Binding together

One of the most compelling aspects of the Faroe Islands is the combination of isolation and connection. It is true that the physical isolation of the islands in the middle of the North Atlantic has meant that language, food, and traditions – such as the medieval danced ballads – have survived far longer than might otherwise be expected. But we tend to forget that, like any seafaring nation, the Faroes is a nation of travellers, who have seen the world and brought back the things that they have found and integrated them into their culture. After all, even in Britain, it was only in the nineteenth century with the arrival of the railways, that the quickest way to travel between coastal towns was not by sea.

Now, of course, the Faroe Islands themselves are more connected than ever before: to the world via aeroplanes and the internet, and to each other with an awe-inspiring series of tunnels, both through mountains and beneath the sea, that are making travel between towns and villages much easier.


I have recently returned from a short trip to the Faroes and I managed to visit the Faroe Islands Knitting Festival, where I was struck by how many connections were being explored, both in time – learning about historical ties, and in place – seeing how people from other countries are learning about Faroese knitting and how Faroese knitters are keen to learn about other traditions.


When I got off the bus in the village of Fuglafjørður, I wondered whether I had got the date wrong, as there was hardly anyone around. But I soon realised that this festival was unlike others. Rather than other events where everyone gathers in a large space, this festival mainly takes place in people’s living rooms: 27 of them to be precise.




I visited small workshops where participants were learning carding and spinning techniques, knitting methods and other skills from tutors not just from the Faroes, but also from mainland Scandinavia and Iceland. There were over 400 visitors this year, including some 150 from other countries, including Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Iceland, Germany and the USA.



As well as the workshops in living rooms, there are several knitting cafés scattered around the village – even the bank had been transformed into a cosy café!


And one of the warehouses by the harbour acts as a small marketplace, where visitors can stock up on Faroese yarn and accessories. I met one of the two organisers of the event, Eileen Ejdesgaard, in the town’s impressive cultural house. This building acts as the hub of the festival, and is the only place where everyone does meet up, as tasty communal meals are provided as part of the ticket package. Eileen tells me how the village had been so welcoming to all the guests. The people of Fuglafjørður have literally opened their doors and – as well as welcoming workshops into their living rooms – they have provided 160 nights of bed and breakfast accommodation over the three days of the festival.


Fuglafjørður is one of the major fishing and fish-processing ports in the Faroes and when you visit, you feel that connection with history: the knitting associated with the sea and fishermen still has a living presence.



What’s more, like everywhere in the Faroes, you are never far from the raw material of knitters: sheep. I remember when I lived in the nearby village of Leirvík how the sheep wandered around the village in winter after they had been brought down from the mountains. The sound of soft bleating was a comforting respite from the battering wind of winter storms.



You might have gathered that binding is the Faroese word for knitting and, of course, in English the same Old Norse root gives our word for joining things together. Since I became involved in the yarn and knitting world, I have been struck by the strength of virtual communities across the world, who are keen to share their knowledge and enthusiasms – the internet and social media could have been invented specifically for this purpose, but it was a great thrill to see how one village in the Faroe Islands has started with local craft traditions to build new connections with enthusiasts at home and abroad.






Wearing Wool (Part 1)

Technical Fleece

Today I went for a bracing walk in Snowdonia, North Wales. It was a sunny – but still chilly – March day and before I left I automatically grabbed my fleece top. Now this fleece has no connection to a sheep – the word has long been appropriated by the outdoor clothing industry to denote an artificial-fibre garment. But I am staying in Betws-y-Coed and the town is packed with mountain and walking shops, stuffed full of such clothing with hardly a natural fibre to be seen, so it must be the right thing to wear, surely?

After about half an hour of climbing, having already unzipped my top, I took off the fleece to cool down. After a few minutes I decided I needed the top again, so I put it on over my cotton shirt. It was cold and clammy – as much evaporation as perspiration, and I was starting to wish that I had worn my woollen jumper instead.

I have recently re-read The Brendan Voyage by Tim Severin – an account of a successful attempt to recreate the sixth-century voyage of the Irish monk St. Brendan from Ireland to America via the Faroes and Iceland in a boat, built as closely as possible to boats of the time. The building of the boat was half the adventure and involved finding craftsmen who still used some of the techniques that had passed down the generations. Although many people were sceptical that a boat made of ox hides, treated with sheep fat, and stitched together with leather thongs, could survive such a journey, it turned out that the flexibility of these materials helped the boat bend and adapt to the stormy conditions of the North Atlantic. Severin also praised his woollen clothing that helped keep him warm when the whole boat and all its contents got soaked through.


I have also heard a story of a Faroese rower who was part of an attempt to row across the Atlantic. The attempt was almost abandoned as the crew succumbed to cold and exhaustion, until the Faroese oarsman lent his spare woollen underwear to the other rowers and the expedition was saved!

What I am suggesting is not that man-made fibres cannot produce some brilliant technical clothing. I am not a dewy-eyed Luddite (I am writing this on an Apple Mac, not on parchment with a quill pen). But it seems to be perfectly plausible that millions of years of evolution have produced a fibre that is superior in many respects to the results of a few decades of research into petrochemical alternatives.

And surely those 80,000 Faroese sheep can’t be wrong, can they?




Boats and Sweaters (or Jumpers)

As a wool company based in England, we are often looking for the right word to describe a woollen garment, usually favouring “jumper” over “sweater”, but my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary (published 1928) gives the following definition of sweater: “a woollen vest or jersey worn in rowing or other athletic exercise; also worn before or after exercise to prevent taking cold.” So perhaps “sweater” would be the most appropriate English word for the Faroese jumper.

Since the earliest days of viking settlement of the Faroe islands, woollen garments have been literal lifesavers for generations of Faroese rowers and sailors.


Faroese fishermen off the coast of Iceland.

The warmth of wool, even when wet, has kept seafarers alive in the most inhospitable conditions of the North Atlantic. And although, wool provided the material for the complete outfit of clothing, including underwear, it is the skipstroyggja or ship’s jumper, that has become the most iconic of Faroese knitted garments.

Ship's crew, 1938.

Ship’s crew, 1938.

As the use of the typical repeated motifs of Faroese knitting patterns became more widespread, the practical benefits of this style became apparent: not only did the extra strands of yarn from knitting with more than one colour provide extra insulation, but the diversity of patterns helped sailors to recognise each other more easily in the often difficult conditions of life at sea.

Photo from Klaksvík Museum.

Photo from Klaksvík Museum.

This heritage continues to dominate Faroese knitting and knitwear today, which is perhaps not surprising as life on The Faroe Islands is still so dependant on the sea.

Faroese boat with Navia warehouse and shop behind.

Faroese boat with Navia warehouse and shop behind.

If anything, fashion is even more influenced by traditional styles, as young people celebrate the uniqueness of their national culture. The yarn companies have responded to this trend, not only by continuing to publish knitting patterns using the old motifs, but in producing specific yarns that pay tribute to this history, such as the “new” Tradition yarn from Navia.

Design by Oddvör Jacobsen for G!Festival using Navia Tradition.

Design by Oddvör Jacobsen for G!Festival using Navia Tradition.

For a dyed-in-the wool Faroephile like me, there are numerous things of beauty on the Faroe Islands, but if there are two Faroese design classics that deserve World Heritage status they are the Faroese boat and the Faroese jumper (or sweater… or jersey?).

Faroese boats, Gøta.

Faroese boats, Gøta.

Colours of Snældan

The names of the twenty colours of Snældan yarn are all inspired by things that can be seen by any visitor to the Faroe Islands.  Here are some of them.


mistMist and cloud are the key to the ever-changing landscapes and seascapes of the Faroes.


YD15This volcanic rock forms the islands themselves and can be seen virtually wherever you look.




YD16There are very few trees on the Faroe Islands – a combination of too much sea salt in the air and a large population of hungry sheep, so wood for building and manufacture had to be either imported or collected from the seashore.

19th-century cheese mould from Hvannasund (Klaksvík Museum)

19th-century cheese mould from Hvannasund (Klaksvík Museum)



peatPeat was once the most important fuel in Faroese households and the land around the villages still shows the markings formed by centuries of peat cutting. These crates in Klaksvík Museum were once used to carry the peat home. (Note the woollen straps added to ease the load.)



Viking Gold


Silver was the most common precious metal in Viking times, but the richest chieftains were able to display their wealth with small quantities of gold. This 9th-century gold ingot was discovered in farmland in Northern Ireland only last year.





Rhubarb is one of the few fruits or vegetables that grow really well in the Faroes, and is a staple ingredient in desserts, as shown on this stamp image of typical Faroese cuisine (along with with cod heads and stuffed puffins).



Flag Red & Flag Blue



The colours of Merkið – the national flag, celebrated on 25 April every year, in commemoration of the day in 1940 when the British Government instructed Faroese vessels to fly their own flag, following the German occupation of Denmark.



Sorrel Red


Sheep’s Sorrel (Romex Acetosellu) is one of the many moorland flowers that flourish on the Faroese fells.



Turkish Blue


The colour Turquoise, from the French for Turkish, was named after the country from where the gem stones were first imported to Europe. The connection here is with the history of pirate raids on the Faroes, including a documented raid in 1620 when a pirate ship of Ottoman Corsairs arrived from the Barbary coast of Africa.





Grass turf is the traditional roofing material on Faroese buildings, and there are still some modern homes constructed in this way. As well as being an abundant material, it has many advantages in the North Atlantic climate: it adds a very good layer of insulation, and can withstand the batterings of winter storms. From personal experience, I can also vouch for turf roofs as a superb way of silencing heavy rainfall. (Try sleeping under a metal roof in the Faroes and you will know what I mean.)


Atlantic Blue

YD328 copy

This colour is seen during those amazing times when the clouds clear and the sea and sky take on an iridescent blue.



Raven Black


Often on a walk in the Faroese fells there is a magical moment when you hear the deep croak of this majestic bird and then see it as it tumbles in the sky. The raven played an important role in Norse mythology, especially in the form of Odin’s two birds, Hugin and Munin (Thought and Memory) who bring the god news from the world of humans.



Life as a Work of Art


“Life is my work of art:
Yes, I paint every day.
Even if I live to be a hundred
It will never be finished”
This song –  Lívsmynd – is an arrangement for choir of a song by the Faroese musician, Steintór Rasmussen from the Klaksvík-based band, Frændur.
There will be plenty more about Faroese music on this blog in the future, but this video is an ideal taster – and a great combination of music, knitwear, and landscape.
Lyrics/Melody: Steintór Rasmussen
Arranger/Conductor: Sigrið Sivertsen
Choir: Xperiment
Mix: Henrik Birk Aaboe
Video Production: Polar Films

Links in a Chain

The chain breaks to let you in. You link arms with the person either side; join in with the steps – two to the left, one to the right. The skipari (leader or “skipper”) intones the tale, verse by verse, and everyone else joins in the refrain, and as much as the rest as you can trawl from memory. As the number of dancers increases, the ring becomes a snake, coiling and rippling around the room. You watch the faces opposite as they slowly pass – young, old – male, female: all full of concentration and unity of purpose. You get warmer and warmer, as the mesmerising rhythms of purposeful steps on the wooden floor blend with the repetitive music of the ballad. After a while, you lose your sense of time, but not your sense of place. You are on the Faroe Islands, but this could be 2014 or it could be 1420. You have become a link in a chain.

Every time I have taken part in a traditional Faroese dance – whether on the tiny northern island of Fugloy nearly 20 years ago, or in Tórshavn at last summer’s Ólavsøka celebrations – I have found it difficult to remember exactly what happened. The experiences have been vivid, but afterwards it almost feels as though I have dreamt the whole thing. Participating in a Faroese dance induces a type of trance, although you are fully aware of what is going on, and there is nothing quite like it for feeling a part of living history.

So what exactly is Faroese dance? It is, in fact, not just a dance, but dance combined with song and poetry, and although it can be watched by spectators, this art form only really makes sense if you take part in it.

The origins are unclear, but it is quite likely that they go back to before the settlement of the Faroes over a thousand years ago, to the time before Christianity took root in Scandinavia. The ballads (kvæðir) deal with historical events from Northern Europe, as well as fictional heroes and Norse mythology. This video is of Regin Smiður, part of the story of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer – the legendary hero from Norse mythology. Regin the Smith forges Sigurd’s sword.

Grani bar gullið av heiði,
brá hann sínum brandi av reiði,
Sjúrður vann av orminum,
Grani bar gullið av heiði.

Grane bore the gold of glory,
He drew his sword of wrath,
Sigurd slew the dragon,
Grane bore the gold of glory.

[Grane = Sigurd’s horse]

The Faroese dance has had varied fortunes over the centuries, but the geographical isolation of the Faroes, combined with the fact that the oral culture has been so strong (the Faroese language was only written down in the nineteenth century) has meant that the Faroese dance has survived as a thriving form. Some of the country’s leading writers have added to the wealth of texts over the years, and nowadays, children learn their national ballads at school.

The dance has inspired Faroese musicians and artists, as here in this work from 1944 by the great Faroese painter, Sámal Joensen-Mikines:

S J Mikines, Faroese danceThe dancers motif was one of the knitting patterns collected by Hans M. Debes in his book, Føroysk Bindingarmynster (Faroese Knitting Patterns), published in 1932:


Here is an example of how this motif has been used:


The stories themselves have also found there way into knitting patterns, as here, with this dragon design:


It is possible to find many parallels between Faroese dancing and knitting. They both involve a repetitive action, resulting in a whole that is greater than the parts, where repeated motifs combine to form a larger design. Both activities can be rhythmically meditative for the participant. And it is perhaps not stretching the point too far to suggest that knitters are also collaborating in a culture over time, literally connecting links in a chain with their needles, passing something on to future generations, and becoming themselves links in the story of knitting.

William Morris visits the Faroes

I discovered only recently that William Morris had visited the Faroe Islands. Morris – the great Arts and Crafts designer, artist, writer, and political thinker – had a fascination with the Old Norse world, an obsession ignited by his study of the sagas. This led him to go on a pilgrimage to Iceland in the summer of 1871 aboard the Danish mail boat. As is still the case, boats to Iceland often had a stopover in the Faroes, and – just like present-day cruise passengers – Morris had a brief taste of the islands. He kept a diary of his journey, and what struck me as I read it was how vivid his descriptions are of places I know well, and also how little changed are many of the scenes he describes. It occurred to me that I have taken photographs during our last couple of trips, which could act as illustrations of his diary. So what follows are excerpts from Morris’s journal alongside these photographs. Morris had a craftsman’s eye for detail combined with a writer’s ability to turn his observations into succinct prose, but I hope that these photos might add something of interest, especially for those readers who have not visited the Faroes.


I woke up later than usual, about half-past six, and went on deck in a hurry, because I remembered the mate had promised that we should be at Thorshaven in the Faroes by then, and that we should have sighted the south islands of them long before: and now we were sure enough, steaming up the smooth water of a narrow firth with the shore close on either board: I confess I shuddered at my first sight of a really northern land in the grey of a coldish morning.

The firth opened out on one side and showed wild strange hills and narrow sounds P1010986between the islands, that had something, I don’t know what of poetic and attractive about them; and on one side was sign of population in the patches of bright green that showed the home-fields of farms on the hillsides…


Olavsøka 2013

These old fellows, like most (or all) of the men, wore an odd sort of Phrygian cap, stockings and knee-breeches, loose at the knee, and a coat like a knight’s “just-au-corps”, only buttoning in front, and generally open.

P1010668The boats are built high stem and stern, with the keel-rib running up into an ornament at each end and cannot have changed in the least since the times of the Sagas.


The houses were all of wood, high-roofed with little white casements, the rest of the walls being mostly done over with Stockholm tar; every roof was of turf, and fine crops of flowery grass grew on some of them. The houses were pitched down with little order enough, and in fact the whole town was like a toy Dutch town of my childhood’s days.


We hastened down, along the high mowing-grass of the home-field, full of buttercups and marsh-marigolds… it affected me strangely to see all the familiar flowers growing in a place so different to anything one had ever imagined, and withal (it had grown a very bright fresh day by now) there was real beauty about the place of a kind I can’t describe.

P1000902I was most deeply impressed with it all, yet can scarcely tell you why; it was like nothing I had ever seen, but strangely like my old imaginations of places for sea-wanderers to come to: the day was quite a hot summer day now, and there was no cloud in the sky, and the atmosphere was very, very clear, but a little pillowy cloud kept dragging and always changing yet always there, over the top of the little rocky islet. All the islands, whether sloping or sheer rocks, went right into the sea without a hand’s breadth of beach anywhere; and, little thing as that seems, I suppose it is this which gives the air of romanticism to these strange islands.

Close by the sea lay the many gables (black wood with green turf-roofs) of the farm of Kirkjubae (Kirkby), a little white-washed church being the nearest to the sea…

Kirkjubøur church & farm

Kirkjubøur church & farm

The evening was very fine still, the sea quite smooth and the tide in our favour; so the captain told us we were going to thread the islands by the sound called the Westmanna-firth, instead of going round them; so, as it turned out, we had the best sight of the Faroes yet to see…

P1020022[The sound] was quite smooth, clear and green, and not a furlong across; the coasts were most wonderful on either side; pierced rocks running out from the cliffs under which a brig might have sailed;P1020004 caves that the water ran up into, how far we could not tell; smooth walls of rock with streams flowing over them right into the sea; or these would sink down into green slopes with farms on them; P1020016or be cleft into deep valleys over which would show crater-like or pyramidal mountains; or they would be splintered into jagged spires; P1020020one of which, single and huge, just at the point of the last ness before we entered this narrow sound, is named the Trolls-finger…

I have seen nothing out of a dream so strange as our coming out of the last narrow sound into the Atlantic, and leaving the huge wall of  rocks astern in the shadowless midnight twilight: nothing I have ever seen has impressed me so much.