The discovery of the puffins has slowed our progress on our three-hour round trip hike to the Holmur Lighthouse—a postcard sight that marks the western tip of the Faroes’ westernmost island—as we linger on this narrow sliver of land to marvel at the birds. They create burrows on these steep seaside cliffs during nesting season, from June to August, and are most social at sunset, the best time to spot them. Because the birds linger so close to the trail, hikers are advised to only observe them from a distance, sticking to the path and never touching chicks or eggs. The rest of the walk only grows more beautiful. Clouds of puffins and gannets soar overhead, fog cloaks the headland’s rocky peaks, and the salty wind whips around me in wild gusts, pulling my hair skyward. As dusk descends, cotton candy sheep escort us down the winding path.

The next day, we ferry back over to Vágar, where the feeling that I am in a dream continues. Navigating our rental car down spiraling roads with hairpin turns, we reach the Lake Sørvágsvatn trailhead. Our hike here comes with a price tag, but I’m happy to pay for the permit knowing the fee helps combat overtourism, an increasing issue in the Faroe Islands. A gentle, rolling path traces the edge of the 3.4-square kilometre lake. Tiny purple and fuchsia flowers are sprinkled across the surrounding verdant hills like tossed confetti.

A short but steep incline at the end of the hike brings us to a cliff’s precipitous edge. Turning back towards the direction we came from, the lake appears to hover, suspended, hundreds of metres above the ocean’s violent waves in a physics-defying optical illusion. The crescent-shaped slice of water seems to tilt towards us, yet only one small waterfall pours from its edge.

Mind-bending vistas wait around every corner in the archipelago. Before a tunnel was built on Vágar in 2004, the postman was charged with the task of hiking over a mountain pass to deliver mail to the hidden village of Gasadalur. To get a sense of life on the islands before the advent of major infrastructure, we follow in his footsteps (the trailhead can be found to the left of the tunnel’s entrance, heading towards Gasadalur from the Vágar airport.) The two-to-three-hour hike is rugged but ends with a birds-eye view of the small scatter of buildings that freckle the green headland. The village is punctuated by a 100-foot waterfall that tumbles into the ocean, and my fiancé and I let out an audible gasp at the sight.

As dusk’s shadow turns the landscape blue and mauve, we head towards the historic village of Saksun on the island of Streymoy, where we’ll be staying for the next few days. We weave down a frighteningly narrow, one-way country road, and arrive at a cluster of grass-roofed homes that hug a shimmering quicksilver inlet. The 1897 farmer’s house we’ve rented still has all its original bones, and as we duck past the small entryway, we’re greeted by the words of Faroese poet Marjun Kjelnaes on a chalkboard: This is an ancient place, famished you want to stay here, sit until your skeleton turns to cliff, watch until your eyes wash out, listen to the labyrinth in your ears swoosh like shells. In the morning, we wake to the happy trumpeting of snow-white ducks gathered outside the French windows.

Later that day, we drive into the highlands that overlook the Faroese capital, Torshavn, to reach Fjallaross, or ‘Faroe Horse,’ a local horse riding outfit. The Faroese horse was only domesticated 50 years ago and isn’t found anywhere else in the world. The breed is also under threat of extinction, with a scarce 80 left in the archipelago. “The Faroese horse is important in our culture and history,” says Fjallaross owner Anna Louisa Joensen. “I’m fighting to get the support I need to help conserve them.”