In the cemetary, in the afternoon, I make sure to visit my favorite stone, that of sailors of the Anne af Tofte, a Faroese cutter that went down off Grindavík in the third decade of the last century. Their names are not recorded, the inscription and prayer in Danish, not the local Icelandic and not the Faroese of home. These bold men of the main are memorialized only in the language of the ruling power, and this has always made me wistful. I consider once again these seadogs, only some of whom rest under the stone. The others were lost to the waves.
But today I learn something new, thanks to the new signs I find here and there, offering fróðleikar of various kinds. The stone itself, a great boulder, was brought here from the Faroe Islands. I am pleased to know that.
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