When the North Atlantic monsoon unbuttons the island

——Written to those who miss the green grass in the steel jungle One morning in June, I woke up to the roar of Gásadalur waterfall. The salty mist was like the breath of the archipelago, seeping into every inch of the fiber of the jacket. Summer in Faro never announces its arrival, it just makes the moss suddenly rise overnight, dyeing the cliffs emerald velvet. The grass is growing wildly. They rush along the folds of the fjord, over the faded cross spires of the churches, and submerge the secret paths that shepherds have trampled out over hundreds of years. As I bent over to tie my shoelaces on the wooden boardwalk of Mykines, a puffin passed by my shadow. Its bright red beak pecked through the seal of the horizon. Eighteen islands suddenly emerged from the morning mist, becoming an emerald archipelago floating on the back of a whale. Locals say it is a prank by the huldufólk (invisible dweller). The elves living deep in the rock formations will fold the entire sea into the size of a helicopter window on a midsummer night - when the propeller cuts through the clouds, you will see the sea water pouring back into the sky, the waterfall hovering in mid-air, and your heart is slowly drying in the chimney of a thatched house along with the salty fragrance of dried cod. A sign on the cliff reads: Do not feed the elves. But I still left half a piece of whale blubber on the black sand beach of Saksun. After all, the indigenous people of these lands have the right to collect fairy tale tax from passers-by. At ten o'clock in the evening the sun was still roaming over the Gjógv Canyon. I stepped on the high tide and stole the wool socks that the shepherd on the cliff hung in the wind, but left two Icelandic kronor behind - in Faro, all unexpected encounters should leave an echo. Just like those roofs eaten by moss, they will eventually be spit out by new grass leaves a hundred years later and become a footnote to some Norse mythology. When I left, the customs officer found three wet grass seeds in the layer of my passport. Perhaps at this time next year, a new legend will grow in the cracks of a basalt in the North Atlantic. 【Traveler's Notes】 · Order fermented lamb with dark rye bread at G! Restaurant to experience geological movement on your taste buds Bring a piece of whale oil soap when hiking on Vagar Island; the elves on the cliffs love the smell If you meet a shepherd wearing rain boots, ask him to hum a folk song - that is a more accurate navigation than GPS