I was adamant that we weren’t making our way to the Faroe Islands to be able to dangle our boots over a cliff edge, take an instagram over the sea and tell people that we’d got lost and embraced our sense of ‘adventure’.
No. We were headed to the Faroes to ride our bikes and take in as much of those magical islands as our eyes could (and legs would let us) see. Fast forward 8 hours in Copenhagen airport, one of the best commercial airline flights into a country ever and a logistical luggage nightmare with the amount of boxers I’d packed later, and there we were. Sat dangling our legs over a cliff edge, our phones at the ready and embracing our sense of adventure. Damn you, Faroes.
And there began our far too short tour of those steep and green islands. What those three days would then entail would quite possibly be the most cruisey, brew fuelled, laugh-buckled ride between the best wild camp spots you could hope for. I feel I should be telling you of harrowing battles with head winds, sharp Northern rains and wet sandwiches. Bike packing in the North shouldn’t be anything but, right? But I can’t. What I can tell you, is that we had the only three days of sunshine the Faroes are allotted annually and we did our best to ditch the sandwiches in favour of local snack delicacies; dried fish biscuits. Thank you, Faroes. I think.
We never set out to conquer the islands, or to ride to places so far from reach that our souls would start to hurt. Our plan was to have very little of said plan at all, which we all know well, makes for the best times on the bike.
Honestly, we had hopes of getting truly lost across where ever our bikes would take us, eventually with the hope that we’d get taken in by the locals for a night of homebrew, most likely fish stew and a guitar by the fire. The fact of the matter is, those islands are pretty small. And as it turned out, harder than we’d expected to get between by bike. It’s not that a 5km tunnel under the water with no shoulder to ride in and a mob of less than patient truck drivers would put us off island hopping. It didn’t. But the 12km tunnel didn’t quite take our fancy and nor did the ‘law’ really fancy us doing that either. So there we were, kind of stuck between two islands, in a very happy place for three days either side of the best plane journey you’ll ever have.