The Road

“Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made. Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be. The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular. The silence.” This isn’t the Road at the end of Cormac McCarthy’s eponymous, apocalyptic novel, but, to me, the winding road to the tiny village of Norðradalur, on the Faroese island of Streymoy, is reminiscent of the world of his sparse prose.