always there. I think in those first few weeks in Torshavn I managed maybe a couple of hours sleep a night. My eyes and my mind were forced into stumbling false dawns by the damnable glow that wouldn’t go away. Night was no more than a blink of the sun’s eye and darkness was found only under the covers or behind eyelids clamped shut. Daylight stretched for days on end and it chewed at me, eating me up. I found myself listless and struggling to concentrate, bingeing on coffee and food, while wearing the telltale signs of puffy eyes and sallow skin.
Consoling locals were quick to point out that the summer doesn’t last forever, but for me it was hell while it did. Once June and July slip away, it accelerates downhill towards winter. The day is three hours shorter at the end of August than at its beginning. Like a summer’s night, summer itself is a blink that is easy to miss. Gone before you know it.
Yet back then, the interminable dog days of June and early July stretched out beyond my endurance. The window of my new home faced the sea as almost every other did in Torshavn. The sea was east and so was the arrival of the sun, visible or not. It got so that I was awake waiting for it, like the condemned man waiting for the dawn. Yet for me, the dawn itself was the penance, not the executioner’s axe or the hangman’s noose. Either of those would have been sweet relief.
This day, a day that had barely begun, I watched the first straw of sun edge its way into the left-hand corner of the window frame and I knew I was done for. It was a little after 3.30 in what was laughingly called morning, and nothing approaching darkness had found its way into my room.
The sunbeam inched left to right, taunting as it travelled. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. It was so visibly the source of my torture. The one bloody thing I didn’t want to see, and I couldn’t stop looking at it. Day after never-ending day of being awake. Tormented just as much by a lack of sleep as what happened when I managed to achieve it.
The truth was I wasn’t sure which kept me awake more. The constant light or the prospect of the nightmares that inevitably awaited me. The sun was my rescuer as much as my tormentor.
I kicked the blanket off the bed and dropped my legs over the side, determined not to be a prisoner to daylight. I pulled on shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes and locked the shack behind me. At the front door, the hill spilling forward before me, I was arrested by the sight of the phenomenon that plagued me.
The glowing orb was rising above the peak of the neighbouring island of Nolsoy, its rays tumbling down that island’s slopes and turning them into fields of gold. Above, rolling cirrus clouds burned as if fresh from heaven’s oven, and the sky was backlit in a blue that went on forever. The sea was a silver swell and Torshavn’s rainbow homes reflected the glory from above.
The sunrise was a lover that you couldn’t live with and couldn’t live without. I turned my back on her and ran into the hills, determined to exhaust myself.
Chapter 10
It was a Tuesday evening and I’d sought out what passed for a sports bar in Torshavn, with the idea of getting out of the rain and watching Wimbledon with a beer or two for company.
I wandered up the steep, narrow incline of Grims Kambansgøta to where The Irish Pub sat. It was effectively two pubs in one: the mock wood panelling, couthy signs and manufactured alcoves of the theme bar upstairs, while downstairs was the Glitnir, a different beast altogether, and my destination of choice.
It did seem an utterly unsuitable place to be watching something as healthy and outdoorsy as tennis. It was dark and gloomy, a claustrophobic underground lair better suited to snooker or ritual torture. The room was lined with television screens including a vast flat-screen that filled the main wall to the left of the bar.
The walls themselves were draped with huge flags in the
Consoling locals were quick to point out that the summer doesn’t last forever, but for me it was hell while it did. Once June and July slip away, it accelerates downhill towards winter. The day is three hours shorter at the end of August than at its beginning. Like a summer’s night, summer itself is a blink that is easy to miss. Gone before you know it.
Yet back then, the interminable dog days of June and early July stretched out beyond my endurance. The window of my new home faced the sea as almost every other did in Torshavn. The sea was east and so was the arrival of the sun, visible or not. It got so that I was awake waiting for it, like the condemned man waiting for the dawn. Yet for me, the dawn itself was the penance, not the executioner’s axe or the hangman’s noose. Either of those would have been sweet relief.
This day, a day that had barely begun, I watched the first straw of sun edge its way into the left-hand corner of the window frame and I knew I was done for. It was a little after 3.30 in what was laughingly called morning, and nothing approaching darkness had found its way into my room.
The sunbeam inched left to right, taunting as it travelled. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. It was so visibly the source of my torture. The one bloody thing I didn’t want to see, and I couldn’t stop looking at it. Day after never-ending day of being awake. Tormented just as much by a lack of sleep as what happened when I managed to achieve it.
The truth was I wasn’t sure which kept me awake more. The constant light or the prospect of the nightmares that inevitably awaited me. The sun was my rescuer as much as my tormentor.
I kicked the blanket off the bed and dropped my legs over the side, determined not to be a prisoner to daylight. I pulled on shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes and locked the shack behind me. At the front door, the hill spilling forward before me, I was arrested by the sight of the phenomenon that plagued me.
The glowing orb was rising above the peak of the neighbouring island of Nolsoy, its rays tumbling down that island’s slopes and turning them into fields of gold. Above, rolling cirrus clouds burned as if fresh from heaven’s oven, and the sky was backlit in a blue that went on forever. The sea was a silver swell and Torshavn’s rainbow homes reflected the glory from above.
The sunrise was a lover that you couldn’t live with and couldn’t live without. I turned my back on her and ran into the hills, determined to exhaust myself.
Chapter 10
It was a Tuesday evening and I’d sought out what passed for a sports bar in Torshavn, with the idea of getting out of the rain and watching Wimbledon with a beer or two for company.
I wandered up the steep, narrow incline of Grims Kambansgøta to where The Irish Pub sat. It was effectively two pubs in one: the mock wood panelling, couthy signs and manufactured alcoves of the theme bar upstairs, while downstairs was the Glitnir, a different beast altogether, and my destination of choice.
It did seem an utterly unsuitable place to be watching something as healthy and outdoorsy as tennis. It was dark and gloomy, a claustrophobic underground lair better suited to snooker or ritual torture. The room was lined with television screens including a vast flat-screen that filled the main wall to the left of the bar.
The walls themselves were draped with huge flags in the
Similar Books
