, epic sunrise, right?
Wrong. I got lucky. Luck. Now there’s something I can believe in.
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