Snapshot in time. Faroe Islands, in the extreme North, Viðoy, close to Viðareiði, before you enter the village. A car that held the road well that day, purring engine, humming from the driver’s seat probably, with the radio on, some afternoon program, a cutting out, radio news, and, simultaneously, a different countdown that was just about to start. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, elegant curving, five, four, at the tunnel portal, three, half-eaten, two, semi-immersed, one, backlights flashing, gone. As if the earth had swallowed the car, the driver in front of me, up. The rocky mouth of the towering rock layers wide open. And then it was my turn to enter the pierced and yet majestic mountain.
The tunnel drilling machine had done a heck of a job, targeted, hyper-accurate, meter after meter. In the end, blasting operations, skilled tunnelers and relentless rock drills had covered an enormous distance, almost two kilometers. A new tunnel had been born, an alternative route without „Danger, falling rocks!“-signs, being in use ever since. It’s a strange feeling, driving through these tunnels, the small, they are the ones I’m referring to at this point.
Paved roads connect all the inhabited villages of the Faroe Islands; and all the islands – 18 in number – are also connected, some way or other. By subsea tunnels, bridges, ferryboats, helicopter services or small, dark, narrow tunnels. I like that: getting to the tunnel portal, being swallowed, the progressive motion in the twilight, the dancing headlights, the time between, next the end of the tunnel, the exit, a new picture is about to pop up, a fjord, a village, a landscape, a hilltop, a harbor, a mountain pass, a grass roof, a flock of sheep, a change in weather; another snapshot in time.