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Scotland completely.’
    ‘Did you need to? Not my business, of course.’
    ‘I . . . I felt as if I needed to.’
    ‘So you came to somewhere that rains even more than Glasgow. Are you crazy?’
    ‘I like rain.’
    ‘That’s lucky for you. You’re really going to like it here. But you need somewhere to stay. You cannot live in the Hotel Torshavn. Not on the money we pay.’
    ‘I’m looking for somewhere.’
    ‘My wife and I have a spare room. We take in paying guests. If you want it. If you don’t mind children. We have a daughter too.’
    ‘No, I like children. And yes, that would be great. Thank you.’
    ‘Okay. You have ten more minutes then back to work. You don’t want to be turned to stone.’
    Now I had a job and a place to stay. My new life was taking shape. All I had to do was find a way to put the old one behind me.

Chapter 7
    Hojgaard and I drove mostly in silence up a steep road accompanied by the inexorable drizzle, homes of all shapes, sizes and colours on either side.
    I’d walked up Dalavegur before. Its steep incline had tested my calves and its spectacular views had tested my cynicism.
    To my left there was a striking timber house, tall with dark, herringbone wooden panelling. To my right, a large handsome home on two levels; the upper in dark wood, the lower resplendent in white; the window frames and roof were in ruby red and there was a huge, well-kept garden out in front. Up the hill was a low, pale-blue wooden house with white window frames and a roof of sun-bleached turf. The residents of Torshavn loved colour.
    Perhaps it was the product of living in an environment often dressed in shades of grey that drove them to brighten what they could of their surroundings. The houses came in rainbow hues of cheery pastels and vivid primaries. Walls and roofs, when the latter weren’t made of grass, often contrasted but rarely clashed. It reminded me of the houses and restaurants that strung along the harbour-front on Tobermory on the island of Mull. A palette of brilliance that lit up a dreary day and dazzled on a sunny one.
    Finally we reached a sturdy, square house built of wooden boards protected by corrugated iron, painted daffodil yellow and topped with a bright red roof. Martin waved a hand in its direction.
    ‘My home.’
    A sheepdog bounded across the neat garden to meet us, its black-and-white coat rippling with the wind and the enthusiasm of its greeting. Its mouth hung open and its tail wagged furiously, but it didn’t let loose a single bark.
    ‘Hvirla!’ Martin crouched and ruffled the dog’s mane and rubbed its ears. The beast celebrated by whirling on the spot, nose to tail, in delight. ‘In English it means like a cyclone or tornado. It suits him, no?’
    The door opened and a woman stepped out, a young girl tucked shyly in at her side, arms around her.
    ‘This is Silja. My wife. And this . . .’ he strode towards them and plucked the girl from her mother’s waist, ‘. . . is my prinsessa , Rannva.’
    The girl giggled as she was swung though the air, her blonde hair flying, pretending to try to escape the kisses that her father aimed to plant on her cheek. She failed, and Martin kissed her noisily.
    Silja Hojgaard was an attractive, rather weather-beaten woman in her late thirties or early forties, her straw-blonde haired pulled behind her head into an unruly ponytail. She smiled warmly and nodded. ‘Nice to meet you.’
    Those turned out to be pretty much the only four words of English she used, apart from please and thank you , both of which she uttered regularly. Martin later told me that Silja did know more English but lacked the confidence to use it. Rannva was only six and knew no language other than Faroese. She seemed fascinated by and suspicious of my presence in equal measure.
    I was shown to a simple room: clean, tidy and all in white but for the dark wooden furniture. From the sole window there was a stunning view back down the hill towards the town centre