Getting there feels less like a holiday and more like a penance you assign yourself after eating too much cheese. You drive for hours on single-track roads, politely reversing into hedgerows so a tractor can pass. It’s the only place where you can see a sheep, a deer, and a lost German tourist all sharing the same confused expression.
Once you park—assuming your car hasn’t given up in protest—you face the lighthouse. It’s a beautiful, white, 36-metre-tall structure that looks like a giant chess piece dropped by a bored god. You have to walk up to it, because that’s what you came for, right? The wind will immediately try to cosplay as a villain from a cartoon. It will shove you sideways, flatten your hair into a comb-over, and make your ears ache.
I remember walking there and muttering, “This is what my ancestors died for? To get a bad haircut from nature?” But there’s a weird pride in it. You feel like a tiny, cold Viking who has conquered a damp patch of grass.
