Borg casts a longing eye over the Gallardo. Sitting soaking on the garage floor, it rekindles memories of the original Countach, before it was polluted by wings and scoops. It's a refreshingly pure design that that works well from every angle, hood up or down.
But such beauty is not achieved without compromise and Borg laughs out loud when I open the boot. The cubby in the nose is so small that my luggage for a week's trip has been reduced to two plastic bags. From day three onwards, I'll be forced to wear my underpants inside out. nielK nivlaC reads considerably less seductively than Calvin Klein.
After posing for an inevitable picture, we leave the affable Borg to his labor and head for the hills. The scenery is aggressive, with steep gradients and jagged coastlines. It's as if some other-worldly being has nibbled at giant chunks of earth and left the rest to rot.
In the early '90s, the Faroes' government invested heavily in building the tunnels that link most of the eighteen islands. Most traffic now takes the underground route, which has left some of the more dramatic roads deserted. The one that runs northwest from Trshavn is seminal. Stretching for over 12 miles, it criss-crosses the hillside before plunging down the valley. Wide and beautifully surfaced, it's supercar nirvana.
With the roof down, the sonorous cry of the 520-hp, 5.0-liter V10 is much more accessible. I slot-shift to second and give it the beans. The Gallardo scoops itself up and flings itself at the horizon. The bar-bore stats-zero to 60 mph takes just 4.3 seconds and it's good for 195 mph-tell only a fraction. The throttle response is angry and immediate and the manual 'box hops from cog to cog with a metallic ping that's hugely emotive.
At high speed, the Alcantara steering wheel chats like an adolescent on a first date, while the suspension flatters the bumpy surface. My fears that the chop-top Gallardo would be no more than a boulevard playboy are dispatched in an instant. So much of the coupe's poise and agility has been retained, but now it's been given a more earthy quality.
I charge back and forth across the same stretch of road, time and again. My face wears the stupid grin of a kid who's been given an exceptional toy. The noise this car makes is nothing less than sensational, especially when it can be heard reverberating inside a mile-long tunnel. These are moments to be logged in the mind, ready to be summoned on a dark day.
We head north to the tiny communities that litter the coastline. Most possess a church and nothing else. "We have to travel half an hour for milk," explains a resident of Gjgv. Parked beside these houses, the Lamborghini has never looked more incongruous.
Given the paucity of entertainment and the relative affluence of the population, it's no surprise to discover a buoyant car culture. "A car in the Faroe Islands is either transport from A to B or a flat in which you socialize," Djurholm says. "In small communities, there is nowhere to meet." At night, local youths lap the streets of Trshavn in a steady procession.
The cruisers are magnetically drawn to the Lamborghini. Word has spread of where we're staying and each night our hotel is besieged by groups of young people, desperate to pose by our toy. Even the local police turn up to gawp.
For some locals, this passion for all things automotive has become an obsession. On our third day, we're introduced to Sofus Hansen, nicknamed Fuzzy. The Faroes' only car builder operates out of a tiny garage beneath his house. A custom Harley sits beside a restyled Porsche 928. The results may not be to all tastes, but there's no doubting the craftsmanship. "People think I'm a crazy playboy," he says.