Ireland. That big island just off the coast of England, blocking all the good swell from hitting the mainland. But it’s not just the waves that keep pulling me back, it’s the vast remoteness, the sense of quietude, and the people who aren’t fazed by the rush of the modern world.
There’s a charm to it. And then, of course, there’s the surf. Some of my closest mates have now made this place their home, chasng the dream of better waves and a slower, more satisfying way of life. The irony, though? Many Irish folk I know back in the UK are doing the exact opposite, looking for ‘normal’ careers far from these windswept coasts.
It was while I was working in Galicia that the message came through, like a tidal wave in my inbox. A new swell was heading for the West Coast of Ireland, perfect offshore winds, and temperatures that were unseasonably warm for this time of year. I didn’t need any more convincing. Within three hours of landing back from Spain, I’d booked a flight to Belfast. The decision was made, no second-guessing.
There’s something about that Mid/North-western stretch of Ireland that captivates me. Sure, it’s sporting a slightly run-down seaside town vibe, but there’s a certain understated charm to places like Bundoran. They remind me of the towns I grew up near on the East Coast of Yorkshire, quiet, rugged, and a bit worn out from the years of crashing waves and salt in the air. You might have to scrape off some seagull sh*t, but if you do, you’ll find a beauty in these places that you can’t quite place.
Ask any surfer who’s traveled the world, and they’ll tell you Bundoran holds some of the finest waves you’ll ever surf, and all within a ridiculously small stretch of coastline. Sure, Mullaghmore gets all the glory as the big-wave beast, but there are other gems too, Pampa, Aileens, and a whole bunch of others scattered around, each one adding to the legend. These waves aren’t just big; they’re world-class, and they’re often just a short drive apart. Of course, I’m not going to name every single spot, that’s a local’s prerogative, and some things are better left unsaid.
I rolled into Bundoran after catching a lift from an old mate who’d swapped city life for the surf life. He’s been putting in serious hours working on offshore wind turbines, and has become something of an unknown charger around here. He’s not in it for the fame or the followers, just the waves. We caught up during the drive, and soon enough, we were pulling up at the house where the crew had already gathered.
By the time I woke up the next morning, I was greeted by the sound of boards clattering and wetsuits being thrown around. A few more of the boys had arrived, storing their gear in the house, packing up the jetskis. Even though the main swell hadn’t arrived yet, they were already chomping at the bit, eager to be ready for what was coming. You don’t waste time when the surf is about to hit.
We headed out to check a few spots. Second Reef Pampa was already firing, and sure enough, a few of Australia’s best surfers pulled up behind us, ready to take on the waves. No cameras, no entourage, just surfers there because that’s where they needed to be. It’s that raw, unpolished surf culture that I love.
After a solid day of waves, we found ourselves at The Railway, the local pub that seems to attract most of the surf crew after a long day in the water. There’s a bit of tradition here, first pint downed quickly, because it’s all about splitting the ‘G’. That first pint is always gone in a flash, and before you know it, the conversation shifts to tomorrow’s forecast. The big day. The one everyone’s been talking about.
My mate had been raving about some “mysterious” wave over the horizon, but I wasn’t buying it. I had Mullaghmore on the brain, big, mean, and reliable. But after a couple more pints, the boys weren’t backing down. "Get on the skis, head out just before sunrise. Forty minutes out, score a few waves, then come back just in time for the perfect tide at Mullaghmore." The logic made sense. At least, it did after a few more drinks.
Then, they pulled out an old photo, a wave that looked like something straight out of Jaws. This hidden, crazy big wave in the middle of the ocean, tucked away in some forgotten corner of Ireland. I’d never seen anything like it, and that was all I needed to hear. The plan was made.
When the crack of dawn came, I was scrambling to pack my gear, cameras, impact suits, 6mm boots, gloves, anything I could possibly need. The sun was barely up, and yet we were off, heading out to sea. Three skis, six of us in total, one for towing, one for safety, and one for media capture and backup. Forty minutes offshore. It’s a little intimidating knowing that if something goes wrong, you’re a long way from safety.
At first, it seemed like a wasted trip. I could see nothing but a faint trace of whitewater, like the backwash from a larger ocean swell. There wasn’t even anything remotely rideable in sight. The crew was getting restless. We gave it five minutes, then ten, and then, another ten. One of the boys just said, “Screw it, we’re out here, might as well give it a go.”
He towed into what seemed like nothing, but then something crazy happened. The second wave stood up, almost doubled in height. That was it. The excitement shot through us. The unknown wave was real.
The next set came through, even bigger and gnarlier. The lip started to throw forward, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. We were miles from anywhere, and this hidden rocky reef was serving up some of the most incredible right-hand tow waves I’d ever seen. I don’t know if it was the Guinness kicking in or the golden orange sunrise washing over us, but it was like a dream.
For about 20 minutes, the lads took turns scoring wave after wave. Then, just as quickly as it started, the wave stopped. One of the guys muttered something about the perfect tide passing, but I think it was just Mother Nature’s way of giving us just the right amount of madness before calling it a day.
We were all pretty stoked as we headed back, and of course, we passed Mullaghmore on the way.
It was still early, and the first wave we saw? A pumping 20-foot right-hander.
Well, sh*t.
I was scrambling to put another battery in my camera as the boys jumped in, and others already charging down the cliff to get in the water.
By the time the lineup filled up, it felt like any other busy session. Paddlers and tow teams all vying for the best waves. But what struck me most was the level of respect out there. I’ve surfed plenty of crowded spots, but the level of courtesy here stood out. In a place like this, you earn your respect, because if you don’t, well, Mother Nature has a way of humbling you pretty quickly.
For the lads, it was just another day at the office. But for me? That brief 12-hour window, the waves, the camaraderie, the mystery of that hidden spot, it was something special. And I’m not entirely sure why. I’ll probably keep thinking about it for a long time to come.
