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With the roof down, the sonorous cry of the 520bhp, 5.0-litre 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 pub-bore stats - 0-60mph takes just 4.3secs and a top whack of 195mph - tell only part of the tale. 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 grace and favour has been retained, but now it's been given a more earthy quality. You interact with this car like no Lamborghini before it.

This road leads to the tiny communities that line the northern coastline and on day two we pay them a visit. Tiny gaggles of grass-roofed houses, often no more than 20, cling to the seashore. Most of these hamlets possess a church but nothing else.

"We have to travel half-an-hour for milk," explains a resident of Gjógv. Parked beside these houses, the Lamborghini has never looked more incongruous and its soundtrack makes me feel self-conscious.

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 socialise," Djurholm tells me. "In small communities, there is nowhere to meet." At night, local youths lap the streets of Tórshavn in a steady procession.

The cruisers are magnetically drawn to the Lambo. 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 for a gawp and they're joined by a group of bikers.

"In the Faroes motorbike tax is not so high and even a 20-year-old can have a superbike," says Jakup Djurhuvs. "One of our friends was killed last week, but we do not learn."

I'm challenged to a race but think better of it. For some locals, this passion for all things automotive has become an obsession. On day three, we're introduced to Sofus Hansen, nicknamed Fuzzy. The Faroes' only car-builder operates out of a tiny garage beneath his house.

Fuzzy earns a decent living spray painting cars but bespoke coachwork is his primary art. A restyled Harley sits beside a Porsche 928 that's been crossed with a Peugeot 407. The results may not be to all tastes, but there's no doubting the craftsmanship. "People think I'm a crazy playboy," he says.

Fuzzy also has a niece. Ever since we arrived, we've been noticing the strength of the Faroese gene pool and Barbara Carlsen is its crowning glory. She works in the mayor's office in Tórshavn but has achieved local fame by singing in a gospel choir.

"The Faroes is boring," she complains as she inspects the Gallardo, "there's nothing here to do." I nod pathetically. Faced with exceptional beauty, I've forgotten how to speak.

Our meeting proves a fitting climax to what has been a fascinating few days. Like Barbara, the Faroes are small but beautifully formed.

We left London a week ago not sure what we'd find. There was a danger that we'd be bored by the Faroes and irritated by the Gallardo's impracticality, but both have exceeded our expectations. The Faroe Islands probably aren't the most exciting place in which to grow up, but they're a great place to visit and the roads are terrific.

The baby Lamborghini has also sustained my interest. The Gallardo is a brilliantly engineered tool that doesn't rely on its supermodel looks to seduce. Home is seven hundred miles away, and I'm looking forward to every one.


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