Where mountains weep: The cruel and beautiful landscape of the Faroe Islands

The Faroe Islands are flung across the North Atlantic like a handful of jagged stones. Formed 55 million years ago from magma bubbling up between fault lines, they were later carved by glaciers at the end of the Ice Age. What remains are 18 long, narrow islands, where a population half the size of Albany is scattered across 130 villages and hamlets. There are no naturally growing trees here. The ground is black, coated in moss and grass, and it rains 250 days a year.

I’ve been fortunate to spend the past week or so in the Faroes—first in the capital, Tórshavn, and now in the northernmost settlement, Viðareiði. I was drawn to this mysterious nation for several reasons. First, because it’s so unusual: its controversial whaling practices, ambiguous geopolitical status, and the peculiarities of being an island nation fragmented across shards of land. But it also made sense to come. My previous travels to Iceland and Svalbard became integral sources of inspiration for my creative practice, and the Faroes lie perfectly between the two. In my imagination, it’s been a green Svalbard, or an Iceland without fire and ice.

So, between family and business in the UK, it felt right to book a short detour north and spend some time in this wild, enigmatic place.

Tindhólmur

I caught my first glimpse of land as I descended into Vágar Airport. It was the razor edge of Tindhólmur I saw, an islet of basalt peaks jutting from the ocean. The tallest was jagged and sharp, velvet-coated in green on one side. If Iceland finds its contrasts in lava and glaciers, and Svalbard in its shifting light, the Faroe Islands find theirs in angles. Here, the indigo flatness of the ocean is violently pierced by dizzying cliffs, pockmarked with puffin, fulmar, and gull nests. And as immediately as land erupts from the ocean it descends again, falling away down slopes of green. The only softness comes from the constant fog that blurs the mountains into the white sky. In the cradles of the valleys, where fjords level into gentler land, homes with grass-topped roofs are arranged in tidy rows of red, black, and white. The mountainsides weep endlessly, waterfalls bleeding back into the sea.

I came to the Faroes with the goal of resetting my creativity. For the past few years, I’ve returned to places near the Arctic Circle and always come home creatively reawakened. The stark contrast between these landscapes and Perth makes them the perfect environment for creative renewal. The North is new enough to shift my brain into a childlike state of wonder, and yet oddly familiar in its expansive plains, wild coastlines, and sense of existing on the edge of the world. But it’s not enough to simply be here, I feel I must immerse myself so I’m not just an observer, but a participant in the landscape.

So I’ve structured the week around several hikes—a mix of peaks and loops covering the four main regions of the Faroes: Vágar, Streymoy, Eysturoy, and the Northern Isles. Hiking is a form of meditation; it switches on all the senses, aligns you with your breath, pulls you out of your mind and back into the rhythms of nature. In the churn of modern life, with its constant demands and competitiveness, it’s easy to forget that we’re simply animals that are held, fed, and fuelled by the Earth.

Hike from Leynar to Oyrareingir

My first hike reminded me that I’m an animal that’s grown soft. The trail from Leynar to Oyrareingir loops around a 621-meter peak ominously named Sátan that’s flanked by jagged basalt spires. Though the trailhead starts high in Leynar, it begins with a steep ascent and several river crossings. At the halfway point, a storm rolled in—40km/h winds and rain that turned gentle creeks into raging streams. The sheep watched me like I was an alien, chewing grass judgementally as I trudged through the mud. I found myself thinking the Faroes felt like a place that never meant to be settled: too strange, too geologically inconvenient. Maybe, I thought, during some Biblical age of Noah, the Faroes appeared like a life raft in the violent flood of the Atlantic Ocean, designed only as temporary respite until the lost survivor found their way back to the mainland. In my cold and tired frustration, the Faroes felt more unknowable than ever.

On day two, I hiked to Trælanípa Cliff, which juts 142 meters from the sea. Trælanípa, The Slave Cliff, was where old and sick slaves were thrown to their deaths during the Viking Age. The trail winds gently through a valley between the cliff edge and Sørvágsvatn, a lake suspended 30 meters above sea level that almost became a fjord. It was still drizzling, and the wind was stronger than the day before, but the walk was easier, and I began to feel new images for paintings take root in my mind. The final ascent brought me to the edge, where the ground dropped away and seabirds nestled. Terror is the only word to describe it. The more exposed the land, the more violent the wind. One wrong step and I felt I could be flung into the ocean like those slaves centuries ago. I stopped climbing. Glued to the peat, I sat still, feeling how light my body was against the force of the wind. From that narrow ledge, I stared into the swirling sea below, then steadily made my way back down.

In all its beauty and power, the Faroe Islands remain a place I’m still grappling to understand. They challenge you in a way no other place I’ve known does. The terror of Iceland’s landscape is softened by hot springs and luxury hotels. In Svalbard, the threat of polar bears means you’re always accompanied by an armed guide. But in the Faroes, there are no such buffers. It’s up to you to find your way through the scatter of islands, to uncover their beauty and lessons. I’ve only scratched the surface of this strange, remarkable place, and I know I’ve only begun to unearth the inspiration it’s planted within me.

Trælanípa (The Slave Cliff)