The bedrock of Trúgvi Óláfsson story begins in a humble cottage on the outskirts of Dale. The scent of sawdust and the hoarse sound of sanding are presented before you once you take a look inside the shack. Upon opening the door you see an aged man with a grey, braided beard behind a workbench, and his twelve year old son, Trúgvi, being the helping hand for his old man. The interior is all to Dalish fashion, and the home is packed with bells and whistles, pots and service, wooden figurines and all kinds of ornaments piled up to the ceiling. Indeed, the house forms both a shop and a place for living. Immediately greeted by the robust, tall woman and her ruddy cheeks, fiery hair and merry voice, you’re heartily welcomed. After a brief sauntering through the various loose objects that are sown on the wooden floor, you reach the carpenter and a firm handshake is not let out.

And so the business and labour went well for the family, passing on the trade from father to son when the time was ripe. Having reached adulthood however, Trúgvi ever dreamed of the outside world when he glanced aloft and saw the birds fly to their freedom. A quiet sigh of the hopeful man was heard, and he stood up, hurled his saw aside and he packed his bags! No longer caged by fear of the world ahead, he was touched by that one feeling beyond words: wanderlust. Indeed, he left it all behind that day when he began his endless journey. With the morning sun rising in the east, and the dawn on his doorstep, he stumped over the young-shot green and past the doughty birches to wherever the road would take him…