There's always the fish.

Torshaven from on high. The noble Fred Olsen ship is centre-right. 

Sipping coffee, we saw a never ending stream of containor ships entering the harbour, importing what the Faroes cannot produce for themselves, and paid for by its fishing industry 

The traditional sod roof

Far from being an embarrassment the sod roof is to the Faroese what thatch is to us. It’s not just picturesque nor necessarily a sign of poverty. The sod roof is more than functional. It covers the slates underneath, its weight protecting them from north Atlantic gales. It acts as insulation. It absorbs much of the rain. And repairs are so simple, I like to think even I could do it – replacing a damaged square of sod with a fresh one. Thatching on the other is a longer more technical job and has a long waiting list. I’ve been told there is only one qualified thatcher for the whole of Buckinghamshire. There. So now you know.

Torshaven, or Thor’s harbour is the capital and the largest settlement in the Faroes with 25% of the population. We are standing on the Tinganes peninsula dividing the harbour in two; more to the point it is where the Norse established their parliament (Tinge)  in AD 850, Tinganes meaning ‘Parliament jetty.’ It is one of the oldest parliaments in the world, along with the Isle of Man’s Tynwald; it remains a key centre of Faroese government, though some offices have recently been decentralised. It was a strange feeling walking these C16th streets and comparing it with Downing St or Whitehall, the White House or the Pentagon. A door opened and a young lady bumped into me. It could have been the Foreign Secretary for all I knew. She looked very nice, so she probably wasn’t.

Torshaven is the smallest capital in Europe. Klaksvik is even more minute. What you see is what you get. We walked through it on a bleak and rainy day. People clustered into the Tourist information and shopping centre to avoid the drench and because it had free Wi Fi. A few hardy souls ventured out.

What I think is the library, a brave attempt at modernism, a futile gesture against the landscape.

Wherever you look is the harbour and a thin straggle of housing lining its sides

The ubiquitous sod roof

                       Many of the houses come with incorporated boat-houses instead of a garage.

Hardly surprising. Those mountains were designed to break the spirit or prompt escape to the sea and beyond

As we sailed away, I tried to imagine living in Klaksvík in winter, often snowbound and with only four hours of daylight. I tried to imagine the long hours of darkness, the hours of unremitting gloom and wondered about those houses, no doubt cosy inside but drab and utilitarian from outside. I was struck by the muted colours – blacks and browns and grey – despondent colours. I would need a roaring log-fire, a well-stocked library and endless whisky to get me through those winter months. But then again, what scenery. And there’s always the fish.

My attempt of a panoramic farewell

The Faroes

The Faroes were reputedly discovered by the Sixth Century Irish Monk St Brendan who also, according to legend, discovered America in a large leather curragh. Not for him a comfortable cruise and afternoon tea.  He named one island the Paradise of Birds and another the Isle of Sheep, which also indicates others had discovered the islands before him, unless these were the legendary aquatic sheep of Atlantis. 

The Norse settled the islands in the C9th – C10th and introduced Christianity in 1000 AD. They have been successively ruled by Norway and Denmark, and occupied by Britain in World War II after Germany invaded Denmark. From that point on the Faroese developed a taste for chocolate and the semi-independence that British occupation had allowed. In 1948 this was recognised with the Home Rule Act of the Faroe Islands,  which gave them a large degree of self-rule within the kingdom of Denmark. 

One Faroese boasted to me that they were as large as France but with just 1% of its land, the rest consisting of ocean. Ninety percent of its exports consist of fish, and they keep Europe well out of their fishing grounds. In itself, this illustrates the degree of autonomy the Faroes enjoy; Denmark is part of the EU but not the Faroe Islands. They know full well they would lose all their fish if they were.

Our first port of call was Kirkjubør, a tiny settlement but with some significant remains.

Saint Olav’s Church in Kirkjubør on the island of Stremoy is C12th and the oldest church in the Faroes. 

Next to  it are the C14th ruins of St Magnus Cathedral abandoned and left to decay after the Reformation. 

Kirkjubøargarøur or Yard of the Church and also known as King’s Farm dates back to the C11th and is possibly the oldest occupied wooden house in the world. It began as the Bishop’s residence and seminary, but since 1550 has been inhabited by the same family for seventeen generations.  

The wood itself is a source of fascination since the Faroes are virtually treeless. One legend has it that it was built from driftwood, which to my mind is a bit of a stretch.

Above is the head of King Sverre Sigurdsson who was trained for the priesthood when the building acted as a seminary. Asked by the local bishop whether he really wanted to be a priest or instead king of Norway, he opted for the latter, and led a rebellion of poor tax resisters nicknamed 'Birch-legs,' so called because their poverty led them to wear birch bark trousers. 

   Sverre  ruled Norway 1184 to 1202.

                                              

This table is special. A ship from Dundee was shipwrecked. All drowned but for one sailor who clung to this particular piece of timber for a night and day, eventually being washed up at Kirkjubør. Suffering from acute hypothermia, he was saved by the body heat of a local farmer who lay on top of him. (The case for the defence rests, M’Lud). The wood was salvaged along with the man and turned into this table. According to tradition, that same sailor returned many years later and the first thing he did was to hug the table in gratitude. Had to be prised away. 

You can spot a bit of salmon farming far left 

The road to Torshaven but always the sea  (Did I mention  the size of France with just 1% of its land :) )

Black Patie

We have various schools of history, two in particular: a traditional Whig school and the Marxist school which is class driven. I’ve recently come round to the ‘Scoundrel school’ which posits that whatever school you choose, the scoundrel ultimately comes out on top. Driven to despair by capitalist scoundrels a communist alternative swiftly unleashes scoundrels of its own. The devil and pond scum will out. 

I was thinking of this when reading about ‘Black Patie’ which sounds like something you might find in a delicatessen.

Earl Patrick was an illegitimate cousin of James VI of Scotland (1st of England). In their youth, they had been good friends but there were fault lines. Patrick was over ambitious, reckless and arrogant. He was not known as ‘Black Patie’ for nothing, being both violent and cruel and with a taste for the finer things in life—which he could not afford. His palace, completed in 1606 was taken from him in 1607 by royal decree and given to the bishop of Orkney. 

By this time, Black Patie  was drowning in debt and becoming more desperate as the king turned against him for his ‘monyfauld wrongis.’ These included theft of lands and funds, the oppression of local people, kidnapping, torture and murder. He was just simply bad. In 1596 he married Margaret Livingstone, a wealthy widow. After squandering her fortune, Patrick left her to die in poverty. They had no children, though Patrick was profligate with his seed, spawning several bastards. 

In 1609 he was imprisoned in Edinburgh and later Dumbarton, indicted for treason in 1610 and beheaded in 1615. 

These things happen, but  he did leave behind a rather nice (the finest in Scotland) Renaissance palace in distant Orkney. 

Or as it may have looked then (before the Earl of Caithness's cannon gave it a bit of a bashing in 1614.) Even so, it was a close run thing, as the Earl of Caithness ruefully observed:

The castle was so strong that some of his cannonballs had broken like golf balls and split in two halves —or in his words (cannone billets both brokkin lyk goulfe balls upoune the castelle and clovin in twa halffis). 

For more on Black Patie

St Magnus Cathedral

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St Magnus was not your normal Viking. When the king of Norway led an attack on Anglesey, Magnus refused to get off the ship and fight. Instead, he stayed onboard to sing psalms. This clearly pleased God, because Magnus went on to rule Orkney with his cousin Hâkon, until they fell out and he was axed in the head by his cousin’s cook. 

He was buried in a barren rocky place, which miraculously turned into a grassy field. When further miracles occurred the local bishop, William the Old, told everyone not to be so silly, until he was struck blind. Following the restoration of his sight by praying at the grave of Magnus, William became Magnus’s greatest champion and was instrumental in building the cathedral  in nearby Kirkwall. 

Building began in 1135 under the auspices of Rögnvald Kolsson who himself became a saint after being murdered by an argumentative Scotsman. 

The cathedral is built from red and yellow sandstone and follows the Romanesque style, a smaller version of Durham Cathedral. In fact the stone masons from Durham were said to have travelled to the Orkneys and started much of the building. It would have involved an impressive journey across rough seas in relatively primitive ships, and illustrates early medieval mobility.

St Magnus

St Olaf   

 Templar Stone

An interesting medieval curiosity is this stone memorialising an unknown Knight Templar, piquant but not actually telling us very much. 

Later monuments and stones are much more definite in telling the stories of those they represent. This insouciant fellow clearly comfortable in death is 

JOHN RAE

ARCTIC EXPLORER

IINTREPID DISCOVERER OF THE FATE OF  SIR JOHN FRANKLIN'S LAST EXPEDITION

BORN 1815 DIED 1893 

Even from a distance, some tombs stand out. And what makes this so refreshing is the idealism, certainty, and the unabashed confidence in the Victorian mission. Worth reading and contemplating ‘white guilt.’

The Cathedral also has one of the finest collections of C17th gravestones. Some years ago, it was decided to ‘tidy up’ the graveyard. Bodies were disinterred and reburied en-masse. Their gravestones now line the walls of the Cathedral, their message unremittingly grim. Aware of my own sell-by-date they made for sombre reading. Every stone was etched with skulls, crossbones and sometimes hour glasses. All ended with the same cheerful message:  'Remember Death'

For those unable to squint and decipher, each stone offers a glimpse into the past with a readable translation, one of unremitting gloom.

Grinning and cavorting high above the Prebysterian morbidity, medieval carvings of the Green Man, Sheela-na-gigs and other grotesqueries..

 

And confession time, what I didn't see but read about later, this is the only cathedral in the British Isles with its own dungeon, very handy for witches. One of the first witches tried and executed was Allison Balfour in 1594. Balfour was accused of being hired by Patrick Stewart, 2nd Earl of Orkney, to poison his brother. Patrick Stewart was acquitted, Balfour was executed. 

Addendum

THE LEGEND OF MARWICK’S HOLE

One of the more unique designs of the church involves the use of a dungeon. The dungeon is called Marwick’s Hole. The cathedral did not always have a dungeon. It is thought that the dungeon was added as a prisoner holding cell at some point – possibly around 1540 and was in use into the 18th century. The chamber is found between the south wall of the choir and the south transept chapel and is the only cathedral in the British Isles with a dungeon. Originally the chamber was accessed from an upper chamber where prisoners would be deposited via a chute, although a more humane ladder was added later.

The Dungeon’s most famous inmate tells of a terrible time in history. Janet Forsyth lived in nearby Westray in the 17th century. The story is told of Janet who had a dream that her sweetheart Benjamin would perish at sea. The following day, Benjamin and several other men were set to head out fishing. The day was fine and he scoffed at her claims he would meet his end if he sailed. Ignoring her pleas, the men headed out. Before long a thick fog descended and Benjamin and the men never returned. The people of Westray blamed Janet for the loss of the fishermen and Janet was branded a witch. Janet retreated to live in solitude as her tarnished reputation grew. 

A few years later, a ship was spotted in trouble off Westray’s coastline. As the storm raged, islanders waited for the ship to capsize and break up, hoping to find a windfall of treasures wash ashore.  Janet tried to rally them to go and offer assistance but no one stepped forward. So Janet launched her own small boat into the storm to help the stricken ship. Despite the storm, she managed to get to the ship and guided it safely to the shelter of Pierowall Bay. This act of bravery sealed her fate. No woman could go up against a storm like that and survive? Surely she was a witch! A trial was held in 1629 in Kirkwall. She was found guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to death. As the sentence was read out, she looked out across the gathered crowd. There she saw Benjamin standing in a naval uniform. He had not perished at sea – but had been press-ganged into the navy. On seeing him, she allegedly screamed out “Save me, Ben!” before being dragged from the trial and tossed into the dungeon at Marwick’s Hole. However, when they went to retrieve her from the dungeon the next day for her execution, the dungeon was empty. Local tradition says she was rescued by her love, Benjamin.

Courtesy of  USA River Cruises.