Readers interested in the Faroese landscape and cartography can view maps of the Faroe Islands through the Danish Geodata Agency. A section of the map is viewed in a tiny window, so you can't get the complete breadth and variation of the landscape. but you can get a
little idea of what to expect from the 'Atlas', at a scale of 1:100,000.
Paper maps are available directly
from the Faroes. Solberg has a complete collection of maps that are still in circulation, including fine scale (1:20,000) topographic maps from the Danish cartogropher, Kort & Matrikelstyresen. These maps, published in the late 80's, are great for hiking, or armchair travelling.
If you are interested in ordering maps, look out for falsað and slætt,
which are the folded or rolled (sheet) versions of each map. Map
coverage of an entire island can be purchased in bundles too, for a
discounted price.
Showing posts with label landscape. Show all posts
Showing posts with label landscape. Show all posts
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Úti í Grøv og Mai-mynd
Àarinnar hvítu blettir
tekkjast gilsins botni í --
og við ósan alduslettir
sællir berjast barnastríð.
Og víð vágsins smáu brotum
duffar æðuríkisverð --
ríðandi á alduskotum
summarmjørkafleyrið fer.
Undan fjallatokusløri
hómast blettir, skúmi líkir --
kavalægd hjá grønum svørði
dikst við dalsins mórudíkir.
Christian Matras's first poem, Mai-mynd, was inspired by a park just outside the town of Klaksvik. If you have ever visited Úti í Grøv, you're sure to understand why the peaceful spot so easily inspires. The small campside just outside the park happened to be the first place we stayed on our visit, in August of 2012, and it quickly become our favourite place in the Faroe Islands, as we found ourselves spending our entire trip exploring and enjoying the area, neglecting even a full days stay in the captital!
On each visit to the Faroe Islands, we managed to spend quite a bit of our time camping at Úti í Grøv. Here, spruce and pine plantations straddle the banks of two cascading rivers, and wild heather bursts into purple flowers in the summer. Beyond the park's fence, following the two rivers upstream, the grass yields to the rock outcrop, and is surrounded on both sides by a steep headland. A large cleft cuts through the middle of the white cliffs towering beyond. I have always dreamed of standing on those cliffs, looking west upon the valley, with the park and plantation below, and possibly onwards towards Eysturoy and Streymoy. Standing there, I could shift my view from the endless sea in the south to the east, and look down upon the cozy settlement of Árnafjørður, nestled in the deep fjord, with Fugloy, Svinoy, and perhaps Viðoy, sailing in the sea fog beyond. But I would be sure to wait for a clear day to climb those cliffs, so I could look north along the spine of Borðoy's greatest mountains. Someday, I hope I will climb across those mountains, too.
The area has even inspired my own writing. In the fog, the area beyond what can be seen from the park below turns into a dream, with infinite brooks meandering through rock mazes. The world up there feels small yet immense. If the eyes are cast to the ground, the world of elves and hidden people abounds. Lifting the gaze, birds circle the towering ledges above, reminding us that ancient giants carved these great steps and seats. In one story, I take a walk up into this rock fall, in an attempt to view the towering Mykjanoyrarfjall.
Climbing to the Kviging pass one cloudy day, we were helped up the steep talus slope by the wind only to find a warm, sun-filled valley seated in the calm dry air below. It looked like paradise: the grass, this day, was greener on the other side. Unfortunately, we were not prepared to climb down.
tekkjast gilsins botni í --
og við ósan alduslettir
sællir berjast barnastríð.
Og víð vágsins smáu brotum
duffar æðuríkisverð --
ríðandi á alduskotum
summarmjørkafleyrið fer.
Undan fjallatokusløri
hómast blettir, skúmi líkir --
kavalægd hjá grønum svørði
dikst við dalsins mórudíkir.
Christian Matras's first poem, Mai-mynd, was inspired by a park just outside the town of Klaksvik. If you have ever visited Úti í Grøv, you're sure to understand why the peaceful spot so easily inspires. The small campside just outside the park happened to be the first place we stayed on our visit, in August of 2012, and it quickly become our favourite place in the Faroe Islands, as we found ourselves spending our entire trip exploring and enjoying the area, neglecting even a full days stay in the captital!
On each visit to the Faroe Islands, we managed to spend quite a bit of our time camping at Úti í Grøv. Here, spruce and pine plantations straddle the banks of two cascading rivers, and wild heather bursts into purple flowers in the summer. Beyond the park's fence, following the two rivers upstream, the grass yields to the rock outcrop, and is surrounded on both sides by a steep headland. A large cleft cuts through the middle of the white cliffs towering beyond. I have always dreamed of standing on those cliffs, looking west upon the valley, with the park and plantation below, and possibly onwards towards Eysturoy and Streymoy. Standing there, I could shift my view from the endless sea in the south to the east, and look down upon the cozy settlement of Árnafjørður, nestled in the deep fjord, with Fugloy, Svinoy, and perhaps Viðoy, sailing in the sea fog beyond. But I would be sure to wait for a clear day to climb those cliffs, so I could look north along the spine of Borðoy's greatest mountains. Someday, I hope I will climb across those mountains, too.
The area has even inspired my own writing. In the fog, the area beyond what can be seen from the park below turns into a dream, with infinite brooks meandering through rock mazes. The world up there feels small yet immense. If the eyes are cast to the ground, the world of elves and hidden people abounds. Lifting the gaze, birds circle the towering ledges above, reminding us that ancient giants carved these great steps and seats. In one story, I take a walk up into this rock fall, in an attempt to view the towering Mykjanoyrarfjall.
Climbing to the Kviging pass one cloudy day, we were helped up the steep talus slope by the wind only to find a warm, sun-filled valley seated in the calm dry air below. It looked like paradise: the grass, this day, was greener on the other side. Unfortunately, we were not prepared to climb down.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Where is Krossvatn?
While working through Krossvatn, the short story by Heðin Brú, I decided to hunt for the lake itself, wading through dozens of maps for weeks, carefully feeling around for it. Such a small lake or pond would be difficult to come by -- who knows how small it could be! Maybe it was completely drained and no longer exists. That it existed during Heðin Brú's time I was certain, as his writings are set in specific locales. But that his writings are set all over the Faroe's opened the search to the entirety of the Faroe Islands. Krossvatn could literally be anywhere or nowhere at all. I was also concerned, of course, with whether the lake would exist somewhere on Sandoy or Suðuroy, having no detailed maps of either. My larger scale map (1:100,000) doesn't show any 'Krossvatn's' on either island, but Suðuroy is up to their knees in lakes unnamed on this map, especially north of Porkeri. And so I considered whether my search would be fruitless until, at least, I acquired the more detailed map sets.
I continued on however, but eventually stopped the random search somewhere on Eysturoy, near Toftir. I began to think about what I was looking for and sought instead to determine the origin of its name for possible clues to its whereabouts.
Does 'Kross' refer to its shape or religious significance? Was I looking for a cross-shaped pond? To find features that resemble things, hike over the 'cold cheek' (Køldukinn), or scale 'the witches finger', a pinnacle of rock known as Trollkonufingur. Other places are named for what they are... that 'white cliff' is called Hvítilklettur, and Brekkendin is 'the final slope', while Hamurendin is 'the end of the stretch of cliff' and á Stigum is 'the step'. More often, however, places are named because of their proximity to something -- features such as a cove or bay (vík), hills (brekk) and dales (dalur). Klaksvík is 'cliff-cove', Kirjka is 'church', and Dalur is 'dale'.
Krossvatn could be cross-shaped, but it seems likely that it would be named because of its proximity to something of religious significance. There are many sites in Faroe that have a religious significance, however, the significance for most rests in the minds of the people nearest them. Churches, for instance, were built in many bygd -- not all -- but typically one bygd in a few would have a church, even if it meant villagers would have to walk over the hills and mountains to get to it. If this was so, then Krossvatn could still be anywhere in the Faroes. But why would a lake have a Christian meaning and be just anywhere? If it was to have religious significance, it should be close to somewhere of great importance. There are a few notable places in the Faroes that have a great religious significance too, but none will likely compare to that of Kirkjubøur on the south-east coast of Streymoy.
Stare at a map containing the entirety of the Faroe Islands and place your finger in what you believe is that centre. If you are like me and considered that the centre of the islands must be on land, you probably placed your finger somewhere near Torshavn, likely south of it at Kirkjubøur. On my wall hangs a large Faroese topographic map. We had it framed just over a month ago and it has been a source of inspiration ever since. When looking at the map, drifting into day-dreams, my eyes could not help but to stare directly at it -- Krossvatn, that is. Yes -- there it is! And it is there, somewhere near the centre, north of Kirkjubøur, lying some 325 metres above sea, directly between Kirkjubøur and Kirkjubøreyn, the hill that dominates the view when looking south-west from Torshavn.
For now though, I am uncertain about the religious significance of Krossvatn. Yet having only translated some of Heðin Brú's story, I feel he is working towards something of the divine. He talks about the lake stirring with all of life -- the Faroese Genesis, origins of the world, naval of the Earth, where everything begins and returns in the end. Kirkjubøur* was the Faroese seat of the Norwegian Catholic Church in the Middle Ages, the cultural centre and the Faroe Islander's connection to a distant world. Through time, however, the centre of the Faroes moved across Kirkjubøreyn to Torshavn. It's possible that the lake was named because it was near to such a well-trodden path between the two centres of the Islands. A pilgrimage from Torshavn to Kirkjubøur, however, would not have come across this lake, as it sits too high above the plain of sight to be seen from the path, though hillwalkers climbing to Kirkjubøreyn would easily spot it.
It's hard to tell at this point whether Krossvatn has some relation to Kirjkubøur. We'll have to work through the story some more and see if there are any other clues. For now we are allowed the pleasure of wonder.
*I could not give Kirkjubøur enough justice without talking at length about it, so I'll refrain from further comment in this post, but readers who are interested should visit the post office in Torshavn and pick up a copy of 'The Cathedral and other Historic Relics at Kirkjubøur'
I continued on however, but eventually stopped the random search somewhere on Eysturoy, near Toftir. I began to think about what I was looking for and sought instead to determine the origin of its name for possible clues to its whereabouts.
Does 'Kross' refer to its shape or religious significance? Was I looking for a cross-shaped pond? To find features that resemble things, hike over the 'cold cheek' (Køldukinn), or scale 'the witches finger', a pinnacle of rock known as Trollkonufingur. Other places are named for what they are... that 'white cliff' is called Hvítilklettur, and Brekkendin is 'the final slope', while Hamurendin is 'the end of the stretch of cliff' and á Stigum is 'the step'. More often, however, places are named because of their proximity to something -- features such as a cove or bay (vík), hills (brekk) and dales (dalur). Klaksvík is 'cliff-cove', Kirjka is 'church', and Dalur is 'dale'.
Krossvatn could be cross-shaped, but it seems likely that it would be named because of its proximity to something of religious significance. There are many sites in Faroe that have a religious significance, however, the significance for most rests in the minds of the people nearest them. Churches, for instance, were built in many bygd -- not all -- but typically one bygd in a few would have a church, even if it meant villagers would have to walk over the hills and mountains to get to it. If this was so, then Krossvatn could still be anywhere in the Faroes. But why would a lake have a Christian meaning and be just anywhere? If it was to have religious significance, it should be close to somewhere of great importance. There are a few notable places in the Faroes that have a great religious significance too, but none will likely compare to that of Kirkjubøur on the south-east coast of Streymoy.
Stare at a map containing the entirety of the Faroe Islands and place your finger in what you believe is that centre. If you are like me and considered that the centre of the islands must be on land, you probably placed your finger somewhere near Torshavn, likely south of it at Kirkjubøur. On my wall hangs a large Faroese topographic map. We had it framed just over a month ago and it has been a source of inspiration ever since. When looking at the map, drifting into day-dreams, my eyes could not help but to stare directly at it -- Krossvatn, that is. Yes -- there it is! And it is there, somewhere near the centre, north of Kirkjubøur, lying some 325 metres above sea, directly between Kirkjubøur and Kirkjubøreyn, the hill that dominates the view when looking south-west from Torshavn.
For now though, I am uncertain about the religious significance of Krossvatn. Yet having only translated some of Heðin Brú's story, I feel he is working towards something of the divine. He talks about the lake stirring with all of life -- the Faroese Genesis, origins of the world, naval of the Earth, where everything begins and returns in the end. Kirkjubøur* was the Faroese seat of the Norwegian Catholic Church in the Middle Ages, the cultural centre and the Faroe Islander's connection to a distant world. Through time, however, the centre of the Faroes moved across Kirkjubøreyn to Torshavn. It's possible that the lake was named because it was near to such a well-trodden path between the two centres of the Islands. A pilgrimage from Torshavn to Kirkjubøur, however, would not have come across this lake, as it sits too high above the plain of sight to be seen from the path, though hillwalkers climbing to Kirkjubøreyn would easily spot it.
It's hard to tell at this point whether Krossvatn has some relation to Kirjkubøur. We'll have to work through the story some more and see if there are any other clues. For now we are allowed the pleasure of wonder.
*I could not give Kirkjubøur enough justice without talking at length about it, so I'll refrain from further comment in this post, but readers who are interested should visit the post office in Torshavn and pick up a copy of 'The Cathedral and other Historic Relics at Kirkjubøur'
Saturday, October 26, 2013
The Relief of Landscape
I'm spending my weekends drifting across a map of
one of my favourite places in the Faroes. The maps in 1:20 000,
published by Kort & Matrikelstyrelsen, are so detailed that you can
become lost in them and learn so much merely by translating the
place-names. When it comes time to re-visiting the places, it's helpful
to know and understand the names and their meanings. Tie this into the
landscape oriented stories and both the stories and maps seem to
lift off of the pages in relief.
 |
| #612 Hvannasund, Kort & Matrikelstyrelsen Topografiskt Kort 1:20 000 |
For those reading The Old Man and His Son and who are interested in following along, use Kort & Matrikelstyrelsen #209 and #309 (and somewhat #310). The entire Vágar Island series can also be purchased.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Where Everything Begins
To these cliffs
I'm looking at a map of Scotland and... here we are. It's fairly easy to spot the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry lines linking the islands to the each other and the mainland with all these dotted lines criss-crossing each other. When I first visited Scotland nearly a decade ago I fell in love with this form of transportation. My sister took us to the Isle of Arran on the large CalMac ferry and to Cumbrae on a much smaller but no less impressive boat. Both were so exciting that I set out to become better acquainted with travel at sea.
Studying this very same map I hold in my hands now, I could see so many possibilities… too many. We can even go from one place to the other and another, like this: Ardrossan to Brodick on Arran, to Kintyre to Islay to Colonsay and back to mainland, and so on, till you're at the top in the Highlands. From Ardrossan to Arran was about an hour by sea. Now, some of these are much further away, like the ferry lines to the Outer Hebrides. Searching the CalMac website, they could take up to 3 hours. Three hours at sea. that's no short time. A three hour ferry ride would be incredible.
Looking back at my map, I shift my thoughts to Scotland's eastern coast and begin following a dotted line from Aberdeen. This line must be at least five times the length of any of the routes in the western isles. And as it turned out, the ferry from Aberdeen ends up in Lerwick, the largest town in the Shetlands, and was an overnight trip of about 12 hours. Overnight on a ferry. In the middle of the sea. My mind was turned on. Now, 12 hours on a boat is not like on any other form of transportation. If the boat was anything like Arran's Caledonian Isles, your not cramped like you are on a bus, train or plane.
Travelling by ferry may be the only form of transportation where you can walk outside as it's moving along, right to the railings and look down below. You can go to the front of the boat and to the back, left and right. You can also have a cabin or berth. On a boat, you're more inclined to keep an eye out for land ahead, and when spotted, you're glued to the deck in all manner of wind and rain and weather, awaiting the landing. You're excited but also saddened that the journey couldn't go on. Travelling by ferry is really the one of the few ways to give a proper farewell to the places you visited too, as you can stand on deck and watch the islands, towns and villages you spent days or weeks or even months becoming acquainted with gradually recede into the distance. And so you resolve to make a life out of travelling between islands. And with this, I'm reminded of how Jane and I came to our trip, how I came to know about the Faroe Islands, and how they sparked my imagination like no other place on earth could.
A lot of time was spent studying the island groups and ferry networks of Shetland and Orkney. I imagined sleeping in these places and being surrounded by miles of dark sea. Shetland is about 100 kilometers northeast of mainland Scotland and I could think, if I were on these islands, I would really be there and no where else. There is the treeless landscape too, where the true shape of the landscape reveals itself, with rolling hills, jagged coastal cliffs and sharp sea stacks. But on the map my mind drifted along this one dotted line...
There is something about being led by a dotted line into what seems like the edge of the world, into sea and darkness. Did the line lead to a remote island like St. Kilda? I couldn't imagine the destination being very large in size or hospitable. It couldn't be... and it couldn't be too far north and yet, it was off the map... what could i make of this dotted line with the strange looking name of Tórshavn?-- it doesn't look or sound Scottish. I couldn't imagine thinking of anything above the Shetlands. To me, they seemed like the edge of the world... What and where is this Tórshavn? . . .
Depending on the map available, the line leads you northwest of Sheltand from Lerwick. I wasn't wrong in thinking that the Shetlands are the northernmost inhabited islands of Scotland. So then, what was Tórshavn?
It's important to understand why we seek out learning a new language, where that inspiration comes from, and how learning the language and culture becomes a passion. We should never forget where this enthusiasm comes from. We should always return to it in the end.
The poem above was found in the book 'The Faroe Islands' by Liv Kjørsvik Schei and Gunnie Moberg and can be purchased online from Solberg. Gunnar Hoydal is a Faroese writer and architect living in Tórshavn today.
To these rocks in the great ocean
The world is anchored,
Here is the place
Where everything begins
And where everything returns in the end.
Gunnar Hoydal
 |
| Nothing but the North Sea |
Studying this very same map I hold in my hands now, I could see so many possibilities… too many. We can even go from one place to the other and another, like this: Ardrossan to Brodick on Arran, to Kintyre to Islay to Colonsay and back to mainland, and so on, till you're at the top in the Highlands. From Ardrossan to Arran was about an hour by sea. Now, some of these are much further away, like the ferry lines to the Outer Hebrides. Searching the CalMac website, they could take up to 3 hours. Three hours at sea. that's no short time. A three hour ferry ride would be incredible.
Looking back at my map, I shift my thoughts to Scotland's eastern coast and begin following a dotted line from Aberdeen. This line must be at least five times the length of any of the routes in the western isles. And as it turned out, the ferry from Aberdeen ends up in Lerwick, the largest town in the Shetlands, and was an overnight trip of about 12 hours. Overnight on a ferry. In the middle of the sea. My mind was turned on. Now, 12 hours on a boat is not like on any other form of transportation. If the boat was anything like Arran's Caledonian Isles, your not cramped like you are on a bus, train or plane.
Travelling by ferry may be the only form of transportation where you can walk outside as it's moving along, right to the railings and look down below. You can go to the front of the boat and to the back, left and right. You can also have a cabin or berth. On a boat, you're more inclined to keep an eye out for land ahead, and when spotted, you're glued to the deck in all manner of wind and rain and weather, awaiting the landing. You're excited but also saddened that the journey couldn't go on. Travelling by ferry is really the one of the few ways to give a proper farewell to the places you visited too, as you can stand on deck and watch the islands, towns and villages you spent days or weeks or even months becoming acquainted with gradually recede into the distance. And so you resolve to make a life out of travelling between islands. And with this, I'm reminded of how Jane and I came to our trip, how I came to know about the Faroe Islands, and how they sparked my imagination like no other place on earth could.
A lot of time was spent studying the island groups and ferry networks of Shetland and Orkney. I imagined sleeping in these places and being surrounded by miles of dark sea. Shetland is about 100 kilometers northeast of mainland Scotland and I could think, if I were on these islands, I would really be there and no where else. There is the treeless landscape too, where the true shape of the landscape reveals itself, with rolling hills, jagged coastal cliffs and sharp sea stacks. But on the map my mind drifted along this one dotted line...
There is something about being led by a dotted line into what seems like the edge of the world, into sea and darkness. Did the line lead to a remote island like St. Kilda? I couldn't imagine the destination being very large in size or hospitable. It couldn't be... and it couldn't be too far north and yet, it was off the map... what could i make of this dotted line with the strange looking name of Tórshavn?-- it doesn't look or sound Scottish. I couldn't imagine thinking of anything above the Shetlands. To me, they seemed like the edge of the world... What and where is this Tórshavn? . . .
Depending on the map available, the line leads you northwest of Sheltand from Lerwick. I wasn't wrong in thinking that the Shetlands are the northernmost inhabited islands of Scotland. So then, what was Tórshavn?
 |
| Land ho! Shetland ahead! |
The poem above was found in the book 'The Faroe Islands' by Liv Kjørsvik Schei and Gunnie Moberg and can be purchased online from Solberg. Gunnar Hoydal is a Faroese writer and architect living in Tórshavn today.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Forms of the Landscape
It's January and in Toronto it should be snowing, but the rain taps on the window. I can't help but be reminded of the sound when Jane and I were waiting out the rain in the portable kitchen of the Klaksvík campsite. In Faroe, you must be patient and let the rain pass, but sometimes you have to step outside to get a view of the fog covered hillsides and the otherwise peaceful stream erupting in a torrent over the edges and down into the broad valley.
A lot of learning Faroese is about understanding the forms of landscape. You can't help but notice this in the names of the places you visit too. I'll sit staring at a map for hours asking, "what are all these lines and names?" There appears to be some labyrinth on the approach to Enniberg on Viðoy... and everywhere else, for that matter. Looming over Klaksvík's eastern side lies Myrkjanoyrarfjáll, sitting on a podium of uncultivated pastureland (hagi) and exposed basalt rock (hellusvað) high above the outfield (garður), and when you look around, each mountain (fjáll) seems sculpted in a similar way. If you were climbing these mountains, you would encounter these labyrinths, braided around the green hillsides (grøna líð) as stretches of cliff called hamar. The cliffs are unclimbable and must be circumnavigated, but the sheer number of them rising up a mountain is staggering in itself, not to mention the clefts and gorges (gjógv, singular) that run lengthwise down the side, often carrying the streams (àir, à is the singular) over the edges of the cliffs as torrents and waterfalls (fossa og fossur) into the broad valley (dalur). Myrkjanoyrarfjáll does seem to be growing dark, as it's name implies, especially when the light moves behind it or the fog or rain rolls in. You can climb to Klakkur on the opposite side to get a view of it if you wish...and with it, you'll get a view of Kunoy, and Kalsoy and the eastern bays of Eysturoy. Looking ahead there seems to be nothing below you. Far out to sea, (sjógv) beyond the peaks, there is nothing but Svalbard and the Arctic, hundreds of miles to the north. Maps and the names given to the features, much like in Gaelic names on Scottish maps and Icelandic in Iceland's maps, can tell us a lot about the area we are traversing.
A lot of learning Faroese is about understanding the forms of landscape. You can't help but notice this in the names of the places you visit too. I'll sit staring at a map for hours asking, "what are all these lines and names?" There appears to be some labyrinth on the approach to Enniberg on Viðoy... and everywhere else, for that matter. Looming over Klaksvík's eastern side lies Myrkjanoyrarfjáll, sitting on a podium of uncultivated pastureland (hagi) and exposed basalt rock (hellusvað) high above the outfield (garður), and when you look around, each mountain (fjáll) seems sculpted in a similar way. If you were climbing these mountains, you would encounter these labyrinths, braided around the green hillsides (grøna líð) as stretches of cliff called hamar. The cliffs are unclimbable and must be circumnavigated, but the sheer number of them rising up a mountain is staggering in itself, not to mention the clefts and gorges (gjógv, singular) that run lengthwise down the side, often carrying the streams (àir, à is the singular) over the edges of the cliffs as torrents and waterfalls (fossa og fossur) into the broad valley (dalur). Myrkjanoyrarfjáll does seem to be growing dark, as it's name implies, especially when the light moves behind it or the fog or rain rolls in. You can climb to Klakkur on the opposite side to get a view of it if you wish...and with it, you'll get a view of Kunoy, and Kalsoy and the eastern bays of Eysturoy. Looking ahead there seems to be nothing below you. Far out to sea, (sjógv) beyond the peaks, there is nothing but Svalbard and the Arctic, hundreds of miles to the north. Maps and the names given to the features, much like in Gaelic names on Scottish maps and Icelandic in Iceland's maps, can tell us a lot about the area we are traversing.
If you're going to visit, it's a good idea bring along Føroyar Topografiskt Atlas 1:100 000 printed by Kort & Matrikelstyrelsen in 1999. The map varies in it's availability online (check Stanfords) but it's usually available in all the bookshops, so don't fret if you can't find it before your trip. Also available are the much more detailed (1:20,000!) collection of maps. If you're planning on hiking or want to know the names of specific mountains, hills, valleys and so on, get the specific map for the area you are visiting. 37 maps cover the islands. The trails in Faroe are difficult to find, so having these detailed maps will be helpful. Keep in mind that these maps were printed in 1989 and so many tunnels and road projects are not shown. There are much older maps at the same scale called Dýpdakort Føroyar. These are rare but can be found in some shops.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Eg oyggjar veit - I know some islands
Eg oyggjar veit, sum hava fjøll
og grøna lìð,
og taktar eru tær við mjøll
um vetratìð,
og àir renna vakrar har
og fossa nògv,
tær vilja allar skunda sær
ì blàan sjogv
Gud signi mìtt føðiland Føroyar
This is the first verse of the song Eg Oyggjar Veit, written by Frìðrikur Petersen. The audio track of this verse can be heard, along with all other tracks from the textbook "Faroese: A Language Course for Beginners" on the Stiðin website (Stiðin is a Faroese publisher).
The verse sums up the Faroe Islands almost too well, although there is much more to the Faroe's than the steep mountains and cascading rivers described in it. Yet, it's likely to be this image that holds our imagination best. There are six verses to this song but I have yet to find a complete translation of it. Maybe the rest of the song adequately describes the other beautiful aspects of the Faroes, like life, the birds, the fog and clouds, the wind and sea... okay, it was written some time in the 19th century and we know much has changed since then, and though the nature remains, I don't imagine the song reflects on the network of tunnels that wind through the mountains and under the sea, and the modern network of paved roads that has begun to replace the village paths. Well, I can think of these as I experienced them last summer, or as I've known about them for some time before that, thinking in wonderment about these islands and their mountains and the roads that keep the Faroese people connected. Only later did I learn about the ferry and helicopter connections between the remote villages, and later about the language that has connected the Faroese people for so long. And I only need to recall 'I know some islands' to be connected to the wealth of thoughts, images and feelings that I now have of this place.
og grøna lìð,
og taktar eru tær við mjøll
um vetratìð,
og àir renna vakrar har
og fossa nògv,
tær vilja allar skunda sær
ì blàan sjogv
Gud signi mìtt føðiland Føroyar
This is the first verse of the song Eg Oyggjar Veit, written by Frìðrikur Petersen. The audio track of this verse can be heard, along with all other tracks from the textbook "Faroese: A Language Course for Beginners" on the Stiðin website (Stiðin is a Faroese publisher).
The verse sums up the Faroe Islands almost too well, although there is much more to the Faroe's than the steep mountains and cascading rivers described in it. Yet, it's likely to be this image that holds our imagination best. There are six verses to this song but I have yet to find a complete translation of it. Maybe the rest of the song adequately describes the other beautiful aspects of the Faroes, like life, the birds, the fog and clouds, the wind and sea... okay, it was written some time in the 19th century and we know much has changed since then, and though the nature remains, I don't imagine the song reflects on the network of tunnels that wind through the mountains and under the sea, and the modern network of paved roads that has begun to replace the village paths. Well, I can think of these as I experienced them last summer, or as I've known about them for some time before that, thinking in wonderment about these islands and their mountains and the roads that keep the Faroese people connected. Only later did I learn about the ferry and helicopter connections between the remote villages, and later about the language that has connected the Faroese people for so long. And I only need to recall 'I know some islands' to be connected to the wealth of thoughts, images and feelings that I now have of this place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)