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Authors: Craig Robertson
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since it started in 2003. From Bomfunk MCs to Karin Park. Seen them all. I’ve been all over the world but it’s probably my favourite festival.’
‘So where else have you been?’
‘I lived in New York for a few years so I had plenty of choice. And I lived in London for a bit too. So Wembley, the O 2 , Hammersmith Palais. But also Berlin, Rome, Los Angeles. All over.’
‘And you played?’
He narrowed his eyes then shrugged modestly. ‘Yeah. Not at Wembley, though. The Half Moon in Putney was as big as it got for me in London. Great venue. U2 played their first sell-out gig there. I was a drummer. Played with a few bands.’
‘Must have been a great life.’
Barthel laughed, a sound like gravel being churned. ‘It had its moments. It wasn’t throwing televisions out of hotel windows or trashing rooms, none of that. But we did lots of things we shouldn’t have and we had some fun.’
‘So how come you came back here to be a fisherman?’ I’d learned a little about Barthel from Oli the barman, keen to know something about the man who seemed so interested in me.
His laugh dried up and he looked for an answer in the bottom of his whisky glass, scooping up a mouthful of its contents. ‘My father got sick. He couldn’t work the boat and I had to come home to help out. He made me promise I would stay and keep the family business going. Then he died on me.’
A bigger gulp of Johnnie Walker washed down the one before. ‘I don’t break my promises.’
He picked up the bottle and splashed whisky first into my glass and then his. There was something reassuring about the sound, something infinitely preferable to the words whose place it filled. We both sipped in silence.
‘Why were you following me home?’ Barthel asked at last, reluctantly voicing the question that must have been trying to break free from the moment he saw me by the roadside.
‘Why were you staring at me in the Glitnir? And in the Cafe Natur before that?’
Barthel nodded and drank some more. ‘Fair enough. I think we both asked questions we know the answer to.’
‘It’s why I followed you out of the bar. To ask you that question. I’ll admit I was annoyed at you. I was angry. But I decided I had to know. Even if I didn’t want to hear it.’
He scratched at his cheek contemplatively, looking at the floor then back up at me. ‘Like I said, I know who you are. And what you did. Or what they said you did.’
A sinking feeling enveloped me. Just words, just confirmation of the expected, but depressingly sickening. I had fled to the middle of nowhere, but my past had come with me.
Barthel must have read my mind. ‘It’s a long way from Scotland, I know. But the world is a much smaller place these days. I like to keep in touch with as much of it as possible. I guess I’m not like most people here. I moved away, didn’t think I’d ever come back. So I need to travel still, even if it’s only in my head.’
He walked over to the corner of the room and tapped the computer monitor. ‘This is all that keeps me sane. Or reasonably sane. This and music and good whisky. I am probably the only person in the Faroes who keeps up with the Scotland page on the BBC news website.
‘Why Scotland?’
‘I lived in Edinburgh for two months once. It was full of English people.’
‘And you must have a good memory for faces.’
He shrugged. ‘I guess I must have. Although it took me a while to put it together. With your name and all . . .’
I tried to fight the resentment I could feel running through me. Anger at being recognized. Uncovered. He was the only man in the islands who knew me. Who knew who I had been.
Gulping at whisky, I urged myself to calm down. I wasn’t that person any more, wouldn’t be him again. I needed to say something, offer some kind of reply that didn’t beg more questions. Or worse, more answers.
‘I came here for a fresh start. A quiet life. I move crates of fish and watch salmon swim.’
He nodded.
‘So where else have you been?’
‘I lived in New York for a few years so I had plenty of choice. And I lived in London for a bit too. So Wembley, the O 2 , Hammersmith Palais. But also Berlin, Rome, Los Angeles. All over.’
‘And you played?’
He narrowed his eyes then shrugged modestly. ‘Yeah. Not at Wembley, though. The Half Moon in Putney was as big as it got for me in London. Great venue. U2 played their first sell-out gig there. I was a drummer. Played with a few bands.’
‘Must have been a great life.’
Barthel laughed, a sound like gravel being churned. ‘It had its moments. It wasn’t throwing televisions out of hotel windows or trashing rooms, none of that. But we did lots of things we shouldn’t have and we had some fun.’
‘So how come you came back here to be a fisherman?’ I’d learned a little about Barthel from Oli the barman, keen to know something about the man who seemed so interested in me.
His laugh dried up and he looked for an answer in the bottom of his whisky glass, scooping up a mouthful of its contents. ‘My father got sick. He couldn’t work the boat and I had to come home to help out. He made me promise I would stay and keep the family business going. Then he died on me.’
A bigger gulp of Johnnie Walker washed down the one before. ‘I don’t break my promises.’
He picked up the bottle and splashed whisky first into my glass and then his. There was something reassuring about the sound, something infinitely preferable to the words whose place it filled. We both sipped in silence.
‘Why were you following me home?’ Barthel asked at last, reluctantly voicing the question that must have been trying to break free from the moment he saw me by the roadside.
‘Why were you staring at me in the Glitnir? And in the Cafe Natur before that?’
Barthel nodded and drank some more. ‘Fair enough. I think we both asked questions we know the answer to.’
‘It’s why I followed you out of the bar. To ask you that question. I’ll admit I was annoyed at you. I was angry. But I decided I had to know. Even if I didn’t want to hear it.’
He scratched at his cheek contemplatively, looking at the floor then back up at me. ‘Like I said, I know who you are. And what you did. Or what they said you did.’
A sinking feeling enveloped me. Just words, just confirmation of the expected, but depressingly sickening. I had fled to the middle of nowhere, but my past had come with me.
Barthel must have read my mind. ‘It’s a long way from Scotland, I know. But the world is a much smaller place these days. I like to keep in touch with as much of it as possible. I guess I’m not like most people here. I moved away, didn’t think I’d ever come back. So I need to travel still, even if it’s only in my head.’
He walked over to the corner of the room and tapped the computer monitor. ‘This is all that keeps me sane. Or reasonably sane. This and music and good whisky. I am probably the only person in the Faroes who keeps up with the Scotland page on the BBC news website.
‘Why Scotland?’
‘I lived in Edinburgh for two months once. It was full of English people.’
‘And you must have a good memory for faces.’
He shrugged. ‘I guess I must have. Although it took me a while to put it together. With your name and all . . .’
I tried to fight the resentment I could feel running through me. Anger at being recognized. Uncovered. He was the only man in the islands who knew me. Who knew who I had been.
Gulping at whisky, I urged myself to calm down. I wasn’t that person any more, wouldn’t be him again. I needed to say something, offer some kind of reply that didn’t beg more questions. Or worse, more answers.
‘I came here for a fresh start. A quiet life. I move crates of fish and watch salmon swim.’
He nodded.
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