Wild and free in Ireland: A solo trip to Dublin unleashes the primal release of pure, chaotic solitude

By Joseph Hernandez

I spent my winter holiday break trying to scream on an Irish cliff. I almost failed.

I was wandering the cliffs just outside of the sleepy village of Howth. The sky was a churning, cold tempest; my glasses useless in the hazy mist. Thirty to 40 minutes east of Dublin’s city center by DART train, Howth felt a world away. In the city, it was lightly drizzling, but out here on the coast was a different story.

Sea birds — gulls and other unidentifiable species — filled the sky with aggressive dark wings and raucous cawing. The ocean roiled, unbothered by their petty concerns. The wind was a banshee.

The picturesque area around the harbor and train station felt asleep, shutting out the cold world even at 2 p.m. The day’s weather had me doubting my judgment — I wanted nothing more than to be cozied up inside. But when would I have a chance to see the cliffs again?

I was on day five of a seven-day trip. I’ve been wanting to travel solo, with no agenda, for years. Pandemic lockdowns put a halt to those plans until recently.

Dublin had what I needed. I had vacation days to burn, and with a short travel time from New York and relative affordability, the city felt like the right call. (Despite speaking rough-but-passable Spanish and un peu de Francais, I didn’t want to spend my little time away from work struggling through another language.)

I was traveling to lose myself outside of my routine, to shake myself out of the lingering cabin fever of the last few years. I am a wanderer by nature — I started 2022 hiking and ziplining in the cloud-forests of Panama with my best friends; stuffed my face with Delta-style tamales in a Memphis parking lot over the summer; practiced yoga in the heart of a Sedona energy vortex in October. I don’t like to sit still for too long, but am often surrounded by other people.

What would it be like to be truly alone?

From Howth’s train station, one wanders south, away from the sleepy harbor and into the peninsula’s hillside. Along the way, you’ll walk by the former home of poet William Butler Yeats and Howth Castle. The gentle slope toward the start of the cliff walks is a warm-up for what’s to come — the projected walkabouts range from an hour to three, depending on which route you take. An avid hiker, I decided to try the second-longest route, at 5 miles and gaining 500 feet elevation. (The longest route, at 7½ miles and almost 800 feet elevation, didn’t seem feasible given the weather that day.)

Just past the trailhead, I felt like I was alone at the end of the world, the swirling sky and angry ocean laughing at my puniness. It was an almost primal loneliness. Surrounded by brambles and heather, wet and already weary, I was a speck on a mountainside.

The thought occurred to me that flora surrounding me kept the mountain — the whole of Ireland — precariously intact by sheer force of will and survival. That the steep hillsides didn’t fall into sea with my every step felt like a tiny miracle. I wandered the beaten path for a couple hours, encountering only two runners and, shockingly, a cyclist, who acted as if the angry maw of the sea wasn’t a straight fall just 50 feet to their left.

As the wind knifed my face and stole my breath (and nearly my hat), I grew fearful of being blown off the cliff. I eventually found my way onto an easier, flatter path carving its way inland and back toward the village. I had been traipsing Ireland for a few days alone already, even on another set of cliffs — those of Moher, three hours away on the country’s west coast — but there, soaking wet above Howth, a wave of profound sadness hit me.

Traveling alone, powered by my own whims and wallet, was a new challenge. I was charmed by Dublin immediately, spending my first few days soaking up dreamy, slanted sunlight diffused by bruise-colored clouds as I wandered with no destination in mind. During the day, sleepy Grafton Street led me to a wintry, fallow St. Stephen’s Green, where magpies flitted between bare trees, while aggressive gulls bullied tourists for their snacks. The city’s buildings are low and honest, comforting in their stoutness and worn facades. There are no huge skyscrapers edging out light and sky, the better to enjoy the light. It’s easy to see how Dublin inspires writing and storytelling and poetry.

Wandering the city was lonely at times, but the loneliness felt cozy, like a low bass tone in a song that’s not unpleasant, but harmonious. I walked around with my thoughts and daydreams, no music or podcasts to chirp at me. It was a baptism in silence, as I let my mind go fallow, to take in new streets, experience new light, new air. Boy was the air clean — my lungs were full, and my legs pulsed with its rhythm as I cleared eight to 10 miles daily.

But on that cliff, the loneliness caught up with me. Under that sheet-pan gray sky, it seemed to engulf me and shut out the rest of the world. Oh, how beautiful. How big.

For the first time in the entire trip, I felt like screaming, to break up the silence I felt penning me in, even as the wind whipped and wailed.