Malin Head: Ireland's Northernmost Point

Until this trip, our travels in Ireland had taken us through the southern, central, and western regions—but we had never ventured north. This time, we made it a priority to explore the lesser-traveled reaches of County Donegal, including the Inishowen Peninsula and Malin Head—the northernmost point on mainland Ireland.

For this leg of our journey, we settled into Rathmullan, a seaside village on the Fanad Peninsula. On our first full day, steady rain kept us local. We walked on nearby country roads and drove to Letterkenny to have lunch in a local pub (with no success, so we settled for the restaurant at Dillon's Hotel instead, which had a fantastic seafood chowder) and pick up groceries.

The next day offered glimpses of sun—and we took our chance. We boarded the Lough Swilly Ferry for the 30-minute crossing to Buncrana, Donegal’s second-largest town with a population just shy of 7,000. As the ferry departed Rathmullan, we watched a trio of horses with riders galloping on the beach. From Buncrana, we followed a winding road past countless pastures, their sheep and cows framed by low hedgerows covering stone walls. Coastal views appeared now and then, along with a scattering of small villages and the occasional traditional thatched-roof cottage. 

Eventually, the road reached its end at Malin Head. At first glance, it might seem like many other Irish coastal landscapes: lush green fields, rocky cliffs, a scattering of wildflowers, sea birds flying overhead, and a 19th-century stone lookout tower perched at the top of the hill. This one is known as Banba’s Crown, in honor of an ancient Celtic goddess queen said to protect Ireland’s northern reaches. Star Wars fans might recognize it too—scenes from The Last Jedi were filmed here, using the weathered terrain to evoke otherworldly drama. 

On a clear day—unlike ours—one might see across the water all the way to Scotland. 

But the real magic of Malin Head lies to the west, beyond the lookout and toward Hell’s Hole, where jagged cliffs form narrow ravines that funnel the incoming tide with dramatic force. We arrived at low tide, so alas, there was no crashing spectacle to observe, only clear blue waters peacefully lapping at the rocks. We chose a picnic spot near here, sitting at the top of a cliff where we could watch the waves flooding over the rocks below and where the pounding of the waves drowned out the voices of other visitors to the area. The sheer scale and raw beauty of the place was quite impressive here. We followed the footpath farther, reaching the Cliff of Pracha and the Scheildren, reportedly one of the most photographed natural features in all of Ireland.

There was no big moment at Malin Head—no stunning light shift, no tide roaring into the ravines, no glimpse of distant Scotland. But the scenery was raw, and it was clear here that the forces of nature are more powerful than the acts of mankind. The wind blew all around us, the waves boomed, and sea birds called out overhead, just as they had for thousands of years. 

In a world that so often feels rushed and manufactured, standing in a place so powerful, yet indifferent, was comforting.