There are still many caves in the rocks close on the sea; innumerable birds flying out of them and settling on the surface of the heaving water close under the cliffs.
We now approach a little bay, surrounded by an amphitheatre of bare hills; the hollow, for a wonder, slopes down to the shore; we observe patches of green among the rocks, and a flag flying. Several fishing sloops lie at anchor, but there is no appearance of a town. Here we are told is Thorshavn, the capital of Faröe—the haven of Thor. As we approach, we discover that it is a town, the chief part of it built upon a rocky promontory which divides the bay; we can also distinguish the church and fort. The green tint we had observed is grassy turf—but it happens to be growing on the roofs of the wooden houses; and the houses are scattered irregularly among the brown rocks. On the promontory, house rises above house from the water’s edge; and the black, wooden church tower rising behind appears to crown them all. On an eminence, to the right of the town, is the battery or fort, with a flagstaff in front. All glasses in requisition, we curiously examine the place and discover several wooden jetties—landing places for fishing boats. Beneath the fort and all round, split fish are spread on the rocks to dry; many square fish-heaps also are being pressed under boards, with heavy stones placed above them.
The scenery around is not unlike that of Loch Long in Scotland, while the general aspect of Thorshavn itself resembles the pictures of old towns given in the corners of maps of the fifteenth century.
As we enter the bay with colours flying, the Danish flag is run up at the fort, displayed by the sloops, and flutters from the flagstaff at Mr. Müller’s house. This gentleman is one of the local authorities and also agent for the steamer. A cold wind blows down the ravine, boats are coming off, the steam-whistle rejoices on hearing itself echoed among the hills, and the anchor is let go. Now, that we are near it, the town appears really picturesque and carries one several hundred years back, with its veritable old-world, higgledy-piggledy quaintness.
THORSHAVN.
Saturday night, 6 P.M.—Went on shore in the captain’s boat, called at Mr. Müller’s office—a comfortable new erection—and then separated into parties to explore the place. Crowds of men, women, and children, standing at every door, stare at us with undisguised child-like wonder; the men—middle-sized stalwart fellows with light hair and weathered faces—taking off their caps to us as we pass along returning their salutes.
“An ancient fishy smell,” together with a strong flavour of turf-smoke, decidedly predominate over sundry other nondescript odours in this strange out-landish town. The results of our exploration are embodied in the following jottings, which, at all events, participate so far in the spirit of the place as to resemble its ground-plan.
Houses, stone for a few feet next the ground, then wood, tarred or painted black, and generally two stories in height; small windows, the sashes of which are painted white; green turf on the roofs. The interiors of the poorer sort of houses are very dark; an utter absence of voluntary ventilation; one fire, and that in the kitchen, the chimney often only a hole in the roof. Yet even in these hovels there is generally a guest-room, comfortably boarded and furnished. In such apartments we observed chairs, tables, chests of drawers, feather-beds, down coverlets, a few books, engravings on the walls, specimens of ingenious native handiwork, curiosities, &c. This juxtaposition under the same roof was new to us, and struck every one as something quite peculiar and contrary to all our previous experiences. The streets of Thorshavn are only narrow dirty irregular passages, often not more than two or three feet wide; one walks upon bare rock or mud. These passages wind up steep places, and run in all manner of zigzag directions, so that the most direct line from one point to another generally leads “straight down crooked lane and all round the square.” Observed a man on the top of a house cutting grass with a sickle. Here the approach of spring is first indicated by the turf roofs of the houses becoming green. Being invited, we entered several fishermen’s houses; they seemed dark, smoky, and dirty; and, in all, the air was close and stifling. In one, observed a savoury pot of puffin broth, suspended from the ceiling and boiling on a turf fire built open like a smith’s forge, the smoke finding only a very partial egress by the hole overhead; on the wall hung a number of plucked puffins and guillemots; several hens seen through the smoke sitting contentedly perched on a spar evidently intended for their accommodation in the corner of the apartment; a stone hand-mill for grinding barley, such as Sarah may have used, lay on the floor; reminding one of the East, from whence the Scandinavians came in the days of Odin.
In passing along the street we saw strips of whale-flesh, black and reddish-coloured, hanging outside the gable of almost every house to dry, just as we have seen herrings in fishing-villages on our own coasts. When a shoal of whales is driven ashore by the boatmen, there are great rejoicings among the islanders, whose faces, we were told, actually shine for weeks after this their season of feasting. What cannot be eaten at the time is dried for future use. Boiled or roasted it is nutritious, and not very unpalatable. The dried flesh which I tasted resembled tough beef, with a flavour of venison. Being “blood-meat,” I would not have known it to be from the sea; and have been told that, when fresh and properly cooked, tender steaks from a young whale can scarcely be distinguished from beef-steak.