We Brought Bikes to a Storm
Written by Elina Lehmkuhl @lemcool_collective
Photo credit Levy Loye @levyloye
Some people check the weather forecast and reschedule.
We checked the forecast, saw a storm system parking itself directly over the Faroe Islands, and thought: perfect.
Lévy, who lives on the other side of the mountain from me, and I had been fantasizing about bike-packing somewhere dramatic. Somewhere cold. Somewhere that didn’t advertise itself with beach umbrellas. We are both firmly pro-wind, pro-layers, anti-sunstroke.
The Faroes, floating between Denmark and Iceland, seemed ideal. Green cliffs. Empty roads. Sheep. Weather with personality. And, as it turns out, a lot of personality.
A Week Inside One Very Committed Storm
We knew there would be a storm when we arrived. What we didn’t know was that it would settle in like a long-term tenant.
Only when we were leaving did we see the weather map: clear skies everywhere else. One tight spiral of chaos sitting directly on top of the Faroes. We had spent the entire week pedaling inside it. And honestly? It was magnificent.
The rain didn’t ruin the landscape, it turned everything up to maximum. Waterfalls weren’t decorative; they were aggressive. The grass wasn’t green; it was radioactive green. The clouds moved so fast it felt like time-lapse photography in real life.
At one point we found ourselves in the eye of the storm. The sun came out, cliffs glowing, ocean sparkling. The wind, however, remained absolutely unhinged. Cycling into it felt like riding into a wall that disapproved of you personally. We would stand on the pedals, pushing with theatrical determination, moving forward approximately one dramatic centimeter at a time. It was the only time I’ve experienced sunshine and thought, “This is worse.”
The Tent Situation
Night one: immersion therapy.
LĂ©vy had brought a lightweight tent designed for snow. Snow, famously, falls downward. Faroese rain travels sideways, occasionally upward, and sometimes seems to reconsider gravity altogether.
The tent also had a hole. We discovered this detail when we woke up in puddles. Not dampness. Not “a bit of condensation.” Puddles.
Strangely, it was still beautiful. The sound of rain drumming against nylon. The wind sweeping uninterrupted across open land. No traffic. No artificial light. Just weather performing at full volume.
We weren’t observing the Faroes. We were marinating in them.
Roads, Sheep,
and Mild Existentialism
The roads are few but spectacular; carving over mountains, dipping toward inlets, connecting villages that look like they were carefully placed by someone with excellent taste. Outside of TĂłrshavn, most towns felt like clusters of dark wooden houses, fishing boats, and sheep who absolutely do not care about your itinerary.
The sheep roam freely, which gives the entire country the energy of a very scenic farm that forgot to install boundaries. More than once, we slowed down not because of traffic, but because a sheep was contemplating the concept of roads. The rain made everything more dramatic. Waterfalls were in full throw, hurling themselves off cliffs. The mountains appeared and disappeared in mist like shy giants.
You don’t just see the Faroes. They reveal themselves in installments.
The Islands Are Beautiful.
They Are Also Not Built for You.
We quickly realized something: the Faroes are stunning. They are also not particularly concerned with accommodating bike-packers.
Some trails? Closed to cyclists.
Certain tunnels? No bikes allowed.
Buses across islands? Possibly. Maybe. Depends. Good luck.
Every crossing felt like a negotiation with infrastructure. At one point, we rode through a 5-kilometer underwater tunnel because it was the most logical option. It dips below sea level before climbing back out, which means you voluntarily cycle into the earth and then earn your return to oxygen.
I have never been so aware of existing. Emerging on the other side into open air felt like being reborn; slightly damp, but triumphant.
Luxury Accommodation (Public Toilet Edition)
Midway through the trip, after climbing up and down a col in sideways rain, we arrived at a campsite where the grass had evolved into a shallow lake.
Pitching the hole-enhanced tent on it felt ambitious. So we upgraded. To the public toilet.
Four walls. A roof. Dry floor. Honestly? Five stars.
We laid out damp clothes, waited for a break in the rain, and fully accepted that this, this right here, was the adventure we had signed up for.
It wasn’t glamorous. It was better. It was memorable.
Alone,
But Not Lonely
For most of the week, we saw almost no other cyclists. Few tourists. Just us, the wind, the waterfalls, and sheep maintaining eye contact from hillsides.
Near the end, we met a campsite manager who was an absolute delight, warm, talkative, and amused by our slightly weather-beaten appearance. After days of mostly talking to each other and the elements, it felt grounding and human.
Why I’d Do It Again
Yes, we were wet. Constantly.
Yes, the wind tried to spiritually reposition us.
Yes, the Faroes are not fully optimized for bike tourism.
But that’s part of their charm. They don’t perform. They don’t smooth themselves out for convenience. They exist; rugged, green, ocean-wrapped, and entirely themselves.
We went looking for dramatic beauty and found it. We went expecting a storm and got a week-long atmospheric commitment. We wanted something unpolished.
The Faroe Islands delivered.
I would absolutely go back. But LĂ©vy is bringing a different tent.
