Dancing with the wind at Malin Head

By Simona Prilogan

29th October 2026

Dear Wind, I do not recall with certainty the day I first danced. But I do remember when I learned to fly within the arc of a pirouette. Tall, with blonde strands of hair and waltz steps. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three... repeatedly, until the steps taught me to trust. Many years have passed since then, yet the pirouettes have never ceased to spin me into the spell of music, along the boulevard of life, amidst meadows of bold, blue thoughts, where hopes embrace the scent of dawns.

This morning, I waltzed again, as I prepared to leave the charming hotel room I had rented just two days ago at the City Hotel, in the heart of Derry.

From Londonderry, I boarded a coach heading north, slowly leaving behind the city walls and streets still bathed in the soft morning light. As we advanced toward the Inishowen Peninsula, the urban landscape gradually dissolved into a scene of solemn simplicity. I gazed out the window, letting Ireland flow past my eyes. The road wound through low hills, green meadows, and stone walls; here and there, solitary white houses with dark roofs appeared, set as if equidistant from the world and the sea. Flocks of sheep dotted the green expanses with white patches, while cows grazed peacefully behind the fences. The closer we got to Inishowen, the more palpable the presence of the sea became. Beyond the fields and between the hills, glimpses of grey-blue water would occasionally open up. Clouds descended over the hills, and the light shifted from minute to minute. In Ireland, I learned that weather is not merely weather; it is part of the landscape. Sun and clouds, rain and wind seem to chase one another endlessly, altering the face of the land without changing its character. At one point, I caught sight of Trawbreaga Bay. The water lies calm between the stretches of land, reflecting the shifting sky. I remained with my forehead pressed close to the coach window, watching in silence as the land began to embrace the ocean. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three... waves kissing the shore like a waltz unlike any other. I lived this new experience with the joy and wonder of a child, realising it was one of those journeys where the destination ceases to matter. The journey itself had become the story.

I changed buses in Carndonagh. The first driver, a kind, attentive man, showed me where to wait for the bus that would take me to Malin Head. I stepped off and, for a few moments, found myself alone in the middle of a small town I had only just begun to discover. I didn't need much: just a spot to wait, ten minutes, and the confidence that the journey would continue.

The bus arrived on time. It was so small that it looked more like a van than a coach. I boarded and discovered I was the only passenger. We set off slowly toward Malin Head. This time, the landscape was even wilder. Houses became sparser, the roads narrower, and green fields stretched almost to the sea. Beyond the stone walls, hills sloped down toward hidden coves and wind-battered cliffs. At times, the ocean would suddenly appear between two hills, then vanish again, as if playing a game with my gaze. Since I was the only passenger on the small bus, the driver began telling me about our destination. He spoke with the natural ease of someone describing his own home. He told me about Malin Head, about the fierce winds, the cliffs, and how the weather could change in an instant. He pointed out the places we passed and shared stories about the lives of the people in this remote corner of Donegal. I listened while gazing out the window. It felt amazing that my first guide to Malin Head wasn't a tourist brochure or a recorded voice on an app, but a man driving a nearly empty bus to the tip of the peninsula, a man who seemed to know every twist and turn of the road.

The further we went, the more I felt the world slipping away. There were hardly any cars left, just the narrow road, stone walls, meadows, and the vast sky above them. The wind began to make itself felt even through the closed bus window, and clouds raced across the green expanses. At one point, the driver said something about the end of the road. I no longer recall the exact words, but I remember the impression they left on me. Malin Head was not merely a point on a map; it was a place where people had learned to live alongside the sea, the wind, and the solitude peculiar to the edge of the world.

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The wind greeted me first. It came from the Atlantic, cold and salty, tousling my hair and reminding me with every gust that I had arrived in one of Ireland’s northernmost corners. I set off at a leisurely pace. I had no itinerary to tick off, nor any schedule to rush me. I simply wanted to see everything there was to see, to walk to where the paths met the sea, and to let the place settle into my soul. The cliffs rose above the Atlantic, dark and rugged, sculpted by water and wind. The sea crashed against them with force. Every now and then, the waves would recede, leaving trails of white foam behind, before the next wave came to reclaim the rocks.

I reached Banba's Crown, one of the promontory's most famous landmarks. The name comes from Banba, a female figure in Irish mythology associated with the land itself. It struck me how fitting it was for such a place, situated at the edge of the earth and exposed to every wind, to bear the name of a figure from Ireland's ancient tales. The old signal tower (1805) stands there too, gazing out over the sea. Nearby, the grass grew low and leaned in a single direction, as if the wind had spent years trying to show the earth which way to look.

Further on, I came across the large white-stone sign reading "EIRE 80." It felt almost surreal to find such a precise trace of history in this wild landscape. The letters and number had been constructed during World War II to identify neutral Ireland from the air. I gazed at the stones and thought of the planes that had once flown over this spot, amidst a Europe at war, while here, on the green soil of Ireland, neutrality was spelt out in white letters for those looking down from above.

I kept walking. At Hell's Hole, the ocean seemed to change its voice. Here, the cliffs form a spectacular inlet where the water noisily rushes in, and waves crash against the stone walls. I stood for a while, looking down. 

But, dear wind, what impressed me most was neither the name nor the history. It was the expanse. Wherever I looked, there was water, sky, and rock. On very clear days, one can look out from here toward Scotland, across the waters of the North Channel. I imagined that somewhere, beyond that hazy line where the sea meets the sky, lay the Highlands, a region I would seek out on another journey. Two edges of the world, gazing at each other across the water.

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When the time came to head back, I glanced once more at the Atlantic. The sky had changed, as it does so quickly in Northern Ireland, and the light had taken on a softer hue. Malin Head was receding behind me, yet I felt as though I wasn't truly leaving. I set off toward the spot where I was to wait for the small bus. The road was familiar this time, but the landscape seemed different, perhaps because I was now viewing it through the eyes of someone who had just said goodbye to a place where they had found something unexpected. As the bus pulled away, I took a final look at the peninsula’s expanse of green. The Atlantic gradually vanished behind the hills, but the wind kept blowing.

Dear wind, I do not know if I found you or if you called me all the way here. I only know that, for a few hours, at that edge of the world, I forgot about haste, calculated routes, and destinations. I learned that some places are not merely to be visited; they are also to be listened to. And Malin Head spoke to me through the waves, the rocks, and the grass bending in the wind. Perhaps, one day, I shall return. Until then, I leave you to dance alone across the Atlantic. I will hold within me the waltz of this magnificent day, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, amidst a glorious twilight where the blue of the sky embraced the sea and the land. 

Simona Prilogan

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All Photography by Simona Prilogan

Location maps - Left: Inishowen Peninsula and Malin Head and Right: Ireland map showing County of Donegal magnified. Wikimedia & Creative Commons. https://www.govisitinishowen.com/

Simona is a Romanian-born writer living in Inverness, Scotland. She writes poetry and short stories in both English and Romanian, and her work has been published internationally in literary magazines and anthologies. She has published several collections of poetry and short stories in both languages. Drawn to nature, colour and human stories, her writing explores themes of identity, memory and migration, often reflecting the places and experiences that have shaped her life. Alongside writing, Simona is a radiographer, a profession she deeply values, while remaining passionate about learning and discovering new perspectives. She is currently undertaking a part-time, distance-learning MSc in Healthcare Management at Anglia Ruskin University. She is also a full-time BA (Hons) Creative Writing student at the University of the Highlands and Islands in Inverness.

Simona's last ACT article of May 27th is here https://www.artculturetourism.co.uk/post/scotland-memories-framed-in-light-of-poetry

You’ll be able to meet Simona at some of the UK's Literary Escape Festivals where she is featured. Her next one is at Edinburgh Literary Escape Festival on 14th November, see the link here https://www.literaryescapeco.co.uk/events/edinburgh  Then next year, she will take part in most of them. The events can be found on the Literary Escape Festival website: https://www.literaryescapeco.co.uk/ 

This article is published by Marysia Zipser, Founder of Art Culture Tourism & ACT Ambassador, Nottingham, UK.  https://www.artculturetourism.co.uk/blog    https://www.artculturetourism.co.uk/ 

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