Click Mr. Puffin here to view the Best of the Faroe Islands (by the way this isn't the Puffin I ate, that was a different one!)
Click on the photo of Langjokull Glacier to see the Best of Iceland
Showing posts with label Iceland Cycle Tour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Iceland Cycle Tour. Show all posts
Wednesday, 4 July 2007
All photos now updated!
I have spent lots of time sorting the 500 photos I took on the UK, Faroes and Iceland cycle tour. These have been greatly reduced and are now available for your viewing pleasure.
Monday, 2 July 2007
Well I made it......
1200 miles in 30 days - Bakewell to Reykjavik, this part of the tour is now over and I feel a bit flat for having arrived in such a big city (compared to what I have been used to this last 30 days!)
The last 20kms into Reykjavik were fantastic, I managed to find quiet cycle tracks through countless fields of lupins, these wild flowers smell amazingly fragrent and the perfume has been with me the whole trip - in fact one of my strongest memories of Iceland will be the smell of the purple Lupins.
I have made the crossing much quicker than I had anticipated, a combination of better weather, 10kms to 20kms a day more than I planned and I only took 1 rest day in the last 13. So what to do now? I will admit to letting my mind drift to the next part of my tour - the Greenland Icecap crossing, and I am a bit nervous to say the least. So I checked out the incoming weather and it seemed to spell an end to the great weather of the last 2 weeks. I also managed to arrange an early flight out, back home.
So I spent the day doing the tourist thing in the Capital, but I was distraught at how expensive everything was - I wont go into it here as I'll be blamed for exaggerating (ME! Never!) but I saved money by leaving early!
And all of a sudden I am back on the South Coast of the UK and a few days earlier I had been in the desert - a bit strange really, but I have much to do to prepare for a month on the ice so I wont let it get to me.
I am sure I will have reflections to post when I have settled, but I have much tyre towing along the local beach to get into training for Greenland - so I wont have much time for navel gazing!
So I spent the day doing the tourist thing in the Capital, but I was distraught at how expensive everything was - I wont go into it here as I'll be blamed for exaggerating (ME! Never!) but I saved money by leaving early!And all of a sudden I am back on the South Coast of the UK and a few days earlier I had been in the desert - a bit strange really, but I have much to do to prepare for a month on the ice so I wont let it get to me.
I am sure I will have reflections to post when I have settled, but I have much tyre towing along the local beach to get into training for Greenland - so I wont have much time for navel gazing!
Hitting the wall
Towards the end of the last day cycling out of the desert I had cycled more or less non stop for 6 hours. I had had a break at Gulfoss to see the huge waterfall, but I couldn't cope with the crowds of tourists and over priced coffee and Maple Pecan lattices. I had another quick stop further down the road at Geyser to see the famous 100 degree centigrade water spout, again too many people after my days alone in the desert and it wasn't great weather so the natural wonders seemed a bit sterile. I pushed on to Langvatn - a lake I planned to stop at for the evening and would have given me a 100km day.
At around the 90km mark, I just collapsed and fell off my bike, I had a few seconds warning of being very dizzy and feeling a bit nauseous, but the bike just stopped and fortunately I fell into the grassy verge. I just lay there for a few moments wondering what happened. I was still clipped into my pedals and the bike and trailer were still attached. After a very inelegant detachment, I composed myself and began a regimented process of eating and drinking. Within half an hour I was feeling better and managed to limp into town to find real sustenance and a campsite for the night.
The evening was stunning and I was feeling much better after a coffee and a hot dog (you can't buy much else here by way of fast food!) and thought rather than camp here, I would push on the extra 24kms to Pingvellir, Icelands most important historical and geological place.
At the top of a very steep pass, an American tourist stopped in his car and wished me luck on my journey and gave me a cold beer to drink when I reached the top, as he warned me it was very, very steep. Once at the summit I realised I had cycled a 20% gradient hill with my trailer, which for me was a great achievement - although my knees were not happy about the situation.
Pingvellir is the cultural home and birthplace of the modern Icelandic nation. On 17 June 1994 around a quarter of the Icelandic population, assembled at Pingvellir to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Icelandic Republic. The area is also famous for the Alpingi (the ancient high court and assembly of Iceland, which is also the name of Iceland's Parliament today) and is a national symbol for Icelanders, utilized to celebrate what the nation deems it has in common, while at the same time demarcating Icelanders' difference from other groups; that is, Pingvellir defines what sets Icelanders apart from "others," us from them.
Geologically this place is also very special as it is here where you can stand in the middle of two continental tectonic plates, one side is Europe and the other America - and they get about 5cm further apart each year. I spent the night here and enjoyed the peace and quiet as tomorrow I would reach the Nations Capital, Reykjavik.
At around the 90km mark, I just collapsed and fell off my bike, I had a few seconds warning of being very dizzy and feeling a bit nauseous, but the bike just stopped and fortunately I fell into the grassy verge. I just lay there for a few moments wondering what happened. I was still clipped into my pedals and the bike and trailer were still attached. After a very inelegant detachment, I composed myself and began a regimented process of eating and drinking. Within half an hour I was feeling better and managed to limp into town to find real sustenance and a campsite for the night.
The evening was stunning and I was feeling much better after a coffee and a hot dog (you can't buy much else here by way of fast food!) and thought rather than camp here, I would push on the extra 24kms to Pingvellir, Icelands most important historical and geological place.
At the top of a very steep pass, an American tourist stopped in his car and wished me luck on my journey and gave me a cold beer to drink when I reached the top, as he warned me it was very, very steep. Once at the summit I realised I had cycled a 20% gradient hill with my trailer, which for me was a great achievement - although my knees were not happy about the situation.
Pingvellir is the cultural home and birthplace of the modern Icelandic nation. On 17 June 1994 around a quarter of the Icelandic population, assembled at Pingvellir to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Icelandic Republic. The area is also famous for the Alpingi (the ancient high court and assembly of Iceland, which is also the name of Iceland's Parliament today) and is a national symbol for Icelanders, utilized to celebrate what the nation deems it has in common, while at the same time demarcating Icelanders' difference from other groups; that is, Pingvellir defines what sets Icelanders apart from "others," us from them.
Geologically this place is also very special as it is here where you can stand in the middle of two continental tectonic plates, one side is Europe and the other America - and they get about 5cm further apart each year. I spent the night here and enjoyed the peace and quiet as tomorrow I would reach the Nations Capital, Reykjavik.
Only in prolonged silence can you really hear yourself think
The central desert of this country is magnificent. Quiet, empty, moon like and very peaceful. It took me 3 days to cross it and other than a few passing cars I have seen no-one and spoken to no-one in that time - the silence has been incredible.
Rolling and undulating hills, glaciers, lakes and of course lots of sand and boulders. I have had all the weather imaginable, the most extreme being a sandstorm that I cycled into head on for 3 hours. I had to tape plastic bags to all the exposed parts of the front of my bike to ensure the paint wasn't stripped off. I wore a bandanna around my face to stop me from swallowing sand, but after an hour the lenses of my sun glasses were completely sandblasted and useless.
The first night I didn't stop until after 1am and cycled through a torrential downpour and sought shelter in an Emergency Hut on the side of the track. A 2 roomed affair with a simple bunk to lay my head. At least it was a place to dry off out of the wind and rain.
The road for the first day was a smooth gravel track and I made good progress, the 2nd day however the road deteriorated to a track that would switch from soft sand to large rocks, which is impossible to cycle through and therefore, I would either push or carry my bike (which meant un-hitching the trailer.) This type of terrain called for absolute concentration for every meter of travel and therefore I was lucky to average 4 mph.
The end of the 2nd night I wild camped by Hvita lake. A gorgeous evening with sun setting behind Langjokull Glacier, the wind had died down early and so the air was still and silent. I could hear the glacier cracking and groaning as it moved. I was enjoying being completely alone with my myself and my thoughts. I was no longer feeling any pain on the bike and now considered an 8 hour ride wasn't enough, as I didn't feel tired anymore at the end of the day.
The hour or so that I had looking out over the water and snow capped mountains was for me a very spiritual one - I reflected on how far I had come both in terms of distance but I also felt a much stronger person - I had pushed myself physically and therefore mentally far more than I had ever done in my life. Everyday I had moments when I had to overcome a problem I had not anticipated and everyday I had "short cuts" or "easy way outs" presented to me and I never took them. When I was feeling tired or in pain, I always pushed myself that little bit harder before I took a break or rested, I always took a break at the top of the next pass or mountain and never at the bottom.
That day I had passed the 1000 mile mark and was feeling very pleased with myself and for the first time content that I was alone experiencing this journey - I had grown used to my own company and became annoyed when surrounded by too many people.
I know that if you had plonked me down in the same amazing spot as I'm in now, but from a helicopter or car, without experiencing anything of what I had done over the last month - the moment wouldn't feel as special as it does now. I also knew I had to savour the moment and enjoy the cycle ride out of the desert tomorrow, as there were going to be a lot more people and the end would come to this simple solitude.
Rolling and undulating hills, glaciers, lakes and of course lots of sand and boulders. I have had all the weather imaginable, the most extreme being a sandstorm that I cycled into head on for 3 hours. I had to tape plastic bags to all the exposed parts of the front of my bike to ensure the paint wasn't stripped off. I wore a bandanna around my face to stop me from swallowing sand, but after an hour the lenses of my sun glasses were completely sandblasted and useless.The first night I didn't stop until after 1am and cycled through a torrential downpour and sought shelter in an Emergency Hut on the side of the track. A 2 roomed affair with a simple bunk to lay my head. At least it was a place to dry off out of the wind and rain.
The road for the first day was a smooth gravel track and I made good progress, the 2nd day however the road deteriorated to a track that would switch from soft sand to large rocks, which is impossible to cycle through and therefore, I would either push or carry my bike (which meant un-hitching the trailer.) This type of terrain called for absolute concentration for every meter of travel and therefore I was lucky to average 4 mph.
The end of the 2nd night I wild camped by Hvita lake. A gorgeous evening with sun setting behind Langjokull Glacier, the wind had died down early and so the air was still and silent. I could hear the glacier cracking and groaning as it moved. I was enjoying being completely alone with my myself and my thoughts. I was no longer feeling any pain on the bike and now considered an 8 hour ride wasn't enough, as I didn't feel tired anymore at the end of the day.
The hour or so that I had looking out over the water and snow capped mountains was for me a very spiritual one - I reflected on how far I had come both in terms of distance but I also felt a much stronger person - I had pushed myself physically and therefore mentally far more than I had ever done in my life. Everyday I had moments when I had to overcome a problem I had not anticipated and everyday I had "short cuts" or "easy way outs" presented to me and I never took them. When I was feeling tired or in pain, I always pushed myself that little bit harder before I took a break or rested, I always took a break at the top of the next pass or mountain and never at the bottom.
That day I had passed the 1000 mile mark and was feeling very pleased with myself and for the first time content that I was alone experiencing this journey - I had grown used to my own company and became annoyed when surrounded by too many people.
I know that if you had plonked me down in the same amazing spot as I'm in now, but from a helicopter or car, without experiencing anything of what I had done over the last month - the moment wouldn't feel as special as it does now. I also knew I had to savour the moment and enjoy the cycle ride out of the desert tomorrow, as there were going to be a lot more people and the end would come to this simple solitude.
Thursday, 28 June 2007
Icelands Central Desert
Gravel, sand, boulders, lakes (so many of them, they have never been counted.) Volcanoes, thermal pools, geysers and of course glaciers and ice caps - this desert accounts for 2 thirds of Icelands land mass and is completely unfit for habitation. I've cycled 130km to reach the start of the Kjolur route in the 24 hours and as the tarmac changes to a gravel road I am excited about what is to come.
This for me, is expected to be the highlight of this part of the journey and a good test of my endurance, fitness, survival skills and my planning thus far. No food or real shelter now for 3 days or so, and I should be prepared for snow, rain, wind, sand storms and baking sunshine. Aswell as a rough road and very few people, I should also be experiencing solitude, glorious raw scenery and clean crisp air.
This for me, is expected to be the highlight of this part of the journey and a good test of my endurance, fitness, survival skills and my planning thus far. No food or real shelter now for 3 days or so, and I should be prepared for snow, rain, wind, sand storms and baking sunshine. Aswell as a rough road and very few people, I should also be experiencing solitude, glorious raw scenery and clean crisp air.
Fixing a puncture in the desert.
The Jewel of the North
I am in awe of the determined cycling souls I have met so far, a Belgian who has been on the road for 3 years now, a 67 year old German who does a 3000 km tour each year - all have tremendous stories of their travels and listening and learning from them is true highlight of this trip. I get the feeling I'm not going to meet too many locals here in Iceland (there are not many of them around!) so I am trying to get the most from the other travellers I meet.
I am starting to look a bit gaunt and ragged now, I have slept in a tent now for 6 days and haven't shaved for nearly a month and I only have one set of clothes that I use for best occasions, and they are starting to look somewhat ragged, I have a tear in my best trousers that is patched with Gaffa tape on the inside, when I was in Aberdeen the beggars on the street and the Big Issue man never asked me for a penny!
After a another long day in the saddle (I am managing 100kms now without too much problem, a consequence of increased fitness and finding a new slower pace) I arrive in Akureryi, Icelands 2nd largest city and home to about 15,000 people (yes that is only fifteen thousand!). Only this weekend, Iceland's equivalent to a May Bank Holiday all of Icelands Boy Racers seem to be in town and have been told there are over 30,000 just here for the festivities. The last 3 kms into town I am passed by every modified Camaro, BMW and Dodge you could imagine. Sporting a variety of over the top modifications, all have the trade mark drain pipe exhausts and blaring bass retarded sound systems - just like the Kings Road on a Saturday evening. Once of the main roads is sectioned off for an organised drag race where male (and female) testosterone compete to see who can make the loudest noise and reach the end of the kilometer track and brake before shooting off the end of the pier into the Arctic Ocean.
Not wanting to do anyone an injustice and certainly not wanting to compare the UK to Iceland but as in the Faroes, Iceland seems to have a bit of a problem with alcohol. Lots of teenagers strolling the streets with bottles of spirits, beer and alco-pops. Everyone at the tables around me in the local alfresco cafe have a large glass of beer and a few shot glasses filled with the local Brenevin. This is Icelandic schnapps, and in my opinion tastes fermented seals blood over here they call it the Black Death. It might have just been this holiday weekend, but the whole atmosphere was like the pub district in central Liverpool on a Saturday night, but the Icelandic girls wore more clothes.
I was sat having a quiet but very expensive beer (over £5 a pint), watching all the boy racers cruise up and down the strip, when suddenly from the passenger window in a pimped up Mercedes, a bottle of orange Fanta flew through the air, hit me on the side of the head and then knocked over my beer. I was up out of my seat in a flash, and ran towards the car and without really stopping to think, I shoved the bottle up the exhaust pipe, it was the diameter of the channel tunnel so slid up easily. I got a cheer from the other drinkers at the bar, then the driver revved his engine and the car stalled - another cheer from the crowd. I thought this would be a good time to make myself scarce and so disappeared into the crowd.
I am starting to look a bit gaunt and ragged now, I have slept in a tent now for 6 days and haven't shaved for nearly a month and I only have one set of clothes that I use for best occasions, and they are starting to look somewhat ragged, I have a tear in my best trousers that is patched with Gaffa tape on the inside, when I was in Aberdeen the beggars on the street and the Big Issue man never asked me for a penny!
After a another long day in the saddle (I am managing 100kms now without too much problem, a consequence of increased fitness and finding a new slower pace) I arrive in Akureryi, Icelands 2nd largest city and home to about 15,000 people (yes that is only fifteen thousand!). Only this weekend, Iceland's equivalent to a May Bank Holiday all of Icelands Boy Racers seem to be in town and have been told there are over 30,000 just here for the festivities. The last 3 kms into town I am passed by every modified Camaro, BMW and Dodge you could imagine. Sporting a variety of over the top modifications, all have the trade mark drain pipe exhausts and blaring bass retarded sound systems - just like the Kings Road on a Saturday evening. Once of the main roads is sectioned off for an organised drag race where male (and female) testosterone compete to see who can make the loudest noise and reach the end of the kilometer track and brake before shooting off the end of the pier into the Arctic Ocean.
Not wanting to do anyone an injustice and certainly not wanting to compare the UK to Iceland but as in the Faroes, Iceland seems to have a bit of a problem with alcohol. Lots of teenagers strolling the streets with bottles of spirits, beer and alco-pops. Everyone at the tables around me in the local alfresco cafe have a large glass of beer and a few shot glasses filled with the local Brenevin. This is Icelandic schnapps, and in my opinion tastes fermented seals blood over here they call it the Black Death. It might have just been this holiday weekend, but the whole atmosphere was like the pub district in central Liverpool on a Saturday night, but the Icelandic girls wore more clothes.
I was sat having a quiet but very expensive beer (over £5 a pint), watching all the boy racers cruise up and down the strip, when suddenly from the passenger window in a pimped up Mercedes, a bottle of orange Fanta flew through the air, hit me on the side of the head and then knocked over my beer. I was up out of my seat in a flash, and ran towards the car and without really stopping to think, I shoved the bottle up the exhaust pipe, it was the diameter of the channel tunnel so slid up easily. I got a cheer from the other drinkers at the bar, then the driver revved his engine and the car stalled - another cheer from the crowd. I thought this would be a good time to make myself scarce and so disappeared into the crowd.
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Myvatn (Midge Lake)
We meet up with another cyclist the next day who was struggling with a sore knee, so bad in fact that he is pushing his bike when we pass him. It is 40kms to the next town so I take turns with my new cycling partner to tow him with the aid of a rope and karibiner. This puts added stress on our sore knees but we take it easy. As we haven't seen a car for a few hours, we decided this is the best thing to do. It is pretty big ego thing to accept this type of help from another cyclist, suffering through the pain and coping with all that is thrown at you is part of the journey and adds to the experience.
The Myvatn lake area is one of the highlights of the Iceland, a huge lake in the north of the country formed thousands of years ago by a volcanic eruption. The surrounding area has lots of geothermal activity, the Krafla crater is nearby and last erupted in 1984, so you can imagine the place is pretty active - one gets the feeling that something could blow at any moment.
Unfortunately Myvatn translated means 'Midge Lake' and the flies here are incredible, they don't bite but there are literally millions of them and they wont leave you alone, you have to wear a netmask constantly, well you do if you are clever and read up on the place before hand but if you are like my antipodean friends who just 'turned up' un-prepared then you can't really sit outside unless you protect your exposed skin.
Being so charitable yesterday, I wasn't able to visit the Dettifoss waterfall and Asbygi canyon, so rather than backtrack on the bike the 80km round trip, I hired a car for the day and did some tourist sight seeing. I found a few other injured cyclists in the campsite (out of 15 tents here, 10 belong to touring cyclists) who helped cover the cost and we sped off in our Yaris upgrade - a Toyota Landcruiser. In Iceland the 4X4 is king and when you stray off the main No 1. ring road all the roads are gravel and small cars can't really handle them.
As we left the campsite, we started to pass the other less hardy cyclists from the boat, that had taken their time. Jake the Aussie from London, who arrived in Iceland not having ridden a bike for 10 years let alone carry 30 kilos of weight, sported a spanking brand new bike and all the gear. To achieve the same daily distance as us in an 8 hour day he would take 13 hours! I offered him a lift as it was now deluging with rain and he was stopped on the side of the road, sodden making a brew. He was in high spirits and we chatted about where he had made camp the night before and he was glad to hear that the campsite we were all staying in was not too far along the road. I had a lot of respect for him for pushing on in the weather, the other cyclists that I was chauffeur to, helped him with some repairs on his bike, as he really had no idea how to even oil his chain!
Half an hour later we passed another tourer, a retired German who had already cycled 3000 km before he had reached Iceland. He was pushing hard over the loose gravel road, the surface had become so bumpy that it had a corrugated iron effect, the water was tumbling off the front of his baseball cap, like the Dettifoss waterfall we were about to visit. He was again in high spirits and didn't want a lift or to shelter from the rain, he had been though, caught out by the massive distance between civilised townships and so was running low on food - we all gave over our packed lunches for the day.
Blasting over the rough roads through the desert in the pouring rain in a Landcruiser, handing out aid packages to other cyclists, I thought we were part of some UN cyclists peace mission. I was struck by how much camaraderie there is on the road amongst long distance touring cyclists and how easy it is to strike up good friendships that seem to be at one moment as if they had been formed for years and then the next, they are gone - suddenly you reach a fork in the road and you both have different routes and agendas, and its goodbye. I felt very fortunate to be a part of this fraternity.
It was sad to say goodbye to Andreas and Clements (my German and Austrian friends) we had been inseparable for the last few days, but they both had more time to explore this wild and breathtaking country and I was on a mission to be one of the first cyclists to make the crossing of the central desert for the year, I was told that the route had only just been cleared of snow and so had to get moving.
The Myvatn lake area is one of the highlights of the Iceland, a huge lake in the north of the country formed thousands of years ago by a volcanic eruption. The surrounding area has lots of geothermal activity, the Krafla crater is nearby and last erupted in 1984, so you can imagine the place is pretty active - one gets the feeling that something could blow at any moment.Unfortunately Myvatn translated means 'Midge Lake' and the flies here are incredible, they don't bite but there are literally millions of them and they wont leave you alone, you have to wear a netmask constantly, well you do if you are clever and read up on the place before hand but if you are like my antipodean friends who just 'turned up' un-prepared then you can't really sit outside unless you protect your exposed skin.
Being so charitable yesterday, I wasn't able to visit the Dettifoss waterfall and Asbygi canyon, so rather than backtrack on the bike the 80km round trip, I hired a car for the day and did some tourist sight seeing. I found a few other injured cyclists in the campsite (out of 15 tents here, 10 belong to touring cyclists) who helped cover the cost and we sped off in our Yaris upgrade - a Toyota Landcruiser. In Iceland the 4X4 is king and when you stray off the main No 1. ring road all the roads are gravel and small cars can't really handle them.As we left the campsite, we started to pass the other less hardy cyclists from the boat, that had taken their time. Jake the Aussie from London, who arrived in Iceland not having ridden a bike for 10 years let alone carry 30 kilos of weight, sported a spanking brand new bike and all the gear. To achieve the same daily distance as us in an 8 hour day he would take 13 hours! I offered him a lift as it was now deluging with rain and he was stopped on the side of the road, sodden making a brew. He was in high spirits and we chatted about where he had made camp the night before and he was glad to hear that the campsite we were all staying in was not too far along the road. I had a lot of respect for him for pushing on in the weather, the other cyclists that I was chauffeur to, helped him with some repairs on his bike, as he really had no idea how to even oil his chain!
Half an hour later we passed another tourer, a retired German who had already cycled 3000 km before he had reached Iceland. He was pushing hard over the loose gravel road, the surface had become so bumpy that it had a corrugated iron effect, the water was tumbling off the front of his baseball cap, like the Dettifoss waterfall we were about to visit. He was again in high spirits and didn't want a lift or to shelter from the rain, he had been though, caught out by the massive distance between civilised townships and so was running low on food - we all gave over our packed lunches for the day.
Blasting over the rough roads through the desert in the pouring rain in a Landcruiser, handing out aid packages to other cyclists, I thought we were part of some UN cyclists peace mission. I was struck by how much camaraderie there is on the road amongst long distance touring cyclists and how easy it is to strike up good friendships that seem to be at one moment as if they had been formed for years and then the next, they are gone - suddenly you reach a fork in the road and you both have different routes and agendas, and its goodbye. I felt very fortunate to be a part of this fraternity.
It was sad to say goodbye to Andreas and Clements (my German and Austrian friends) we had been inseparable for the last few days, but they both had more time to explore this wild and breathtaking country and I was on a mission to be one of the first cyclists to make the crossing of the central desert for the year, I was told that the route had only just been cleared of snow and so had to get moving.
Day 25 - The longest day so far
After cycling alone for so long, it is great to have some company for a few days, especially a Touring Cyclist as experienced as Andreas. He has major 'coast-to-coasts' under his belt, a crossing of the US and Australia, he knows a lot about endurance, pace and the mental and physical aspects of long distance riding – I ask him questions constantly and the time disappears. The head wind picks up and we take turns in drafting to save out legs.
We pull our first 110km day, the longest of my trip so far, when we stop we are tired, sore and dusty from the day. A welcome stop at a remote farmstead where an old woman serves us smoked salmon (Lax) with home made flat bread, Eider goose eggs and my first taste of the eponymous Skyr (a National institution, a yogurt like desert made with soured cream.) She even lets us shower before dinner!Looking forward to a supermarket and civilisation tomorrow as well as a rest day.
Wild camping
Just pitching a tent in the middle of nowhere next to a complete stranger is not something I do often in life, but camping wild is a wonderful experience. The peace and quite is incredible.
It is a wonderful evening, 20 something hours of sunshine and daylight the whole day. Clear days though often lead to clear and somewhat cold nights. I woke up to ice on the inside of the tent, and made a mental note to leave a flap open the next night to lessen the condensation build up.
When I said in my last blog that there was nothing for a 160kms, there was a petrol station, but not of the Wild Bean Cafe variety, just a shed and pump and no-one in attendance. So you really have to carry everything with you on your bike, all of the time, except for water – which is in abundance everywhere and very safe to drink.
Iceland sits amid the mid Atlantic ridge, the great undersea gash that separates the American and European continental tectonic plates. This means that the whole country is pretty raw and jagged, and looks as though it has just been made, infact it grows a couple of centimeters each each as the plates spread. There are volcanoes everywhere, some active and some dormant, not a day goes by when you don't see some steam rising from the earth. Iceland also has the most glaciers outside of Antarctica and Greenland – combine these two elements, heat and ice and you get a truly powerful landscape.
Iceland is also famous for its deserts, one in the north-east and one large one in the centre. I have just passed through the remote barren region of the north-east. It is what I would imagine the surface of the moon to look like. Dust, rocks, sand, mountains and craters. Everything is black, brown or grey. In the 12 hours it took to cross, we saw 5 cars, other than this we saw no-one (not even a tree to rest out bikes against!) This vast and empty landscape is truly humbling to experience, I read on a Tourist Information plaque the next day, that NASA had used the area to test the moon buggies for the Apollo lunar missions!
It is a wonderful evening, 20 something hours of sunshine and daylight the whole day. Clear days though often lead to clear and somewhat cold nights. I woke up to ice on the inside of the tent, and made a mental note to leave a flap open the next night to lessen the condensation build up.
When I said in my last blog that there was nothing for a 160kms, there was a petrol station, but not of the Wild Bean Cafe variety, just a shed and pump and no-one in attendance. So you really have to carry everything with you on your bike, all of the time, except for water – which is in abundance everywhere and very safe to drink.
Iceland sits amid the mid Atlantic ridge, the great undersea gash that separates the American and European continental tectonic plates. This means that the whole country is pretty raw and jagged, and looks as though it has just been made, infact it grows a couple of centimeters each each as the plates spread. There are volcanoes everywhere, some active and some dormant, not a day goes by when you don't see some steam rising from the earth. Iceland also has the most glaciers outside of Antarctica and Greenland – combine these two elements, heat and ice and you get a truly powerful landscape.
Iceland is also famous for its deserts, one in the north-east and one large one in the centre. I have just passed through the remote barren region of the north-east. It is what I would imagine the surface of the moon to look like. Dust, rocks, sand, mountains and craters. Everything is black, brown or grey. In the 12 hours it took to cross, we saw 5 cars, other than this we saw no-one (not even a tree to rest out bikes against!) This vast and empty landscape is truly humbling to experience, I read on a Tourist Information plaque the next day, that NASA had used the area to test the moon buggies for the Apollo lunar missions!
I came too early
I'm sorry it has been so long since my last entry but since arriving in Iceland there hasn't been a tree to rest my bike against let alone an Internet connection.
This tree exaggeration (not) is a great summary for my experiences in Iceland. “Lost in Iceland” seems to be the advertising slogan used everywhere for promoting the country, t-shirts, book covers and postcards are adorned with the slogan, along with some windswept blond girl up a mountain, a glacier or fording a river.
Iceland is wonderfully empty of everything I have become familiar and comfortable with over recent years; people, cars, shops, roads and of course trees. It does however have the most incredible waterfalls, glaciers, volcanoes, mountains, geysers and vast rocky deserts. Oh and did I mention the sheep (even more ugly and stupid than the ones at home, if that is possible?)
I arrived in Iceland by way of the eastern seaport of Seydisfjordour, at the end of a long fjord, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and topped off with a biting cold wind. From the bow deck, all sorts of anxious thoughts about what lay ahead filled my mind, mainly concerning the weather, did I have enough warm clothes to take on an early spring in Iceland?
I had a short day planned to the only main town on the eastern side of the country, Egilsstadir. Iceland is about half the size of the UK and has about 300,000 inhabitants and just under 200,000 of them live in the Reykjavik area, so there is not much around on this eastern coast – as I was about to find out.
1st off the boat again and this time I was stopped by a customs official asking if I was importing wine, beer or spirits. I looked at my trailer and then back at him and smiled, I had second thoughts about a dry English humored wise crack about how I had heard the Iceland grog is so bad, I bought a case of Theakstons and bottle of Fernet Branca with me for medicinal purposes! He didn't look in great humor, with his bushy handlebar mustache all he needed was a helmet with horns and my images of Vikings axing and pillaging the tourists would have been complete.
Straight off the boat the hill climb was immediate and quad killing. No warm up – just 1:45min of pure climb in the lowest gear I had. After 2 days off I was annoyed that I found it so hard. I kept looking behind me to see if the other cyclists were catching me up but there was no-one. I later found out that amongst Touring Cyclists the hill climb is legendary!
At the summit I was hit in the face, full on with a blizzard, nearly a white out and I had to put on most of my clothes, but stopping for even a few minutes just made me even colder. Finally I started the descent, a fabulous 8km run all the way into town to a coffee shop and supermarket where I needed to stock up for a few days worth of food.
I met Andreas after I had done the shopping, a German cyclist, here for 5 weeks, we agreed to cycle together for a few days, as there was absolutely nothing between this town and the next Myvatn, 160km away (or 2 days riding) and this would be safer for both of us.
This tree exaggeration (not) is a great summary for my experiences in Iceland. “Lost in Iceland” seems to be the advertising slogan used everywhere for promoting the country, t-shirts, book covers and postcards are adorned with the slogan, along with some windswept blond girl up a mountain, a glacier or fording a river.
Iceland is wonderfully empty of everything I have become familiar and comfortable with over recent years; people, cars, shops, roads and of course trees. It does however have the most incredible waterfalls, glaciers, volcanoes, mountains, geysers and vast rocky deserts. Oh and did I mention the sheep (even more ugly and stupid than the ones at home, if that is possible?)
I arrived in Iceland by way of the eastern seaport of Seydisfjordour, at the end of a long fjord, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and topped off with a biting cold wind. From the bow deck, all sorts of anxious thoughts about what lay ahead filled my mind, mainly concerning the weather, did I have enough warm clothes to take on an early spring in Iceland?
I had a short day planned to the only main town on the eastern side of the country, Egilsstadir. Iceland is about half the size of the UK and has about 300,000 inhabitants and just under 200,000 of them live in the Reykjavik area, so there is not much around on this eastern coast – as I was about to find out.1st off the boat again and this time I was stopped by a customs official asking if I was importing wine, beer or spirits. I looked at my trailer and then back at him and smiled, I had second thoughts about a dry English humored wise crack about how I had heard the Iceland grog is so bad, I bought a case of Theakstons and bottle of Fernet Branca with me for medicinal purposes! He didn't look in great humor, with his bushy handlebar mustache all he needed was a helmet with horns and my images of Vikings axing and pillaging the tourists would have been complete.
Straight off the boat the hill climb was immediate and quad killing. No warm up – just 1:45min of pure climb in the lowest gear I had. After 2 days off I was annoyed that I found it so hard. I kept looking behind me to see if the other cyclists were catching me up but there was no-one. I later found out that amongst Touring Cyclists the hill climb is legendary!
At the summit I was hit in the face, full on with a blizzard, nearly a white out and I had to put on most of my clothes, but stopping for even a few minutes just made me even colder. Finally I started the descent, a fabulous 8km run all the way into town to a coffee shop and supermarket where I needed to stock up for a few days worth of food.
I met Andreas after I had done the shopping, a German cyclist, here for 5 weeks, we agreed to cycle together for a few days, as there was absolutely nothing between this town and the next Myvatn, 160km away (or 2 days riding) and this would be safer for both of us.
Saturday, 16 June 2007
The slow boat to Iceland
I´m quite excited to be back aboard the Norrona, it has come from Hanstholm, stopped in Bergen, Lerwick and now here in Torshavn on the Faroes (Torshavn means "Thor´s Harbour" just in case we forget that we are in Nordicsville, culturally the whole area that I am exploring Iceland, Greenland and the Faroes is known as West Norden.)
I managed to get my bike on the boat without paying the hefty excess and parked it next to 10 other fully laden touring bicycles, all with multicoloured panniers adorning their frames. I´ve not seen fellow touring bikers since I started this trip so I am a bit shocked and somewhat annoyed, as I was getting used to the idea that I was the only one mad enough to cycle up here this early in the season.
As I tie up the bike, a memory from childhood returns to me. I am listening to the Shipping News with my dad late one night and I hear for the first time the countries of Iceland and the Faroes, as shipping zones for the weather forecast. South East Iceland and the Faroes are usually the last 2 to be reported and always seemed to be at the high end of the Beaufort Scale with stormy seas. I put a few extra turns on my rope, ensuring my trusty steed has a safe bed for the night.
I take my bag and go in search of my couchette in the bowels of the boat. As I descend deeper and deeper below the water line, I can hear and smell the engines. The door to my cabin is like those swing doors to a saloon in a Western movie, in side there are 9 bunk beds stacked to the roof in sets of three. I lie on mine and find that I cannot turn over on my side as the bed above me is too close. Also there are 3 people already asleep in their bunks at 6pm and the stink of cheap Vodka and beer is already strong. It is a 3 day voyage from Denmark and maybe these pour souls have had to drown their sorrows from being stuck down here every night. I am not happy about the sleeping arrangements and go to see if I can upgrade or at least pitch my tent on deck.
After a few beers myself (at over five quid a piece!) and a hearty meal in the restaurant, I make it down to my berth collect my stuff and head back up to the upper decks in search of somewhere more roomy to sleep.
I am now in the lounge, all is quiet and I have found a nest in the children's play pen in amongst the a load of plastic balls. You know those cages that kids jump around in, filled with thousands of multicoloured small plastic balls. It is so comfortable in here it is incredible. I had to crawl through a rubber castle gate small enough for a 5 year old, across a rope bridge, through the main castle, over a draw bridge and then descend a small slide (which I think I broke!) to get into the ocean of balls.
I had a fabulous nights sleep, glad I didn´t need a pee though as there was a jungle assault course to get over to get out.
The fog horn sounded at 8am, we had an hour before docking in Iceland. I crawled out of my Ball Heaven, much to the amusement of the other travellers eating their breakfast in the lounge, and went to untether my steed.
Iceland here I come.
I managed to get my bike on the boat without paying the hefty excess and parked it next to 10 other fully laden touring bicycles, all with multicoloured panniers adorning their frames. I´ve not seen fellow touring bikers since I started this trip so I am a bit shocked and somewhat annoyed, as I was getting used to the idea that I was the only one mad enough to cycle up here this early in the season.
As I tie up the bike, a memory from childhood returns to me. I am listening to the Shipping News with my dad late one night and I hear for the first time the countries of Iceland and the Faroes, as shipping zones for the weather forecast. South East Iceland and the Faroes are usually the last 2 to be reported and always seemed to be at the high end of the Beaufort Scale with stormy seas. I put a few extra turns on my rope, ensuring my trusty steed has a safe bed for the night.
I take my bag and go in search of my couchette in the bowels of the boat. As I descend deeper and deeper below the water line, I can hear and smell the engines. The door to my cabin is like those swing doors to a saloon in a Western movie, in side there are 9 bunk beds stacked to the roof in sets of three. I lie on mine and find that I cannot turn over on my side as the bed above me is too close. Also there are 3 people already asleep in their bunks at 6pm and the stink of cheap Vodka and beer is already strong. It is a 3 day voyage from Denmark and maybe these pour souls have had to drown their sorrows from being stuck down here every night. I am not happy about the sleeping arrangements and go to see if I can upgrade or at least pitch my tent on deck.
After a few beers myself (at over five quid a piece!) and a hearty meal in the restaurant, I make it down to my berth collect my stuff and head back up to the upper decks in search of somewhere more roomy to sleep.
I am now in the lounge, all is quiet and I have found a nest in the children's play pen in amongst the a load of plastic balls. You know those cages that kids jump around in, filled with thousands of multicoloured small plastic balls. It is so comfortable in here it is incredible. I had to crawl through a rubber castle gate small enough for a 5 year old, across a rope bridge, through the main castle, over a draw bridge and then descend a small slide (which I think I broke!) to get into the ocean of balls.
I had a fabulous nights sleep, glad I didn´t need a pee though as there was a jungle assault course to get over to get out.
The fog horn sounded at 8am, we had an hour before docking in Iceland. I crawled out of my Ball Heaven, much to the amusement of the other travellers eating their breakfast in the lounge, and went to untether my steed.
Iceland here I come.
Monday, 11 June 2007
Day # - can't remember anymore, but alas to Iceland
A fitting end to my tour of the Faroes, yesterday afternoon I climbed with Pauli and his cousin Oliver the mountain of Skælingur at 767m. It was a another cloudless sky (I'm beginning to think all this talk of bad weather in the Faroes is a myth to keep the tourists away!)A fantastic climb rewarded with stunning views and I think we counted at least 13 of the 18 Faroe Islands. I have uploaded a few photos here at the end of the set of shots on the Faroes.
The night before I got to experience modern Faroe culture at first hand. We went out clubbing with Pauli, an interesting experience as nothing really happens until 1am and then ends at 5am or so. There was no real 'disco' music at the club but live band playing good rock covers and originals, it seem every Faroese can sing and owns at least 1 guitar, as they all seem very musical. However dancing is a different matter altogether, if you stand on the edge of the dance floor minding your own business, a girl will come up and ask you to dance, you don't then get down and strut your funky stuff - you have to be able to waltz or whatever you call that dancing when you hold one hand and have one arm behind your partners back. You are then whisked around the floor in true ballroom dancing style to U2, Coldplay or whatever else is being played. I was caught out once, but not twice - I stayed well away from the floor after I trod on one too many toes. Everyone can dance in this style expertly, even after copious amounts of the local grog. I am told that everyone knows how, a tradition passed down from generation to generation...amazing!
So I have an hour before I board the Norrona again, for the last sea leg of this journey. I am bound for Seydisfjordur on the east coast of Iceland, I should be there at 9:00am tomorrow morning.
And so it is goodbye to the Faroes, I cannot believe what an amazing time I have had here, I am quite sad to be leaving. My thanks go to my wonderful host, who has looked after me so well and given me an insight to life on these islands that I believe most tourists fail to ever see - thanks Pauli.
Saturday, 9 June 2007
Life on the road
Nearly 20 days into this journey now and life on the road has developed its own routine, there I was trying to escape one and have gone and developed a new one for myself. I awake at the same time, eat at the same time (my body demands it) and sleep at the same time. I am in the saddle for between 5 and 7 hours a day and on the road for between 7 and 9 depending on how long I stop for.The first hour is always about pain, everyday a new ache attacks me, just as one muscle acclimatises another causes me grief. I have developed a system for dealing with this hour and it involves concentrating on the pain itself, not in a weird way - but really focusing on it, feeling it, studying it, trying to work out anatomically why it exists - I find that after 10 minutes or so some of the pain goes, as if it was only really there to test me, but mostly it is always there for the first hour. I also know that like clockwork - the pain will subside after the hour is up.
The second and third hours are strong ones, my legs are warm, blood is pumping and the knots and strains of the previous days and initial hours exertion is over, and now I feel strong and my speed increases. I can attack hills in this this phase without denting my reserves for later in the day. I usually enjoy the scenery during this time and stop to chat to locals and explore villages even for just a few minutes.
In the next phase of the day, the wheels have been turning for at least 3 hours and I have covered 30 miles or so. The motion of the bike, the noise of the wheels on tarmac, the chain through the cogs and the cadence of my legs and cranks puts me into a trance like state. It is difficult to describe - I zone out, time seems to stand still, like one of those movies where everyone else is frozen in time and I am the only one who can wander about freely. I have finally forgotten the past and no longer contemplating my future, only living in the actual second that is - I am enjoying that rare thing - the present. I am only thinking and feeling about what is happening to me right at that moment, body feels connected to mind and my surroundings. I have no concern for the dripping tap, expired MOT, the presentation for Monday morning.
This time is liberating, addictive and what gets me onto my bike nearly everyday. I long for this time and can only reach it once I have spent several hours in the saddle - a sort of right of passage if you like. When I have a rest day, my mind craves this "free time" but my body tells me I need a day off, so its alright.
In my final hour of the day I usually think about food, well sometimes I hallucinate about food, in fact, here I have been dreaming of stewed Puffin, wind dried mutton and potatoes as I usually only snack through the day as it is hard to cycle on a full stomach.
For those wondering if I am using my time to contemplate my future, I am but I don't want to force it - I'm sure the answer will present itself in one of the phases of my routine day.
Whilst I enjoy my own company immensely, I do miss sharing these incredible experiences with friends and family, the view from Mykines lighthouse back to Vagar was very special. I find myself thinking of you all individually when I see something I know you would personally appreciate.
Current photos are all here.
Grindadrap
For centuries the hunting of the Pilot whale has been an important food source and intricate part of Faroese culture.
The Pilot whale is not like other whale species and are very numerous, upwards of a million roam the seas and the Faroese might catch 600 or so a year. Once spotted out in open water the fishing boats herd and drive the pod towards the nearest shallow bay, by which time hundereds of locals have gathered to help with the cull. I have heard of policeman, nurses, dentists all downing tools to help bring the whales onto the beach and sever the main artery, bringing a quick a relatively painless death to the whale.
The meat, I believe is not sold for commercial gain but shared out amongst the poor, rich, fisherman, hospitals and schools.
I have not experienced one first hand, but would like to - so can only go by the description from the locals I have met. The process of killing the whales turns the water in the bay red, however everything is cleaned up quickly and the government limit the number of "Grinds" per year to avoid wastage.
Right or wrong - not for me to comment but an important part of the Faroese culture.
If you are interested in finding out more you should visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whaling_in_the_Faroe_Islands a fairly non biased description of the whole process.
The Pilot whale is not like other whale species and are very numerous, upwards of a million roam the seas and the Faroese might catch 600 or so a year. Once spotted out in open water the fishing boats herd and drive the pod towards the nearest shallow bay, by which time hundereds of locals have gathered to help with the cull. I have heard of policeman, nurses, dentists all downing tools to help bring the whales onto the beach and sever the main artery, bringing a quick a relatively painless death to the whale.
The meat, I believe is not sold for commercial gain but shared out amongst the poor, rich, fisherman, hospitals and schools.
I have not experienced one first hand, but would like to - so can only go by the description from the locals I have met. The process of killing the whales turns the water in the bay red, however everything is cleaned up quickly and the government limit the number of "Grinds" per year to avoid wastage.
Right or wrong - not for me to comment but an important part of the Faroese culture.
If you are interested in finding out more you should visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whaling_in_the_Faroe_Islands a fairly non biased description of the whole process.
Days 14 to 18 - all over the Faroes
200 miles on the bikeI read somewhere that an old Faroese legend says, that when the foreman in charge of making the earth, finished, he cleaned out his finger nails and what fell into the North Atlantic became known as the Faroes. Nothing could be farther from the truth, this country is wonderfully unique and mysterious. A weather beaten collection of 18 islands, none larger than the Isle of White, and most much smaller. Populated with handsome, intelligent, immensely generous and smiling people. Everyone I have met has been friendly, helpful, enthusiastic to show off their country and interested in me as a traveller to their home.
The weather and the elements hold the key to life on these islands. During the first 3 days, I had unbroken sunshine and got sunburn (unheard of here, as you only get 10 days of perfect clear weather a year.) However today I have had all the weather, sleet, fog, mist, rain and sunshine...oh yes and very strong winds (a cyclist’s Nemesis) all before midday. In fact a local told me that if Vivaldi had lived here he could have written the “4 Seasons” before breakfast! I can look up to a mountain road in the sunshine and curse the looming steepness, then 10 minutes later I am on it and in the mist.
Some people still live in turf roofed houses, but with wireless broadband connections, they water the grass on the their roof and I have heard in some places they mow them and even put their sheep on there to graze – someone might have been pulling my leg though!
The islands are mainly steep cliffs, poking out of the sea, rising in some places to over 2400 feet, there is very little flat land so the tiny villages cling to the side of the mountains. Roads hug steep cliffs and where they cannot cross a mountain, they go through a tunnel, where they can’t tunnel under the sea there is a little ferry.
There are birds everywhere, and I am here during the nesting season of the local Oyster Catcher (Tjaldur) an aggressive bird that has swooped and attacked me on occasion when I have stopped to rest too near to its nest. I have had to get my bike pump out on occasion to defend myself.
You are never more than a few kilometers from the sea, if you are outside you can always hear water, whether a bubbling brook, cascading waterfall or the crash of the surf against the rocks – it is everywhere constantly trying to erode these islands into the sea – but it will not succeed, they are made of the hardest basalt and will be here long after many other countries have given up.
The cycling is very hard, steep hills but quiet roads. An average day will see me tackle several 600 meter climbs and about 40 to 50 miles of distance, but I always seem to find time to stop and chat to a local and explore the tiny villages.
A highlight so far has been the boat trip out to Mykines (pronounced Michenes) it is known as the Bird Island, on account of the huge Gannet, Puffin and Kittiwake colonies that reside there. Only 9 people live on this island and all seem to be at the harbour when we landed in heavy seas, to greet us. This island can sometimes be cut off for a week if bad weather sets in.
So the next time you are looking at your world globe and wondering what that smudge or stain is in the middle of the North Atlantic halfway between Iceland and Scotland - it is the amazing Faroe Islands and you should visit them at your next opportunity.
Day 13 – Torshavn, Faroe Islands, North Atlantic
After another 14 hours on a ferry boat through the North Atlantic, I have arrived on this small set of Islands that seem to float in the middle of the ocean. The view from my cabin window is of hundreds of multicoloured wooden buildings perched on a hillside, green grass, jagged mountains and a little harbour.
I am the first “vehicle” off the boat and having already got my bearings, head up to my hostel on the hill (I seem to have memorised the city map from having read the Lonely Planet guide to this country through 3 editions and never having visited!)
It is 6:30am and the city is quiet, I’m checked in by 7:00am and already explored most of the city by 9:00am – quite small really, it is about a 2 square miles in size. I wander through narrow streets, punctuated with traditional turf roofed houses, the air is incredibly crisp and clean, each lung full clears the sleepy fog from my mind that has accumulated with all the recent travel.
Over a coffee in the harbour I plan my itinerary for the next week making sure I visit all the places I first read about 12 years ago. My biggest worry are the tunnels, there are lots of them here and some are single lane, unlit and unventilated – some are 5kms long, I can’t hold my breath that long so will need to seek advice from some locals.
Pauli turns up and tells me everything I need to know, the ways around the tunnels, the steep hills and where the best weather is. He has also arranged a fishing trip that evening with a friend of his and a local fisherman, and would I be interested in coming along. Amazing, I have been here 2 hours and already have been invited out fishing – I think the Faroese are the some of the worlds best fisherman, 97% of exports are fish! Meeting locals is the only real way to experience a country and its culture.
I take another walk through the old historic part of town, the Tinganes peninsula, where the town was originally established. The roads, houses and wharfs give away the history of this city. There are old guns, now rusted, sitting aloft the fort – some may have even been manned by the British during the war to ward off invasion.
The Faroes have been through the hands of the Irish Monks, the Norsemen, the Norwegians and the Danish. Since 1948 they have been a self governing region of the Kingdom of Denmark, they have their own Parliament and flag but are not part of the EU, everyone here speaks Faroese, Danish and very good English.
I return to the harbour for 9:00pm and board the “Scottir”, a traditional Faroese fishing boat, owned by Johan, a Scotsman who came here in 1959, hence the name of his vessel. I am wearing every piece of clothing I have, as I guess it will be cold out on the water and we are leaving late. Pauli is aboard along with 2 other friends.
Within 30 minutes we are out of the harbour and fishing between Torshavn and Nolsoy island. A line is thrown overboard with about 100 hooks on it and no bait. The line is rigged up to 2 arms that are suspended out either side of the boat and the line is then reconnected so it forms a complete loop, half the line in the water out the back of the boat and the other half across the back of the boat, under the piece of line on the boat there are 2 buckets. After 5 minutes of “jigging” the line, Johan starts to pull the line in by hand and on the end of each hook is a Coal fish, about 10 inches long. This is too easy, the waters are rich with fish here. I ask what will he do with the fish, they are for bait he replied, later in the week he will use each one to try and catch large Hallibut. Within an hour we have caught hundreds of these fish. We see many different sea birds, puffin, oyster catchers, cormorants and a pod or two of Porpoises.
As the weather is still stunning and the sun has only just dropped behind the mountains (it is past 11:00pm by now) we take a sail around Nolsoy Island and view the bird colonies perched on the steep cliffs. Coming back into harbour the sea mist is thick and thankfully this old vessel has the latest in satellite navigation. I am tucked up in bed a 12:30am and it is still light enough to read. What an incredible 1st day on the Faroes. Wonderfully kind and generous people, if this is only the start of the trip then I might be in for a real treat.
I am the first “vehicle” off the boat and having already got my bearings, head up to my hostel on the hill (I seem to have memorised the city map from having read the Lonely Planet guide to this country through 3 editions and never having visited!)It is 6:30am and the city is quiet, I’m checked in by 7:00am and already explored most of the city by 9:00am – quite small really, it is about a 2 square miles in size. I wander through narrow streets, punctuated with traditional turf roofed houses, the air is incredibly crisp and clean, each lung full clears the sleepy fog from my mind that has accumulated with all the recent travel.
Over a coffee in the harbour I plan my itinerary for the next week making sure I visit all the places I first read about 12 years ago. My biggest worry are the tunnels, there are lots of them here and some are single lane, unlit and unventilated – some are 5kms long, I can’t hold my breath that long so will need to seek advice from some locals.
Pauli turns up and tells me everything I need to know, the ways around the tunnels, the steep hills and where the best weather is. He has also arranged a fishing trip that evening with a friend of his and a local fisherman, and would I be interested in coming along. Amazing, I have been here 2 hours and already have been invited out fishing – I think the Faroese are the some of the worlds best fisherman, 97% of exports are fish! Meeting locals is the only real way to experience a country and its culture.
I take another walk through the old historic part of town, the Tinganes peninsula, where the town was originally established. The roads, houses and wharfs give away the history of this city. There are old guns, now rusted, sitting aloft the fort – some may have even been manned by the British during the war to ward off invasion.
The Faroes have been through the hands of the Irish Monks, the Norsemen, the Norwegians and the Danish. Since 1948 they have been a self governing region of the Kingdom of Denmark, they have their own Parliament and flag but are not part of the EU, everyone here speaks Faroese, Danish and very good English.
I return to the harbour for 9:00pm and board the “Scottir”, a traditional Faroese fishing boat, owned by Johan, a Scotsman who came here in 1959, hence the name of his vessel. I am wearing every piece of clothing I have, as I guess it will be cold out on the water and we are leaving late. Pauli is aboard along with 2 other friends.
Within 30 minutes we are out of the harbour and fishing between Torshavn and Nolsoy island. A line is thrown overboard with about 100 hooks on it and no bait. The line is rigged up to 2 arms that are suspended out either side of the boat and the line is then reconnected so it forms a complete loop, half the line in the water out the back of the boat and the other half across the back of the boat, under the piece of line on the boat there are 2 buckets. After 5 minutes of “jigging” the line, Johan starts to pull the line in by hand and on the end of each hook is a Coal fish, about 10 inches long. This is too easy, the waters are rich with fish here. I ask what will he do with the fish, they are for bait he replied, later in the week he will use each one to try and catch large Hallibut. Within an hour we have caught hundreds of these fish. We see many different sea birds, puffin, oyster catchers, cormorants and a pod or two of Porpoises.
As the weather is still stunning and the sun has only just dropped behind the mountains (it is past 11:00pm by now) we take a sail around Nolsoy Island and view the bird colonies perched on the steep cliffs. Coming back into harbour the sea mist is thick and thankfully this old vessel has the latest in satellite navigation. I am tucked up in bed a 12:30am and it is still light enough to read. What an incredible 1st day on the Faroes. Wonderfully kind and generous people, if this is only the start of the trip then I might be in for a real treat.
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.
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.
Leaving the mainland
It has been 8 days since I have had access to the Internet, I haven’t broken out in a sweat or anything, this must be the longest I have had away from an "http://" prompt in 7 years.
I last left you in the granite city of Aberdeen, I boarded the MV Hrossey bound for Lerwick on the Shetland Islands, where I connect with another ferry from Norway that will take me to the Faroe Islands and the smallest capital city in the world – Torshavn.
Stood on the main deck watching the grey of Aberdeen get smaller in the distance, I feel that I have taken the next step on my journey as I leave the mainland and head north to unknown places. I chat to a young guy next to me sporting a BBC Orkney fleece, his name is Rory, working for the radio station in Kirkwall for the summer. His home is the tiny island of Auskerry off the coast of Orkney in a notoriously dangerous stretch of water. His father bought the island in the 60’s after retiring as the tour manager for Jethro Tull and now farms the rare North Ronaldsey sheep on the island. The stories of his life growing up on the farm with his brothers, with their adventurous trips across the waters to the main land are the stuff of Enid Blighton books.
The ferry is full of Scots, in full kilt regalia, on their way up to the Faroe Islands for the football match, funnily enough the European Championship match of Faroes vs. Scotland. All the Scots are in good humour and already impressively drunk, I am glad I am not sharing a 6 man berth with any of them. One chap is particularly loud and is sporting a German WWII army helmet, he seems to flash his kilt at any passer by who gives him a stare.
The seas south of Shetland are rough, and I am thrown from my berth. The first time onto the floor and my cycling shoes catch me in the ribs, the 2nd time I land on the chap in the opposite berth who has been thrown to the floor just before me, and embarrassing fumble in the dark follows as we make our way back to our respective beds. Only another 2 hours and we’ll be in Lerwick.
Lerwick was grey, misty and damp. A low cloud covered the whole of the island like a dirty woolen prison blanket, I was barely able to make out the villages across the water from the main town. I was only stopping 10 hours or so until the Norrona arrived from Norway to pick me up and take me the 12 hours or so up to the Faroes. I had just enough time to do some laundry and visit the newly opened and ever so fabulous Shetland Island Museum (it was officially opened the day before by Charles and Camilla). Fortunately I didn't see any of the kilt brigade, but I did stay away from the pubs:
I last left you in the granite city of Aberdeen, I boarded the MV Hrossey bound for Lerwick on the Shetland Islands, where I connect with another ferry from Norway that will take me to the Faroe Islands and the smallest capital city in the world – Torshavn.Stood on the main deck watching the grey of Aberdeen get smaller in the distance, I feel that I have taken the next step on my journey as I leave the mainland and head north to unknown places. I chat to a young guy next to me sporting a BBC Orkney fleece, his name is Rory, working for the radio station in Kirkwall for the summer. His home is the tiny island of Auskerry off the coast of Orkney in a notoriously dangerous stretch of water. His father bought the island in the 60’s after retiring as the tour manager for Jethro Tull and now farms the rare North Ronaldsey sheep on the island. The stories of his life growing up on the farm with his brothers, with their adventurous trips across the waters to the main land are the stuff of Enid Blighton books.
The ferry is full of Scots, in full kilt regalia, on their way up to the Faroe Islands for the football match, funnily enough the European Championship match of Faroes vs. Scotland. All the Scots are in good humour and already impressively drunk, I am glad I am not sharing a 6 man berth with any of them. One chap is particularly loud and is sporting a German WWII army helmet, he seems to flash his kilt at any passer by who gives him a stare.
The seas south of Shetland are rough, and I am thrown from my berth. The first time onto the floor and my cycling shoes catch me in the ribs, the 2nd time I land on the chap in the opposite berth who has been thrown to the floor just before me, and embarrassing fumble in the dark follows as we make our way back to our respective beds. Only another 2 hours and we’ll be in Lerwick.
Lerwick was grey, misty and damp. A low cloud covered the whole of the island like a dirty woolen prison blanket, I was barely able to make out the villages across the water from the main town. I was only stopping 10 hours or so until the Norrona arrived from Norway to pick me up and take me the 12 hours or so up to the Faroes. I had just enough time to do some laundry and visit the newly opened and ever so fabulous Shetland Island Museum (it was officially opened the day before by Charles and Camilla). Fortunately I didn't see any of the kilt brigade, but I did stay away from the pubs:
Sunday, 3 June 2007
2 days with Jonathon
Two days cycling with Jonathon from Leuchars, near St Andrews to Aberdeen - almost too much but…. not nearly enough. My preparation for joining Jon was a stag weekend in Dublin, and this combined with the forecast had me driving up to Scotland with some trepidation. The hail that threatened my car windscreen on the M6 didn't make me feel any better.
Getting from A to B by bike, there can't be a more satisfying way of travelling. Even after my golf waterproofs had given up on the morning of the first (very wet) day, lunch in Arbroath and a visit to the bike shop had both me and Jon's well-timed puncture fixed, and we cruised through the rain to our destination, a B&B near Montrose.
Cycling gives you plenty of time to think, and the sleep it induces allows the grey-matter to do some serious batch processing. The exercise left me feeling fantastic - "tired but happy" as Fred Hall used to say at school after we'd been frog-marched up a Berwin.
The highlights:
- Seeing Jon come down to breakfast wearing what appeared to be a high-tech period bathing suit (circa 1890). My laughter induced an argument that had Kathy at the B&B describe us to the OAP couple who were at the table with us as "like an old married couple."
- Cycling into Johnshaven, a timeless fishing village between Montrose and Stonehaven, where the welcome sign stated "Children Playing, Narrow Streets, Please Take Your Time"
- Arriving in Aberdeen - after being diverted by the police up what felt like a hill too far we finally made it into the granite city.
It takes real drive and determination to do a trip like this on your own, thanks Jonathon for putting up with me, and good luck on the rest of the adventure.
Mike
Getting from A to B by bike, there can't be a more satisfying way of travelling. Even after my golf waterproofs had given up on the morning of the first (very wet) day, lunch in Arbroath and a visit to the bike shop had both me and Jon's well-timed puncture fixed, and we cruised through the rain to our destination, a B&B near Montrose.
Cycling gives you plenty of time to think, and the sleep it induces allows the grey-matter to do some serious batch processing. The exercise left me feeling fantastic - "tired but happy" as Fred Hall used to say at school after we'd been frog-marched up a Berwin.
The highlights:
- Seeing Jon come down to breakfast wearing what appeared to be a high-tech period bathing suit (circa 1890). My laughter induced an argument that had Kathy at the B&B describe us to the OAP couple who were at the table with us as "like an old married couple."
- Cycling into Johnshaven, a timeless fishing village between Montrose and Stonehaven, where the welcome sign stated "Children Playing, Narrow Streets, Please Take Your Time"
- Arriving in Aberdeen - after being diverted by the police up what felt like a hill too far we finally made it into the granite city.
It takes real drive and determination to do a trip like this on your own, thanks Jonathon for putting up with me, and good luck on the rest of the adventure.
Mike
Saturday, 2 June 2007
An email from Nathan
from - Nathan Blake
to - Jon Bradshaw
date - May 30, 2007 1:11 PM
subject - wow it's wet
______________________
Jon
I'm perched here with an espresso in hand blaming you entirely for the horrendous weather.
If you weren't doing the longest ride of your life the weather would be much nicer and I'd be getting a lot more miles done. As it is I've looked at the grimness outside each day for a week and thought "If Jon's out there in that shit then I've got no excuse." And off I go into the wind, hail and driving rain and I shiver, shudder, grimace and think hard man thoughts. I last an hour, maybe two before darting into a hot shower and feasting myself on toast and Marmite. You on the other hand, are just being totally extreme and a crazily hard. Believe it or not I'm jealous. I want to be suffering with you, it's what I'm designed for. I need to experience the worst the elements can throw at me. I need to feel my body bursting with the strain of keeping warm and functioning.
But hey, this espresso will just have to suffice for now.
My brain is bursting and that's about it.
Can't believe you'll be in Aberdeen in a day. Bet you can't wait for the next bit of the journey.
Keep those wheels moving, don't stop.
It's great to know others count road kill ;-)
Laterz
Nathan
to - Jon Bradshaw
date - May 30, 2007 1:11 PM
subject - wow it's wet
______________________
Jon
I'm perched here with an espresso in hand blaming you entirely for the horrendous weather.
If you weren't doing the longest ride of your life the weather would be much nicer and I'd be getting a lot more miles done. As it is I've looked at the grimness outside each day for a week and thought "If Jon's out there in that shit then I've got no excuse." And off I go into the wind, hail and driving rain and I shiver, shudder, grimace and think hard man thoughts. I last an hour, maybe two before darting into a hot shower and feasting myself on toast and Marmite. You on the other hand, are just being totally extreme and a crazily hard. Believe it or not I'm jealous. I want to be suffering with you, it's what I'm designed for. I need to experience the worst the elements can throw at me. I need to feel my body bursting with the strain of keeping warm and functioning.
But hey, this espresso will just have to suffice for now.
My brain is bursting and that's about it.
Can't believe you'll be in Aberdeen in a day. Bet you can't wait for the next bit of the journey.
Keep those wheels moving, don't stop.
It's great to know others count road kill ;-)
Laterz
Nathan
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