I know I’ve referred to ‘my host’ a few times now.

I also know that a few of you think it’s a girl! And that I’m ‘away getting some international poontang’. Well, to the handful of you that jumped to such a despicable conclusion, SHAME ON YOU!

Actually it’s a he (and he is flexible but that’s because he’s a gymnast). In fact, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m actually getting so little ‘inbred booty’ (obviously not my turn of phrase…) that I keep hoping that he’ll set me up with some suitably-Faroese female flesh. But alas, being a fellow geek, I don’t think he’s going to come through with the goods. But there’s time yet…!

He’s actually very similar to me, but instead of learning to program computers he picked up gymnastics instead (something I was actually quite into when I was younger, believe it or not! I could front- and back-flip with the best of them!)

Anyway, here’s a pretty (and slightly-edited to make him look more awesome) photo of him doing a handstand on a rock some way out to sea:

And now one of me being no where near as daring. In fact I’m doing a bit of a twirl here — like in Singing in the Rain where he twirls, looking up into the rain, a smile on his face.

Finally, because, well, I’m a photographer and I like to take pretty photos, here’s a beautiful photo of the roiling and ferocious Atlantic ocean:

The G! festival begins today; they squeeze about 10,000 people onto a stretch of beach that, in the Western world, wouldn’t hold more than 10 or 15 sunbathers. I believe we’ll be visiting by boat and anchoring just off the coast. From there we’ll have a perfect vantage point to observe the moshingly-crazy Faroese.

I’m back in in the UK after a bumpy flight and a horrible slog across a very busy rail network (great timing for industrial union action!) It was made all the more enjoyable by the company of a cute Faroese girl that I will never meet again — and a nice Australian guy that runs a large chain of bakeries across Canada.

You meet all sorts on trains and planes!

Anyway, just time for a dorky photo of me and the two poor sods that had to look after me on my trip to the Faroe Islands.

Guy on left is 21; right-side is 32. Not sure why he isn’t smiling (probably because some hairy guy is trying to pull him close for a photo…)

Unfortunately that’s all I have right now because, yet again, I got very little sleep — so now I’m going to bed.

I have fantastic stories of whale hunting and curb crawling to regale you with over the next few days. There’s a couple more photos tomorrow and then things should return to normal — but I’m going to be pretty busy over the next week so it might come in slowly!

In the mean time, if you haven’t been keeping track of my photos from the Faroe Islands, my Flickr stream is a good place to start. In fact, go there now and admire the beautiful scenery!

(Seagulls!!)

“I need to go to the loo!”

She spoke with an East London accent as she dragged me by the hand through the crowd of the festival. Was this it? After two weeks of tantalisingly close encounters would my first taste of female Faroese flesh take place in a portable toilet? Rather than choosing which variety of condom would I instead have to choose which of the 10 toilets would be our destination?

“You wait here!” I pouted; it was not to be. She still spoke with that curious, East London accent. But why had she made me follow her? If I can’t screw an inebriated girl at a festival – while sober myself! – what kind of man am I?

She staggers out of the toilet and sizes me up. Accompanied by the acrid smell of piss, alcohol and vomit she is suddenly a lot less attractive. She must’ve noticed the brief flicker of disgust on my face. “Shall we go to my tent?” Still the odd accent and this time followed by a giggle that she probably thought girlish but it fell flat, tumbling out of her still-wet lips, still sticky from her last drink.

“I think I ought to go… they’ll be waiting for me on the boat.”

“But I’ll show you a whale of a time!” A pun delivered in the light, airy and common accent of a Londoner — I had to laugh. Looking at her again, sizing her up, I thought she was more of a dolphin, but I let it lie: she wasn’t thin, even in the most complimentary of lighting or lack thereof. But neither was she American in stature.

“Okay. But before we continue… I have to ask… why the accent?”

“I studied in London for a few years! Stop asking silly questions. Come on then mate! Let’s take a stroll up the hill towards the tents!”

And so we walked up the hill, contraflow to the throng of drunk stoners making their way to the beach-side stage for the next noisy band.

She had slightly narrow eyes, a forehead that seemed to cover at least half her head. She was short — but then again almost every Faroe is — and she walked with a bit of a limp.

But it was a music festival. Who would know…?

When in the Faroes, do as the Faroese do… Veni, vidi…

The Faroes consist of 18 islands, some small, some large, and only one uninhabited. The population spread is also far from equal: about two thirds of the population live in or near the capital. For 1200 years the only way to get around would’ve been by boat. We’re not talking large distances – the archipelago is only 100 miles across – but by land, because of the mountainous topology, most villages would be, by today’s standards, totally isolated. Settlements in the Faroes are invariably placed in bays and inlets with mountains reaching up behind them. These plains are also very small – there’s almost no naturally-flat land in the Faroes! – and as a result there’s only one big town: Torshavn (Thor’s Harbour – cool name, eh?)

Anyway, along came the automobile and roads between towns on the same island begun to be carved out of the vertical-cliffed basalt mountains; ferries were used to go between islands – and more recently, to replace the ferries, tunnels! Lots and lots of tunnels.

I’m not some master civil engineer. I don’t know a whole lot about tunnel making (except for the Eurotunnel because it was in the media for a decade…) What I do know is that cutting your way through dense, metamorphic rock isn’t easy. In fact, it’s more a case of blowing things up with explosives. In a controlled fashion of course.

And that’s where this story takes place: in a Faroese under-sea tunnel. Not a nice, new, two-way well-lit tunnel – no. This takes place in one of the original, single-lane, pray-you-don’t-meet-someone-coming-the-other-way tunnels. They’re not lit. These tunnels are pitch-black except for your car’s lights. Years and years of carbon emissions mean the walls are lined with thick, light-absorbent soot. The only saving grace are the reflectors that illuminate the scars left by the dynamite: deeply-pocked, dirty-black holes.

Except for getting from A to B in the quickest way possible, there’s only one other thing that these tunnels are good for: racing. On the Faroe Islands, a country with no apparent social structure and limited space to build big houses, there’s only one real way to show off your wealth: fast cars. Fancy cars. Cars with spoilers and sexy skirts.

And in the case of my host in the Faroe Islands: nitrous oxide injection. I won’t bore you with the details, but put simply: it makes a car go quick – spine-fusing and eyebrow-ripping fast.

(This was meant to be someone sitting in a car with g-force/wind making their cheeks wobble…
But this was all I could find on Google.)

I’ve completely lost my train of thought. Damn Asian baby. Ah yes… So they race along these tunnels. A bit like a low-tech version of The Fast and the Furious without the flashy lights or the  hot girls in skintight plasticky clothing. You start at one end and finish at the other — the highest max speed at the end of the night wins! Wins what? The multi-tiered, golden and invisible cup of Pride of course! I suppose when you’ve been at sea for nine months bragging rights are about as exciting as things get: “Pass me the knife, Bjorn.” “REMEMBER THAT TIME I BEAT YOU IN THE TUNNEL?!” “Yeah… now pass the damn knife.”

I should tell you now that I’m a bit of a speed freak. So of course, last week, I found myself sitting in a super-charged hod and staring into the murky abyss.

“What if there’s a car coming but its lights are broken?

“Well… let’s hope that doesn’t happen Seb.”

“What if we hit a rock and collide with the wall, smearing our faces into a millimeter-thick laminate?”

“There’s always a chance of that… but it’s been a long time since it last happened.”

And with a cheesy, over-confident grin from the driver — a grin that betrayed his true nervousness — and with the drop of the clutch and the bang of the exhaust we accelerated into the tunnel.

A few seconds later, fully blanketed in black, there’s a rumble loud enough to be heard over the frantically-whirring engine. It’s my turn to grin nervously. It’s my turn to look towards the car’s flimsy roof and perform in the fraction of a second some thoroughly pointless calculations.

Out of the corner of his mouth he whispers tersely.

“Seb.” A second desperate and creaking roar from the dark surround. “Brake… or accelerate?”

It’s hot and sticky in the UK again. I’m tired through lack of sleep and I refuse to pump myself full of caffeine just so I’m capable of coherent thought and thus bubble forth the beautiful, flowing prose that you expect from me. Instead, I went through photos from the G! Festival, a music festival that takes place on a beach in the Faroe Islands. You’ve seen a few but I have a lot (hundreds). There’ll probably be some more tomorrow. I’ve tried to prepare a nice selection of photos so there should be something for everyone!

[Image removed, as it became Dancing Light]

Hogni, a Faroese musician. Look at his smile. Maybe my favourite photo ever! (You need to see it BIG, it’s awesome) Definitely a case of right-place-right-time. And my 100mm prime lens which seems to have truly beautiful optic characteristics.

Teitur, perhaps the most famous Faroese musician, with an adoring audience. And a rather pretty sunset in the background!

If only you could see the kid on the right’s facial expression. I think we can guess though. G! Festival is for all the family!

This entry was almost a deep-and-meaningful — I woke up with a start this morning with a deep, poignant phrase repeating itself over and over in my head — but after some reflection, I think I’ll wait for Monday. I need a little more time to turn it over; to taste it. Now if only I could remember the dream that obviously shook me enough to wake me up! Maybe this is what they call a ‘Eureka!’ moment…

So I’m not quite through with the photos from the G! Festival in the Faroes. Yesterday I started with a handful of great photos and today I’ll finish up with some more!

(The beautiful dawn photo is at the end.)

This is Frændur, some kind of ‘Faroese legend’ as far as music goes. They’re from the 80s and totally Faroese — don’t feel bad for never having heard of them!

Hogni again! Looks better full-size, but I think you can appreciate the feeling. I love the illuminated heads of the audience.

I think you’d have a hard time looking more iconic, more anthemic, more festival than this photo. I guess a candle is the new cigarette lighter. The armband was a beautiful bonus!

Better than my original Atlantic Dawn? I’m not sure. It’s beautiful for the rich fruitiness of the red and the highlighted clouds in the bottom left. Of course, my soft spot for pink might be skewing my opinion of it a little… but it is rather beautiful.

There’s a nasty problem that afflicts most artists. Some would say it isn’t a problem, some would say it’s merely ‘perfectionism’ or something, but the fact remains: artists tend to be very critical of their own work. I don’t necessarily mean that they HATE everything they produce, though some surely do. I mean that the artist judges his work very heavy-handedly. A painter might hate a portrait simply because they got an ear slightly wrong. A photographer might hate a landscape for being just slightly skewed. A singer might think their performance was awful because they hit one wrong note.

But in all actuality, to the audience — those that look at the paintings or photos, those that listen to the singer — it’s still a beautiful piece of art.

What I’m trying to say is that for every single photo you see of mine on this blog or on Flickr, there are probably 10 others that are great, but not good enough in my opinion. But the sad thing is, history has shown that more often than not, it’s those hated paintings, those paintings that ‘aren’t quite good enough’, that become famous.

Because the artist’s viewpoint is heavily biased. It’s like… you can’t see the forest for the trees. You’re so immersed in your own art that you never really get to stand back and appreciate it. You get to enjoy my art more than I do. How lame is that?!

Anyway…

So, because these photos are probably good, even though I don’t think they’re PERFECT, I thought I would share them with you. Scroll through them, there should be something for everyone! The ‘Sebby Landscapes’ are towards the end, if you don’t like PEOPLE photos.

(Click for a slightly larger version of the blonde guitarist — she’s blonde, can’t you tell?!)

(You probably recognise this kid from the ‘peace’ photo I took of him. A whole lot cuter in this one, eh?)

(Painting with light and smoke! Just an experiment… turned out better than I thought it would be!)

(Aw! There’s a better portrait of her, but it’s not public… so this one will have to do.)

(From one of our ‘invigorating’ walks in the Faroes. From the same ’session’ as my ‘meet my Faroese hosts‘ post.)

And FINALLY, an over-exposed-but-deliciously-blue-and-cerulean-and-cyan landscape from the east coast of the Faroes. You’ll recognise this landscape from this Faroes post.