Dispatch from the Faroe Islands

Remote, windswept and seemingly detached from the digital age, the Faroe Islands had been singing a siren call ever since I spent half a decade as a student in Edinburgh. A self-governing territory within the kingdom of Denmark and marooned between Iceland and Norway (northwest of Scotland and just an hour’s flight from Edinburgh), the 18-island archipelago seemed the ultimate escape from the relentless grind of deadlines and dissertations. Home to just 54,000 people, this unspoiled landscape has become quietly voguish of late—perhaps a reflection of our growing urge to escape an ever-more dystopian existence. After all, this is a place that insists you be present: where the rain lashes your face, the wind blurs out your thoughts, and should you feel the need to scream into the abyss, only the bleat of sheep will answer back.

I finally made it there last August with a friend, leaving heatwave-stricken London with a suitcase packed to the gills with waterproofs, jumpers, woolly hats and swimsuits. If you hadn’t guessed already, the Faroese live by the whim of their ever-changing weather, and we had prepared for just that. They even call it “the land of maybe”: ferries run only if the sea is calm enough, hikes sometimes have to wait until the fog lifts, and when the sun finally splinters through the clouds, the grasslands turn a luminous gold that prompts locals to strip down to their vests—even at 18 degrees (64 Farenheit), which they regard as positively tropical.

The islands were born of vast volcanic eruptions 60 million years ago: tilted layers of black basalt where eastern slopes tumble into the sea and western sides rise into cloud-encircled cliffs. As we drove the switchback roads from the airport of Vágar, waterfalls stained the rock faces silver before tumbling into the roaring Atlantic, while sheep—with thighs of steel—grazed on near-vertical slopes. In twilight, these cliffs sprang to life with puffins, guillemots and fulmars. Thousands of birds come here each summer to breed, making this time of year an absolute wonderland for avid birdwatchers.

We checked in for a long weekend at Hotel Føroyar, a lodge that seems to grow out of the hillside with its grass-turfed roof perched above the tiny capital of Tórshavn. Its guestbook boasted a curious cast of characters—Bill Clinton, Westlife, Al Gore, Natasha Bedingfield—and during our stay, UB40 were even in residence for their Summar Festivalur and no doubt some red, red wine at the hotel’s 1933 Café & Bar. Hotel Føroyar’s brand new Ress Spa is its crown jewel (and the islands’ first and only proper spa). Think two floors of steaming pools, cold plunges, and saunas cranked to sizzling heat overlooking the sea. In what felt like a distinctly Faroese twist, the bar didn’t just push green juices or bone broth; it had Aperol spritzes and crisps on tap—a balance that had our vote.

Tórshavn is one of the world’s smallest capitals, yet it is home to its own parliament. In the old town, we wandered its cobbled streets lined with turf-roofed timber houses, browsed second-hand bookshops and lingered over freshly brewed chai and open rye tartines at Paname Café. That night, we sampled a modern riff on Faroese cuisine at the very stylish restaurant, ROKS: sea urchin toast, Greenlandic snow crab with burnt onion butter, and fried cod with chimichurri—it tasted like swallowing a mouthful of the North Atlantic.

It quickly became clear that the sea is the Faroese lifeblood. Around 90 to 97% of their export value comes from fish and fish products, anchoring both the economy and daily life. But such reliance has always come at a cost. At their delightful National Gallery in Tórshavn, Listasavn Føroya, my guide Elin paused before pointing at Sámal Joensen-Mikines’s haunting Returning from a Funeral, which showed mourners rowing home after yet another death at sea. She told me that this duality – the ocean as both a means of sustenance and a source of great sorrow – runs deep in the Faroese psyche, mirrored in the churches that punctuate every village. If you happen to visit the island of Streymoy, do make sure to check out the whitewashed Saint Ólav’s Church, the oldest church in the Faroes that dates back to 1250, with an altarpiece that depicts a fish boat also painted by Sámal Mikines.

Meals lean heavily on fish in the Faroes, but also on skerpikjøt—wind-dried mutton that remains a cultural staple. To get a taste of this, head to Restaurant Ræst, who specialise in this local delicacy. Before fishing dominated, sheep were vital for both meat and for wool, with the latter being commonly called “the gold of the Faroes.” Expect woolly jumpers to be everywhere, and if you are in the market for a jumper that will last for generations to come, the boutiques of Gudrun & Gudrun and Ullvøhúsio should be on your bookmarks.

Still, the best way to experience the Faroese way of life is with a table full of locals through heimablídni, their long-standing tradition of opening one’s home to strangers. One evening, we were welcomed into Hanusartova, the home of Harriet, a sheep farmer and photographer. The wind rattled her windows as we were served homemade potato soup and freshly baked focaccia, and told that in the Faroes, everyone knows everyone—despite feeling on the edge of the world, the Faroe Islands is not the place to keep a secret. Heimablídni allows visitors not just to taste Faroese food distinct from restaurant fare, but also to hear stories, folklore and fragments of everyday life directly from their hosts—the original supper club.

As well as a wonderland for birdwatchers, pescatarians and sheep-lovers, the Faroes offer hikers some of the most dramatic hikes in the North Atlantic. The Trollkonufingur/Witch’s Finger Trail is a favorite, an out-and-back path to the monolithic “Witch’s Finger,” said to be the hand of a witch frozen mid-hurl as she tried to fling the islands at Iceland. We glimpsed it again on a boat trip to the Vestmanna bird cliffs, sailing through grottoes and beneath 700-metre walls alive with seabirds. Folklore clings to every rock here, from the huldufólk (hidden folk) said to live inside boulders to the seal woman of Mikladalur, towering over the waves on the island of Kalsoy.

On our final day (our highlight), we drove north to Tjørnuvík, pausing at the thundering Fossá waterfall, the tallest in the islands at 140 metres. In the village further north, we warmed up with fish soup in a café and watched hardy swimmers plunge into the surf before strolling its famed black sand beach. Before heading back, we made a final stop at Saunadypp, the island’s first floating sauna, to round off the day with some icy plunges and some bone-melting heat. It was a fitting finale to a land of extremes.

The Faroes feel like being on the edge of the world, where you can submit to the mercy of the elements and be humbled by the thunderous powers of nature—and maybe, just maybe, hear the siren’s call.