counting sheep

Again and again, Tim Ecott returns to the Faroe Islands, drawn to the rugged vistas and the sturdy creatures that inhabit them

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The rolling Atlantic continuously reflects an + enchanting light, while the shadowed mountains loom like spirits, echoing with the strident cries of seabirds. Constant rains feed sparkling rivulets that make the dark basalt bedrock glisten and the sheer green slopes shine. My friend Teitur runs ahead of me, whistling at his sheepdog, Nova, as she herds a pair of ewes. Teitur is an innløgumadur-a man who gets what he can from the land. Unrestrained by the steep, uneven ground, he is never far behind his dog. I follow at a slower pace, aware that a single misstep could be disastrous. Men have often perished in these mountains; everyone who lives in the Faroes knows someone who has died. Another friend once cautioned, as we followed sheep along a cliff path, "Don't worry, you only fall once."

Living here has never been easy, as the Vikings and Irish monks who first settled this archipelago between Iceland and Norway discovered over a millennium ago. The Vikings brought the rugged, shaggy sheep, a ubiquitous feature of the landscape and a key to understanding these islands. After more than a decade of visits, I have come to love these animals. I have spent some of my happiest days, in what is for me a fundamentally happy place, helping herd hundreds of them through empty valleys in a driving rain.