Perished scraps of translucent, skin like, shreds cling to the clothes rolls as i draw them from my pack. not yet left home but my belongings look as though they’ve been on the road for months. stubborn flakes of disintegrated lining that wont brush or shake free.
for a few seconds i contemplate a last minute purchase but instead opt for a waterproof rucksack liner and will just pretend ive been on the road for months.
in truth im having anxieties. my placement has always been clear but mixed messages have reached me about tasks, expectations and indeed, even who else might be there. will i fit in? will i want to be there? will i walk away?
ive packed smartish clothes to welcome guests to the swish 1950s boutique guesthouse but my hosts’ marketing strategy appears in need of development. i understand it may turn out that there are few, if any, guests this season. the alternative, demanding the packing of old working clothes, will be to scrub and clean the outside walls of the three storey guest house, before painting them with some specially ordered treatment, designed, no doubt to keep out the average twenty one days of rain in every summer month.
i re-roll my clothes and stuff them into the pack less efficiently then previously with the waterproof liner now challenging any attempt at precision in packing. lumps stick out, the pack is taller and now lopsided. i grimace as one of the clips becomes temperamental.
last minute research this afternoon revealed a couchsurfer living on another island and ive sent an introductory message. ive logged in to bewelcome, virtual traveller and trip advisor telling anyone who might look in of my plans and inviting contact. it was quickly apparent that the faroes have a small footprint in travel networks and im not expecting a deluge of invitations.
and this evening’s shipping forecast led to me burning my pinenuts….
fair isle, faroes, south east iceland, cyclonic 4 or 5, increasing 6 at times, rain or showers, fog patches, moderate or good, occasionally very poor.