Our holiday had taken us from the bright lights of Oslo, through mountain and fjord to the city of Bergen. We were battered; we were broken; we were bruised. We would find joy.
Sun high in the sky, yet it fails to reach us. The whole head of the fjord is encased in shadow, drawn purple by the sheer face above us. Warmth cannot penetrate the bone this close to the water, even though the sun has burned off every hint of moisture in the atmosphere. Let’s have a coffee instead.
The late evening light turns a milky blue as it casts across the gleaming white marble of the opera house. Designed to look like an iceberg, floating in the Oslofjord, the building is a marvel.
It starts as it always does. Planning has taken months: the whole thing now feels more like an intellectual exercise in exploring distant cities through the magic of the internet than it does a holiday. Then, with a queasy bump, it is upon you. Grab your bags; get to the airport. Now.
I have never deliberately been to Malmö, and I don’t know anyone who has. It’s not that Malmö is a bad place, a boring place or a place I wouldn’t recommend a visit to. It’s a lovely place, but it’s hardly a holiday destination.
I don’t think the Faroese understand that they attract tourists; I don’t think they see themselves as worthy. They are wrong.
Iceland: A land of wonder, story and song. Get yourself there, and don’t forget the hot dogs.