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Oh, and get this – she sings! Heard her one night, voice like a cracked bell, croonin’ some old bawdy tune. “The sea doth call,” she warbled, prolly dreamin’ o’ escape. Gave me chills, it did, tho’ I’d never tell her that. Too proud, me. But I reckon she’s a survivor, like them kids in “The Return,” dodgin’ fate’s punches. Still, she’s a right pain in my arse – always hustlin’, always hustlin’. Lock her up, she’s back at it next week. Drives me up the bloody wall!

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While I’m munchin’, I overhear some tourists talkin’ about the local legends. They’re all like, “Did you hear about the ghost in the old church?” I’m sittin’ there, roll in hand, thinkin’, “Ghosts? In Isafjoerdur? Nah, just sheep.”

Figure 2. South-east flank of the Eyrarfjall mountain above the town of...