I woke to the alarm with a slight chill. My single room had been placed in a rather peculiar spot — directly at the top of the staircase, before the door that led to the hotel’s actual interior corridor. In practice, the room felt as if it had been built into the vestibule. At the foot of the stairs were two doors: one to the outside and one to the hotel reception and restaurant. All night a faint draft had slipped in; I suspect the exterior door had been opening now and then. Unfortunately, every step taken by guests heading up the stairs echoed straight into my room.
The hotel itself was pleasant enough — nothing luxurious, and certainly showing signs of past glory — but my expectations were modest. After all, Dagebüll is for most travelers simply a waypoint on the way to the Schleswig–Holstein Wadden Sea National Park.
After a decidedly German breakfast, I packed my things into the car. If the previous evening had been cold, now it was properly freezing. This was my first morning of the autumn with ice on the car windows, and thick ice at that. The roads looked frosty too. Had it rained the day before, it would have been genuinely dangerous to drive on summer tires. After warming the car for a while, the windows finally cleared enough that I dared to leave the hotel yard.
The sun was just rising, painting the distant wind turbines in a soft orange light. Big flocks of birds were heading south — toward warmth. Why on earth, then, was I driving north?
The distance from Dagebüll to Klanxbüll is only twenty kilometers. Büll comes from North Frisian and means “village.” Both places truly are villages, but I had come here for one reason: Klanxbüll is the last railway station before Sylt. The idea of taking a train from the mainland to the island had fascinated me for some time. And it’s not an ordinary journey — Sylt is connected to the mainland only by the 11-kilometer-long Hindenburgdamm causeway. Construction began in 1923, and after moving 120,000 cubic meters of stone, it opened in 1927. Originally single-track, it was later widened to two tracks. More than a hundred trains cross it daily.
Moments after parking, I got to witness one of the station’s oddities: trains that carry only cars, while the passengers remain seated inside them. It eased my disappointment slightly that the first passenger train had just departed for Sylt without me. The morning was slowly warming, but the cars that had stayed overnight were still covered in frost. Others, clearly belonging to early birds, had already left on the earlier trains, which seemed to run roughly every half hour.
The ride from Klanxbüll to Sylt’s main station, Westerland, takes about twenty minutes. There are a few stops on the island, but the highlight is naturally the causeway — nearly a 180-degree panorama of sea. The mainland is flat and marshy, mostly fields, and somewhat south of here lies Germany’s lowest point. Yet at this hour I was more interested in something else: the location of the northernmost point of mainland Germany, and whether one could drive close to it. A few cars stood along the tracks, their owners unmistakably birdwatchers.
Sylt itself is the largest of the North Frisian Islands and Germany’s northernmost island — long and narrow, 38 kilometers from south to north, 12.6 kilometers at its widest and only 320 meters at its narrowest. Westerland station lies roughly halfway along its length, making walking impractical. My goal was Germany’s northernmost point at the top of the island. Walking would have taken nearly four hours, and my car was now far away on the mainland. So it was either bus or bicycle. Had the weather been warmer, I would have taken a bike without hesitation, but this time the plan was simple: head north by bus. Luck was on my side — the first bus toward List was an ExpressBus. Some passengers waiting at earlier stops also experienced its “express” nature when it ignored their attempts to flag it down.
In 1141, Sylt was recorded as an island, but before the Grote Mandrenke flood it was part of a tidal landscape and could apparently be reached on foot during low tide. Only after that flood did the sediments begin to form the island’s now-familiar shape.
At one of the rare stops, an older woman and a younger man caught my eye. I assumed they were mother and son — though perhaps they were a couple. Either way, I would see them again several times before the day was done. My stop was Mövenberg; they continued toward List.
On the map, the distance from the bus stop to the northern tip looks short, but in reality it’s about an hour’s walk each way. In these surroundings, though, an hour is nothing. Across Königshafen Bay I could already see the lighthouse, which I believed stood near the point I was heading toward. The bus ride had taken less than half an hour, although I had expected nearly an hour. But the ExpressBus skipped most stops and didn’t make any detours, so I arrived just before ten. The island still felt half-asleep. The paved road wound between dunes and grazing sheep, and steadily more cars and cyclists began appearing as the morning came alive.
Around the bay, the older woman and younger man passed me again — this time on bicycles. Apparently they had traveled to List and rented bikes. They didn’t seem to be heading in my direction, as they continued straight toward the tip while I turned off onto a path through the dunes that led to a breathtaking beach. Even in autumn, the place was stunning. It’s remarkable how many pristine white-sand beaches northern Europe hides. Sometimes I wonder why people travel all the way to southern Europe for beaches in midsummer when we have such beauty much closer.
The path to the northernmost point was exceptionally well marked — even though getting lost would have been nearly impossible. Clearly the place is considered something of a tourist attraction, and people are genuinely curious to visit it. Once you reach the beach, the spot is unmistakable. There’s even a photo frame set up for the perfect shot. The amusing part was how popular it was: as soon as one group stepped aside, another took their place. I waited quite a while before it was my turn. One couple even decided to sit right next to the frame, perfectly blocking the brief quiet moment when I might have taken a photo without anyone in it. Well, these things happen. With some patience the window opened, and I finally captured my picture — proof that I had reached Germany’s northernmost point. Here I mean the northernmost point of the whole country, because the northernmost point of the mainland sits slightly east of the island near the Danish border, relatively close to the very start of the causeway. I intended to visit that later in the day.
But the adventure didn’t end there. I still needed to get back. Checking the bus schedules, I realized the connections were far worse than earlier. I couldn’t make the bus leaving in twenty minutes, and the next was much later. I had to catch it — otherwise I would miss the train. For whatever reason, the afternoon connections back to the mainland had long gaps.
Soon I met the older woman and younger man for the third time. They were now returning from the northern tip and turned into the parking area behind me. Perhaps heading to the northernmost point. The island was clearly at its midday busiest: long lines of cars, crowds everywhere. The road was narrow, giving walkers little room when two cars met. Add cyclists into the mix, and I found myself wishing drivers would slow down.
When I finally reached the bus stop — well, it didn’t take much guessing who sped past me yet again, now heading toward List, probably to return their bikes. I, meanwhile, had a long wait. A multigenerational family appeared, and one of them asked whether I knew if the bus was coming. I answered politely that according to the timetable it should arrive in fifteen minutes, though inwardly I thought: How should I know if it comes or not? I’m not a seer. The trouble was that buses came only once an hour; if this one didn’t appear, the wait could be endless.
Eventually it arrived, busier than ever. It was a regular bus, not an express one, so it stopped at nearly every stop and picked up passengers constantly. Because of that it fell behind schedule. I had planned a comfortable margin to reach the station — but as we approached Westerland, I realized that if the bus got stuck at a few red lights, I would miss the train. It was departing in five minutes. The next one would be an hour and a half later, which would ruin the rest of the day. I jumped off a couple of stops early and ran.
Fortunately, I had bought the ticket earlier while waiting for the bus, so I didn’t waste time at the machine. I reached the platform with about a minute to spare — though I did briefly panic when I saw “Hamburg” on the train. But everything was in order. I made it aboard, caught my breath, and enjoyed the sea crossing — for the second time that day.