SO FAR SO GOOD

IN a remote archipelago in the North Atlantic, there’s a long, slender island that locals say is shaped like a wooden flute. Unlike its larger neighbors, this island is not accessible via bridge or tunnel, only by ferry from Borðoy, a 20-minute passage that brings you to the hamlet of Syðradalur. From there, you drive north along the island’s only road, passing through four dank and somewhat spooky mountain tunnels — the flute’s finger holes — until you reach Trøllanes, population 20. Here, you park your car and hike to your goal, Kallur Lighthouse, a squat beacon set high above the churning ocean on the island’s northernmost tip.

Providing the trail hasn’t been closed because the wind is too strong or the fog too thick, the hour-long hike to the lighthouse will take you through shrubby, heather-filled grassland, and once you arrive you’ll be in no mood to leave. You might stay an hour. Maybe even two. Maybe you won’t want to leave at all. Like the sailors in Greek mythology who were lured by the beguiling song of the Sirens, you’ll be tempted to just sit and listen to the crash of the waves against the sea cliffs and the wind that whistles across