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ON SMALL ISLANDS

“Compressing a whole nation into a land mass so small has meant some sacrifices.  The mountain pass I'd climbed had plainly been scaled back to take this into account.” 

By 5am land was drifting by.  We were already ghosting along for final entry into the harbour by the time I got out on deck.   Few were out there to see brightly coloured modern buildings and ancient black tarred ones alike emerge from the morning drizzle.  Few watched the crew throw ropes to harbour personnel, huddled against the morning cool, before winches pulled on them to make fast and vehicle ramps dropped noisily into position.  Viewed through tired traveller’s haze, that early morning might have been happening to someone else.  Only when the cars started driving off did brain engage and legs dash to cabin to collect belongings before  re-joining my bike.  
          Arrival was something of a non event.  Even as a non event it scored dismally.   No grand entry, no uniformed officials asking invasive questions.  Out through the "nothing to declare" green route.  And still nothing.  No obvious directions to an arrival lounge where a weary traveller might chill out, find a bite to eat, take a nap.  And not a soul to ask.  Far from that slight feeling of unease, that bit when passports are scrutinised, faces casually matched to photographs taken years ago, and luggage is given the eye.  As though I had just come back from the toilet ….. that much drama.   

After establishing the departure point for "domestic flights" I could relax a little, find breakfast, settle down with lots of coffee, log on to a different country.  That was the plan.  But with no sign of anything opening, after touring the streets I wound up on the waterfront.  Muesli and a brew up sitting on a rocky outcrop overlooking the harbour.  Not quite the overture that springs to mind for a damp morning.  But a whole lot was going on out there.  In most countries, it would have been a bustling railway station with long distance passenger traffic, commuters and freight fighting for territory in a manner that Brunel or Stephenson might recognise, still.  But this eighteen island nation in the North Atlantic, even now home to just 46,000 people, would have foxed them.  Years on, through mountain pass and tunnel alike, a delayed, hypothetical, well and truly privatised "Islands Express" might make its way from Klaksvik to Torshavn.  It’s passengers leafing through a boatload of excuses would be acutely aware of detail like points failure, the wrong sort of snow (now, where have I heard that one before?) fish on the line, a signal failure to respond.  Boats rule OK here, however.  Humble dinghies, swanky fishing boats bristling with equipment, cargo vessels.  And the dazzling tower block of a cruise ship anchored out there, small service vessels like suitors at the ball paying close attention to her every need.  All this, and more.  A live show that gave a real insight into the way this maritime society worked.  Out there passengers would be wading through mountainous breakfasts, others jogging on deck or working out in the gym.  Some would be waiting to be taken ashore for wallet stretching exercises.  Or the coach tour.  Travellers, all of us.  But there the similarities ceased.  Pedal power, with its inherent hardships, a million miles from the cushioned lifestyle just yards from me and my simple meal.  A gulf in more ways than one, I mused.  Meanwhile ferries came and went, bringing workers from the islands into the one of the world's smallest capital cities …..  with a population of just 16,000.   With map in front of me I followed their route ….. dotted lines between the islands ….. much as I'd done all those years ago as a train spotter.  The Thames Clyde Express, The Yorkshireman, The Lakes Express, The Cambrian Coast Express, The Aberdonian, Atlantic Coast Express, to name but a few.  Following the routes of these trains, and many more that ploughed the length and breadth of the UK, I acquired a basic geographical background that has never left me.  But setting up a stove, making breakfast on a rocky outcrop at the end of platform 6 at Kings Cross: that would have been against the rules, I'm sure.  Just another travel experience to conjure up emotions from the past.  But so realistic that it almost overran.  To the extent that I had to hurriedly pack up and ride back to the west harbour.  Where my ferry, already unloading its cargo of commuters, was making ready for a rapid turn round. 

Short on features, even the guide book had failed here.  The road north, I concluded, was the best Toftir could offer.  Unwittingly I had missed the main attraction, learning only later of the 5000 seat international football stadium located in the hills above.  An opportunity afforded to few.  And I blew it.  Football: that's the one where they kick, or do they throw things, hit them, perhaps?  And that's just the spectators.  I guess it's a little less dangerous than war, but the rules of engagement for both might have been drawn up at the same meeting.  That so-called followers, the world over, should be elated or saddened to the extent that tribal violence all too often follows a result is quite beyond me.  Appreciative of personal challenges on a wide front, I cannot get my head round the time and energy expended on the orientation of a ball.  Without doubt, great skill is required for its successful handling.  But if skill alone was a measure of the esteem in which everyone was held, I cannot help thinking that the world would be a more pleasant place.  International kitchen fitting championships; a crowd puller at a stadium near you.  First division carpet fitting.  Commonwealth cake icing competitions.  Police hold back the crowds: the open top double decker is just able to make its way along the High Street.  Up there is the team: they're holding the cup high.  Ecstatic, the crowd is at fever pitch, for they are in the company of champions.  No hopers, the press had written.  But, all that behind them, the waiters, their waiters, had come good.  They had waited longer, faster, more politely.  The final had been tough: each team had waited an hour and a half when the final whistle blew.  Only extra time had shown just how all the training had paid off.  And now, they were to be honoured at a banquet given by the mayor.  Laughable: or is it simply a measure of how the skills that keep humanity afloat are relegated to third division whilst entertainers, for that is all they are, fill the newspapers, and their wallets, on a scale that far exceeds their value to society.  Take no notice of my rantings.  I don’t know what came over me.  It’s probably something I’d eaten.  

I was lucky to make it to the top of the hill.  Seven miles into the trip, and almost wiped out.  Twice.  The fact that I'd seen no other cyclists should have alerted me to government policy.  The hole into which ferry passengers must have disappeared earlier was intended for cyclists as well.  I'd avoided that but sighted now, large unmarked trucks had been sent out on seek and destroy missions.  To feel the heat of large vehicles as they overtake is not uncommon.  Close enough to be pulled into their slipstream is scary.  Closer than that is to be grateful to live long enough to curse their drivers, to consider the marital status of their parents and the sexual activity in which they were, without doubt, currently engaged.  Also the possibility that they were Merchant Bankers earning that extra crust.  Neither of them heard any of this.  I doubt if they’d even seen me.  In a land bereft of cyclists, I guess they don't feature on the Highway Code list of things for drivers to avoid: sheep, people, fjords, fish, going slowly.  But not cyclists.  Small boys wanted to be engine drivers when I was young.  With large parts of the UK now devoid of railways, the next best thing is to be a white van driver.  To hug the tail of the car in front, to overtake in ludicrous places, to deliver the goods whatever the cost to other road users: a fine career; for the mindless.  In a country short on other motorists to intimidate, I guess that driving large unmarked trucks at breakneck speeds on winding roads is a viable alternative.  Unless you can afford a Fiesta with tinted windows.

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