puffin — Travel writing — Vanessa the Nomad

“We live—as we dream—alone…” - Joseph Conrad

These words of Conrad’s resonated with me when I first read them in Heart of Darkness years ago. In many ways, we live independently, never truly knowing the depths of others. For years, I’ve been drawn to remote islands when I travel, and since travel isn’t quite possible right now, I’ve taken some time to reflect on why. Islands are solitary, independent, stoic—they don’t care whether you tend to them or not; they can fend for themselves. They’re the perfect escape, and yet, they are also inescapable. The next ship or flight out may not be for a few days, and until that time, you’re committed.

One of my first trips to an island was to Ikaria, which, according to Greek mythology, is formed from the remains of Icarus, who flew too close to the sun. Ikaria is a spectacular mix of dramatic, steep mountains inhabitable only by goats and stunning beach coves where the cliffs meet the sea. Though the island briefly gained some popularity following a New York Times article describing the island’s inhabitants’ longevity (many currently live well into their 90s or later), spurring a wave of dining on Mediterranean staples, it remains a calm and simple place. In a way, things here are much as they were 50 years ago, and perhaps even further back. There is no room for posturing on an island of this size, as everyone knows each other, and gossip remains a vital form of currency. With roots in Ikaria, Mihalis Kavouriaris has been running a language school high up on the northern side of the island, by the village of Arethousa, for over 20 years. Offering a range of relatively intensive courses in Greek language and culture, the school attracts students both young and old, with one thing in common: a sense of adventure. Reaching Ikaria involves a flight into Athens, followed by a transfer to the port of Piraeus, after which you board a ferry for the six hour ride to Evdilos or Agios Kirykos, the two port towns on Ikaria. You can also fly to Ikaria, bypassing some of the journey, but that feels a bit too easy. It was, after all, Odysseus who showed us that the journey is just as important as the destination.

Once at the school, mornings and early afternoons are occupied with classes, but the sun of the midday and late afternoon are all yours. I spent many a scorching afternoon daydreaming at the small outdoor tables overlooking the Aegean (on a clear day, the island of Chios and mainland Turkey come into view), writing down my hopes and dreams for the future. For what I might become. Islands can push you to take a hard look inside yourself and reflect on what you are, and what you want to be, in a way that no other place can. Islands, after all, are focused on survival: what truly matters? What do we need to live?

A few years ago, I was lucky enough to travel to a much more remote set of four islands, the Aldabra Group in the Seychelles. Uninhabited save for a few researchers who receive supplies by ship several times a year, this group of atolls was spared destruction by humans because it has no source of fresh water. It is the only place in the world besides the Galápagos where the giant tortoise roams, and you feel very much a passing visitor to a foreign land. You can reach one of the islands, Assumption, by small plane, but you’ll need a ship to see anything else. We travelled there aboard the National Geographic Orion, setting sail from Dar es Salaam in Tanzania a few days prior. One evening, we came ashore from the ship via Zodiac and witnessed sea turtle hatchlings heading out to sea under the superbly clear southern sky. Never had I seen such a dizzying array of stars, so many that it seemed there was more light than darkness in the sky. With the warm Indian Ocean lapping at our feet, it was comforting to feel that we were the only humans around for miles, in a place inaccessible to others: that is also the magic of an island.

Much of the enchantment of islands is not immediately visible—you’ll need to go below the surface. Aldabra is a coral atoll, and with the tide, while scuba diving or snorkeling, you can drift into its inner lagoon, the current pushing you along its abundant reefs and wildlife in a crystal-clear reverie. Schools of snapper, aggregations of eagle rays, and solitary sea turtles pass by with the most imperceptible of nods. Just offshore, shivers of black-tipped reef sharks circle in the shallows, and you immediately feel a sense of wonder for these often-feared animals. These sharks have no interest in humans, preferring to explore the warm waters in search of fish and to play-fight among themselves. But they are curious: upon dipping a camera into the water, I quickly found a young shark investigating this novel intruder, nudging with its snout to test its boundaries.

Some islands have developed rich cultures that over centuries have thrived on their seclusion. The Faroe Islands, accessible by plane from Copenhagen, are a place I’ve often dreamed of during this quarantine. Due to the islands’ remoteness, the local people have developed a way of life drawing on their creativity and resourcefulness: food is often fermented to preserve its nutrients for harder times, and no piece of any animal is wasted. More remote villages have been connected via an intricate network of tunnels to ensure passage even during rough seas, resulting in a dispersed but also interdependent population. The islands’ beauty feels all the more striking due to their isolation: you recognise what a privilege it is to experience such a place, to hike for miles in the company of nature, without coming across another human being.

And yet, the beauty of islands does not necessarily lie in their remoteness. Some are inhabited so densely that you might easily forget you’re on one. Manhattan is a perfect example: you could live your entire life without leaving, and its connections to the rest of New York City are so heavily trafficked as to feel permanent. Bridges, ferries, subways, buses, bikes are constantly buzzing, and the sense of scarcity here is defined more by the distance between the haves and the have nots. Yet each time I see the Manhattan skyline after some time away, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of possibility: all humanity is here, and you can find anything you like, at any time of day or night. Authentic Colombian arepas? Just around the corner. Some of the best sushi in the world, flown in daily from Tsukiji fish market in Japan? A few blocks’ walk. A strong community of multi-generational Italians? A short subway ride. In the midst of so much activity, you feel that you are a part of something, that you belong. In the end, perhaps that’s what we live for: this sense of belonging. In many ways, islands group like-minded people, allowing us to share our feelings, plans, and dreams. They are reminders of what we really are.

What place do you dream of?

For more island reading, check out this piece by scientist Vivien Cumming.

The Faroe Islands are remote and hard to reach—and that’s a good thing. It means you should go now, before the crowds inevitably descend and the islands become the next Iceland, which has become rather too popular for its own good. Where are the Faroes, you ask? And why go there? Both good questions…

The Faroes are an isolated set of islands located roughly halfway between Scotland and Iceland. The inhabitants, numbering just 50,000, are descendants of the Vikings, and their language, Faroese, is most closely related to Old Norse. Volcanic, this set of 18 islands is well connected through a network of tunnels and helicopter routes (in fact, it’s currently home to perhaps the cheapest helicopter rides you can take, at roughly $20).

Upon landing at Vágar airport, you may want to head directly to Mykines, an island that is accessible only by ferry or helicopter. Known for its large population of local birds, including puffins, gannets, and fulmars, among others, it has no real roads or cars, giving it that sleepy end-of-the-world feeling. One of the locals, Heini, whose family has been on the island for generations, runs a fantastic day hike to the picturesque lighthouse at the eastern end of the island (he also rents out his cottage). At one point during our walk, Heini asks our group of 10 or so from around the world to be silent. As our ears open up to the sounds around us, we begin hearing individual bird calls in addition to the crashing waves in which the birds fish. We hear no man-made noise: no airplanes, no distant highways, no sirens. For a New Yorker, this is the ultimate escape.

The helicopter flight back to Vágar airport is about as glorious as 10 minutes can be: dramatically jagged cliffs and small beaches set against vibrant blue skies. With the flights subsidized by the Faroese government at roughly $20 a ride so that locals can get around with greater ease, it is perhaps only a matter of time before tourists are restricted or asked to pay unsubsidized fares.

To explore many of the remaining islands, a car can come in handy. Avis and Hertz operate on the islands, as do a few of the local companies, like 62 North. Given the last-minute nature of my trip, the best deal I found worked out to roughly $100/day—not cheap, but after all, you are on some of the most isolated islands on the planet.

A first stop might take you to the village of Gasadalur, via one of the islands’ one-way, rock hewn tunnels (be sure you heed traffic signs), to experience the picturesque Múlafossur waterfall dropping into the ocean below. You may want to follow that with a brisk 45 minute level hike to Trælanípan via the western side of Sørvágsvatn, the largest lake in the Faroes. From here you’ll experience a curious optical illusion: the lake appears to be a couple hundred metres above sea level, when in reality, it is only about 30. This was the only paid hike I experienced in the Faroes, at a cost of 100 DKK, which was easily payable by credit card with the friendly local at the entrance from the car park.

Another hike that is one of the highlights of the Faroes is up to the Kallur lighthouse on Kalsoy. Kalsoy, comprised of a long, thin stretch of mountains diving into the sea, is reachable by ferry from Klaksvík, the Faroes’ second-largest town (be sure to arrive at least 30 minutes in advance to be assured a spot on the ferry). The hike begins from Trøllanes and takes roughly 75-90 minutes. Worthy of a stop en route is Mikladalur, where a statue of the seal woman Kópakonan from local legend gazes over the town.

And who could resist visiting the highest peak of the Faroes, Slættaratindur? You’ll see a small parking lot just off the main road between Eiði and Gjogv. From here, the peak is about a 60-75 minute pure uphill hike. As you near the top, the hike becomes more of a four-legged scramble, and you may encounter snow. But the view is worth it: on a clear day, you can see most of the 18 islands that comprise the Faroes. Also not to be missed, a short drive away, is an easy, 10 minute walk from the main road to Hvíthamar, with a view of Funningur and the surrounding fjord.

View from the top of the world, Slættaratindur

Of course, driving through each village in the Faroes is like scrolling through the list of available dogs for adoption at your local shelter: each one induces successive exclamations of “Ooh, how cute!” One of the best known is Saksun, with picturesque grass-covered structures and the requisite steepled church encompassed by waterfalls gushing from the surrounding hills. The drive there alone is stunning, even without a place like Saksun at which to linger at the end.

But a large part of the appeal of the Faroes is to lose—or perhaps find—yourself in its isolation. For me, that place was Tjørnuvík and its surrounds. At the end of the road, featuring Viking graves with a large expanse of beach overlooking two rocky pillars (named Risin and Kellingin, or the Giant and the Witch, after a legend in which the two tried to steal the Faroes to bring them to Iceland), Tjørnuvík is as sleepy as it gets. At night, in the hot tub of my Airbnb, I listened to the waterfalls running down the surrounding mountains under the light of the full moon. In the morning, I ate waffles with rhubarb jam while watching the resident geese and sheep saunter between the two dozen or so houses that comprise the town. I felt at peace.

Heimablídni at Maud Hansen’s house on Nólsoy

On one of my last evenings, I had the privilege of experiencing heimablídni, or home hospitality, at the home of Maud Hansen on the island of Nólsoy (easily reachable by ferry from Tórshavn, the capital). Maud is a gifted chef, and she prepared a typical Faroese meal focused on seafood, including local staples like fermented lamb. It was one of the highlights of my trip, and while I was lucky enough to go on a day’s notice, it is generally advisable to book in advance.

I also paid a visit to the capital, Tórshavn (or “houn”, as a the locals call it), which comprises 20,000 of the island’s population of 50,000, and feels like a cross between a colourful fishing village and a local commercial centre. You can eat very well at Barbara Fishouse, or Ræst, known as the only restaurant focused on fermented food outside of Japan, followed by a cool beer at Mikkeller, which has an outpost there. A short drive away is the historic village of Kirkjubøur, featuring the oldest church of the Faroes, built before 1200. I felt so safe that I gave a ride back to a few other tourists who had hiked there from Tórshavn before returning up north to my Tjørnuvík Airbnb. I had started to settle into the calmer local rhythms, and I was enjoying it. If you are looking for a place to reflect, and to spend time in true nature, the Faroes should be your next destination.