On the edge of Europe: the Faroe Islands

Currency is terribly boring these days. There might be good bureaucratic reasons for the onward march of the euro but it's hard to get excited about the folding stuff itself. I wonder how numismatists (coin and banknote collectors, for those of you who lose at Trivial Pursuit) are faring, and I wonder even more whether they would be interested in the 550 Faroese krone remaining in my wallet. Nobody else seems interested or, rather, they seem simply puzzled. I have hawked the bills around half the bureaux de change in London and, far from the offer of a wad of beer money in return, I merely get curious enquires about where the notes are from.

They're from the Faroe Islands! OK, let's get it over with. Where, in turn, are the Faroe Islands? Paddling in the upper reaches of the North Atlantic, halfway between Scotland and Iceland, is the answer. They belong, however, to neither of those two countries but are, rather, a somewhat reluctant part of the Kingdom of Denmark (I bet you didn't know that existed; Greenland belongs to it, too), constantly edging towards independence.

It's not as if my Faroese krone (to return for the last time, I promise, to the currency theme) aren't beautiful. They look like watercolours painted by a very talented child. A great crab crawls across one note; on another, sheep blobs graze on a cliff edge, the scene fading to grey halfway across the bill as if the currency itself had survived a dip in the ocean.

We saw sheep – presumably not the same sheep – far above us atop the cliffs as we skirted the island of Hestur, one of 18 making up the Faroes, on the restored wooden schooner Norolysio. The Faroes have some of the tallest cliffs in the world, reaching up to 600 metres. These ones were scratched by long striations from top to bottom, as if scored by the hand that made them as a final effect. Thousands of resting gulls flecked the rock, periodically taking off to join the equally abundant mass wheeling above and dive-bombing into the sea.

We descended from the larger boat into a tiny Zodiac craft to enter one of the caves boring into Hestur's side. We had to ease through its pursed mouth on the choppy swell but found the cave swelled to a great, cathedral-like thing inside. The Faroese hold concerts in there, audience and musicians alike bobbing up and down in this bubble beneath countless tonnes of rock. They do that kind of thing on the Faroes, to keep themselves entertained. They also have the highest birth rate in Europe.

Once back aboard the schooner we were fed warming bowls of the captain's rich and delicious fish soup, which had been simmering pungently below decks for the whole journey. Earlier I had talked to Oddmar, the old-timer who had periodically taken the tiller while the captain went down to attend to his stove. Oddmar's family had been on the Faroes for a thousand years, he said. He reckoned he had some Irish in him, from the monks who may have been the first settlers on the islands and the possible remains of whose dwellings can still be seen.

Oddmar also claimed the Faroese parliament was even more ancient than Iceland's, which first met in 930: certainly the two both have a strong claim to being the oldest such gathering in the world.

Oddmar's lineage sounded impressive but it wasn't so extraordinary in a place such as the Faroes. Pall Patursson is a sombre, articulate sheep farmer whose family is the 16th generation to inhabit what is believed to be the oldest wooden house in the world. In traditional dress of knickerbockers and colourful embroidered waistcoat, he showed us around the little dwelling, beautiful in its soft emanation of incredible age.

Outside the house once more, Pall lit a cigarette and told us something of the history of the islands. As he talked, one of his sons gambolled on a grass roof nearby. You see such cladding all over the Faroes, keeping houses warm and dry. Sometimes, Pall said, he'd put an orphaned lamb up there to keep the grass trim before slaughtering the creature in the spring. "Don't you get attached to them?" I asked, somewhat ridiculously. "Yes," he said, "but they're just meat."

There are around two sheep for every one of the 50,000 or so people on the Faroes but the islands still have to import more. Perhaps the Faroese have a historical memory of hunger because, as Pall explained, starvation – and, before that, a resort to seaweed – was long a common cause of death here. No wonder they celebrated whenever a pod of whales swam into view. The cry would go up, everyone would take to their boats, they'd corral the whales into a convenient bay and then club them.

Greenpeace might protest but whale-killing continues. It's not so much concerns over cruelty that might put a stop to the practice but the high concentrations of mercury scientists have found in the whales. Puffins, sweet puffins, are another cherished food.

Perhaps less adored are the rhubarb and potatoes that are among the few vegetables that grow on the virtually treeless islands. Starvation would empty whole communities on the Faroes; you find ghost villages, still preserved in the hope of eventual return. One farming family of four has a whole island, Stora Dimun, to itself.

It is not as if a quiet wind whispers everywhere on the island. The capital, Torshavn, boils on a Saturday night. When I sloped off to bed at 4am the main street was still steaming, by the looks of things as a prelude to some maintenance of that incredibly high birth rate. There are smart cafes and some great restaurants (try Gourmet, which is what it says on the tin), although you'll be hard put to find puffin or whale on most menus. Torshavn is a great foil to what the islands essentially are: a place that will draw birdwatchers and people who like long, thoroughly unimpeded car or motorcycle rides (many of the islands are connected by tunnels now) or, even better, walks. I fancied moving there, growing a long beard and writing terrible poetry. I might go mad, but very gently.

TRAVEL FACTS

Simon travelled to the Faroe Islands courtesy of Atlantic Airways, which flies twice weekly in summer (June to August) from Stansted to the Faroes, with fares from around £200. For activities, car rental and accommodation on the Faroes, try 62 Degrees North and Greengate Incoming. Simon stayed at the Hotel Hafnia, in central Torshavn.

For more information on travel to the Faroes see Visit Faroe Islands.