We met Tórik at Fuglafjørður harbour just as he unloaded two thick sets of overalls for us. The sun shone, and a slight wind drifted in from the sea. It was a rather poetic place to continue the hunt for Havhestur (Northern Fulmar), as we found ourselves between the islands of Eysturoy and Kalsoy, which we’d visited earlier in the year whilst collecting havhestur eggs with the ‘King of Kalsoy’ and his friends.

Many types of seabirds are hunted in the Faroe Islands: puffins, gannets, guillemots, kittiwakes, shags and many more. But today we were hunting for young havhestur who were now big enough to fly, or more accurately, float. At only 3-4 months old, the seabird carried so much fat that they couldn’t fly without a strong wind to help lift them. Even then, they could only skirt above the waves for a hundred feet or so before landing again.

Tórik loaded the boat, and we set out, motoring into the almost empty fjord. I took some photos, and my friend Rag started to video Tórik at the helm. He sported a traditional Faroese hat made from wool and knitted with distinctive red stripes. There was something majestic about him. He reminded me of a Tolkien-like Dwarf, with his bushy beard and crow’s feet wrinkling at the corner of his kind blue eyes. The landscape was so beautiful here I could barely comprehend it. Sunbeams caught the cliff skyline, seabirds flew gracefully, their wings flitting with light and shadow. The weather here changed quickly, though, and soon the clouds thickened, dark silhouettes dancing on the ground below.

The boat suddenly swung round as we sped off towards a tiny white blob floating on shades of blue. Tórik steered with one hand and grabbed the glúpur with the other, a long wooden stick similar to the one we’d used in the egg hunt - differing only with its bigger net. He steered the boat in, coming up alongside the bird and scooped it up in one fluid movement. He told us to try and avoid the vomit, reminding me of Jóhannus’ warning when this young bird would’ve still been an egg. Tórik leant onto the boat’s inflatable side and grabbed the bird from the net. One sharp movement later, it was dead. He used his thumb to massage the vomit from the carcass, and the familiar orange substance poured out of its beak. Tórik put the bird head first into a netted box, assembled to stop any dregs of vomit from sticking to the birds feathers like glue. Only a dozen seconds had passed since we pulled up next to the bird; it was all over so quickly.

We carried on for a while, weaving left and right, scanning the water on all sides and scooping more birds as we went. I saw Tórik smile to himself, and I wondered what he was thinking about. He told us happily about his two young kids who’d joined him for the first time that week. He was a fisherman by profession, and his family had sailed and fished generationally, but hunting havhestur was new for him - something he could start passing down to his kids.

We managed to fill one box and had a second prepped. It was our turn now, but he’d made it look so easy; the pressure was on. I spotted a couple of birds about 200 metres away, and Tórik steered us towards them, telling me to prepare and get ready with the glúpur. I didn’t worry much about dropping it this time since the stick would likely float, but I was still clumsy to manoeuvre it without hitting anyone or anything else in the boat. I sat on the side, glúpur at the ready, bird fast approaching. We pulled up, and I swept the net into thebird, missing it as it ducked under the water and then under the boat. It popped up on the other side, trying to paddle away from us. Tórik turned the boat for round two - I had to catch it this time. Swoosh and my net came up full, the bird inside furious at me. Sorry, I thought, as I held the bird and listened for instructions on how to break its neck. It was harder than I thought, but it soon went limp in my hands. I emptied the vomit into the sea, watching the oil spread on the surface of the water.

With both boxes filled, we headed back to the harbour. Tórik sold the birds to locals, explaining most people liked to have at least one since it was a seasonal delicacy. He sold them for 50 króna per bird, roughly 5-6 sterling, and prepared them by removing the thick layer of skin and feathers, as well as its head. He explained that people had used their feathers for pillows, but it wasn’t common practice anymore. The size of the bird was similar to a small chicken, and most people baked the bird whole in the oven or boiled it for soup or stew.