This was our last stop on the day, our next to last day discovering the Wild Atlantic Way. The golden hour here is delightful. And it’s quiet, and mostly empty. At the first point two guys were briefly there. Pictures and laughs and gone. At the second stage there were three cars in the small car park, but they were getting set to leave as we arrived. The only downside was the wind, which brought in the chill as the sun retreated. But it was beautiful, nevertheless. This is Horn Head.
First is the way point, with the marker and the tourist sign. They want you to know about the seabirds. This is the summer home of the largest bird colonies in the country. Right now, the birdies are flying in, and in all they’ll be right here by the thousands. And it’s a regular haunt, the same birds, the puffins, the guillemots, the kittiwakes, come to these cliffs, which grow more than 650 feet above the sea. It was all carved by ice and the ocean, of course, and the cliff faces themselves are safe spots for nests.
The fulmars use the bare ledges, as do the kittiewakes and the guillemates. The puffins burrow into the grassy slopes. There are razorbills here, too, and when they aren’t sitting on eggs they’re diving for fish. They put on a great show for the shags, which raise their babies at the foot of the cliffs, with nests made of seaweed.
They surely picked a scenic spot.
Just a little over a mile away is the other part of Horn Head, where we saw the small parking lot, and the small group of people leaving. Once you’re parked you walk up this rock path.
Not too far away is a Napoleonic era watchtower. The idea was that the Irish were looking for French ships looking to invade. That spot was off limits. Dangerous path and old structures and all that. But there was a little World War 2 blockhouse nearby, and we walked there. It was a simple cinderblock room. A window to the front, facing the ocean, a small fireplace in the back. One door, through which some watchmen would surely have sprinted should they have seen some bad guys popping up on their coast.
The best part of the little blockhouse was that it still has its roof, and it kept us out of the wind, which was pretty intense, being just off the water as we were. We stood in there awhile and I waxed on about what those guys were doing and tried to figure out how they did it. My lovely bride was patiently waiting while I tried to figure out if the chimney was a bad idea. Probably not. Bad guys would surely assume that a watch station would be there, anyway, why waste rounds on that, and it’s better to be warm than cold. That’s why we stayed in there, after all.
Once again, the chief strategist of the trip is this one. She’s planned a great trip.
Though I prefer this photo. I can’t recall if she was laughing at me or the wind. Probably the wind.
Tomorrow is our last day out on the Wild Atlantic Way. We’ll surely make it count. Every one them has!
