Seat goes south in northern adventure

THERE was what you might call a pleasing informality about our flight to the Faroe Islands yesterday morning.

The surprises began before lift-off at Dublin airport when I was summoned twice to the desk at the departure gate. The first time they told me they would have to change my seat from 16D to 16E. I figured I could just about cope with the terrible upheaval involved but, for the record, asked why the change was necessary.

"Um, something to do with weight," I was told.

I went off to contemplate the possibility that I might be seated next to either Giant Haystacks or Frankie Dettori, when I was suddenly called back to the gate again. This time, I was told I was being moved to 17F.

Jeez, how big was this guy that he needed a whole row?

Once on board our compact 85-seater Atlantic Airways craft, it emerged that some of the seats in question had been converted for duty-free storage use, and were covered in heavy blue sheeting that was firmly secured to the floor.

The spectacle added a nice airlift feel to proceedings, as though we were hardy adventurers en route for the frozen north. So Grania Willis climbed Everest? Big deal. We were off to a football match in the Faroe Islands. And some of us hadn't even packed gloves.

Only problem for me was it turned out that the fabled seat 17F didn't exist at all, but eventually I was comfortably installed in a seat at the very back of the cabin, all on my ownio for the very good reason that the banjaxed seat beside me had no back as a result of some recent undetermined accident.

Then, as we taxied out for take-off, the pilot spoke to us over the intercom. "I'm afraid there has been a small cock-up over the food," he said. "We don't have the VIP service we hoped for but we do have sandwiches and the booze is free, so enjoy the flight."

And we did. The sandwich was of the 'hang' variety, the orange juice was refreshing and the mini-Mars Bar and chocolate mint a boon for the sweet tooth. Which was just as well, because when I asked for sugar with my coffee, the stewardess smiled sweetly and said, "Sorry, I don't think we have any."

Did I mention the stewardess yet? Beautiful, blonde, Scandanavian straight from central casting, you know the score. And so do I. When someone like that flashes you a big smile, you tend to fold like a cheap deckchair.

No seat? "No problem, at all. I'll go out on the wing, if you like. Sure haven't I brought my woolly hat? I'll be grand."

No sugar for my coffee?

"Well, look it, isn't it only bad for me anyway. Thanks for the health tip. And, by the way, if there's still trouble with the seating, you can drop me off in Greenland. The walk'll do me good."

At the end of a perfectly enjoyable flight of about one and three-quarter hours, the Faroe Islands presented themselves in suitably dramatic fashion, looming up out of the North Atlantic as we swooped in low over the water towards an airport that bears more than a passing resemblance to an airfield.

The backdrop of craggy mountains, tumbling waterfalls, stony ground and grassy plains echoes Connemara, Donegal or even, at the other end of the Atlantic Ocean, the Falklands. The journey by bus into the capital Torshavn takes over an hour on winding, hilly roads offering spectacular sea views, and then down through an undersea tunnel linking dry land to dry land in this archipelago of 18 islands.

Did I say dry? Low rolling clouds, slanting rain and cool temperatures seem designed to make the Irish visitors feel at home.

Part of the beauty of this World Cup campaign, as in all others, is the variety of travel experience on offer. From the heat of Tel Aviv in March to the wintry feel of Torshavn in June, the seasons can seem to go into reverse. And the vast spectacle of 80,000 in the Stade de France will tomorrow be swapped for the intimate surroundings of the Torsvollur Stadium close to the centre of town.

Nor could you conceive of a more striking contrast in opposition pedigree than that presented by the international millionaire superstars of Les Bleus and the carpenters, teachers and students who support the handful of full-time pros in Henrik Larsen's squad.

Similarly, the Republic of Ireland versus the Faroe Islands ought to be a foregone conclusion. But as the teams in Group 4 have already learnt to their cost, nothing can be taken for granted.

Meanwhile, as the media and the tiny Green Army started to settle in to our fascinating new surroundings, our trusty plane was flying back down south to Dublin to fetch the team.

I can only hope they didn't show Roy to the seat that doesn't exist.