TOM HUMPHRIESvisited the Faroe Islands in 2005 when Brian Kerr managed the Irish team and this is his take on Tórshavn, the world's smallest capital
THINGS TO do in Tórshavn when you’re trapped: take your time. Pace yourself. On match day we did the two-hour boat tour to look at some rocks and some guillemots. Don’t do anything else till the feelings of nausea and seasickness subside. You’ll feel bad but enjoy the queasiness. It kills time.
Eat a meal. At the Café Merlot a three-course dinner can fill the best part of a day. And the waitress gives the most charming “don’t know, don’t care” shrug when she brings the desserts and you ask what they are. If you haven’t a day to kill at the Merlot try the half-day options at the Rio Bravo or the Marco Polo. Don’t be fooled by the sign on main street which advertises Thai Buffet. There is neither Thai nor buffet within. When you have exhausted the restaurant scene go clubbing.
The seals die instantly.
Get lost. Tórshavn is small but getting lost is a fine way of killing time. We chose to get lost on the way to the football stadium the other day and it put down the best part of an hour. You can be perhaps 500 metres away from the place you are trying to get to but the Faroese capital isn’t designed in the popular grid layout that many cities have made the mistake of adopting.
The urban planning was done mainly by sheep, for sheep. Off the beaten track means off the beaten track. So long as you don’t panic and begin cannibalising others in your party, being lost can be a perfectly acceptable way of killing time.
Drink Jolly. Alone among the nations of the world the Faroese have resisted the blandishments of the Coca Cola company and have stuck admirably to the fizzy delights of Jolly Cola. “Fit for Fight” say the ads which extol the virtues of the local pop. Drink Jolly or drink some Black Sheep Beer. Being communications professionals we have restricted ourselves to the consumption of Jolly but the Black Sheep beer is a palatable, less gaseous alternative.
Go slowly amidst the lack of haste. Again, don’t make the elementary mistake of doing everything in a hurry. Being trapped in the world’s smallest capital city offers less novelty than you might imagine so keep something back for the second day.
For a while yesterday we considered the historical museum. When you are in the world’s smallest capital your perspectives adjust easily and the truth is we were put off a little by the fact that the museum seemed to be on the other side of town.
Luckily we had a quick look at the guide book, which, it has to be said, gushes enthusiastically about all things Faroese and opened up by describing the historical museum as something without which no visit to Tórshavn would be complete.
The devil was in the detail, though. “Forsake the ground floor exhibitions and head straightaway down the staircase to your right for an eyeful of the museum’s piece de resistance: the medieval Kirkjubostolarnir pew ends.”
That was the piece de resistance. Pew ends. The guide book is crushingly frank about the rest of the stuff. “Sadly, the other exhibits, elsewhere downstairs only pale in comparison. A tiggjumannafar, a boat with a 10-man crew from pilot whale skin and a attamannafar . . . are the least dull of the five rowing boats on display down here.”
Hmmm. We were pondering what the guide calls “a mind- numbing array of predictable how we used to live paraphernalia, featuring such highlights as patterned women’s knitted jumpers” when we happened upon the idea of perhaps stealing the tiggjummanafar and making a break for it, owl-and-pussycat style.
Think of Thierry: the nice lady from the travel agents might be on hand to offer you some consolation about what happened to the French when they were here and got trapped for two nights. They came back from their game, got a little drunk around town, thinking they were hopping on a plane to freedom the next morning. Not so. They checked out. Drove through tunnels and fog to the airport. Spent nine hours at the airport (it’s not Charles de Gaulle, believe me) and then came back to town. The hotel announced that their rooms were gone so the superstars of world football slept on chairs in the bar.
(Boy were we glad that the Irish team got out ahead of us early yesterday morning. We would rather sleep on a roomful of medieval pew ends than see the boys suffering any sort of discomfort.)
Play Spot the Actors. The other day we were walking around Tórshavn as a TV crew were filing a colour piece for the match. Unintentionally, we strolled into shot in four different locations. Yes, it is very like being in The Truman Show.
We had dinner the other evening in the Merlot and breakfast the next morning in the Café Karlsborg at the harbour. The same girl served us both times. She pretended she didn’t know us, of course, but she was strikingly beautiful and we knew it was her.
We tipped her a wink but she played it straight. On Wednesday night the police appeared in a formidable formation in case there was trouble at the game. Half a dozen of them. We could have sworn one of them drove us in a taxi earlier in the day.
Don’t attempt to leave independently. If you’re wondering why emigration from the Faroes is so insignificant, go and look in the travel agents’ window. Escaping to the land of plenty that is Stavanger costs over €600. If you want to get to Bergen it costs more. Who would want to get to Bergen?
Don’t second-guess the gods: Never assume that just because it is fine in Tórshavn it is fine at the airport. All weather is local. The road to madness lies in getting one’s hopes up whenever a glimpse of sky is possible. Learn the lesson from the Austrian reserve keeper who is often seen prowling the harbour with a demented look in his eyes and a return ticket in his hands. They say he knows all the puffins by name.
