After returning from Sylt and Germany’s northernmost point, my next goal was the northernmost point of mainland Germany — near Rickelsbüller Koog. On paper, it looked simple: just follow a small road running alongside the railway. In theory, that should have been easy.
By the time I reached Klanxbüll, it was almost 2:30 p.m. I paid for parking and set off in what I thought was the right direction. After a short drive, I reached a gate. The road ended there — no way forward by car. Clearly, I had completely misread the route. I paused, looking across the wide fields. In the distance I saw a few motorhomes and cars, proof that others had somehow managed to get here. But how? Google Maps showed nothing helpful; the road I needed simply didn’t appear.
Annoyed, I tried a different approach on the opposite side of the railway. Out here, rural speed limits are typically 100 km/h, and my frustration didn’t exactly encourage cautious driving — whether I obeyed the limit is another matter. But every attempt ended the same way: dead ends, private roads, blocked tracks. The map suggested multiple connections; reality disagreed.
I finally gave up and programmed the GPS to take me directly to the point. It led me south, looping strangely across the countryside. Given the maze of drainage ditches, fences, and meadows, it felt bizarre but also the most natural option available. Twenty minutes later, that route too ended with a “no entry” sign. Googling didn’t help. Nothing explained how anyone actually reached this place.
Out of ideas, I turned to AI — and that, unexpectedly, solved it.
The solution was almost embarrassingly simple: I needed to first drive toward the Danish border, to a spot marked by a former border guard house that now serves as a tiny tourist attraction. From there, a narrow road runs exactly along the border. On most maps, the border line itself hides the road underneath, making it effectively invisible. Once I understood that, everything clicked. I felt slightly foolish — but when Google Street View can’t see the road and standard GPS ignores it, confusion is at least understandable.
Rickelsbüller Koog itself is fascinating. A koog, or polder, is land reclaimed from the sea by dikes and drainage. This particular one was created around 1981 as part of a German–Danish coastal protection project and became a nature reserve in 1982. Today it’s an important bird migration hotspot and part of the UNESCO-protected Wadden Sea. From the top of the dikes, you can literally look into Denmark; the village of Rudbøl lies just across the water. The landscape here is pure Wadden Sea countryside: flat marshes stretching to the horizon, sheep grazing on the dikes, narrow canals slicing across the fields, and a steady wind that never really stops.
Other visitors had also made it here — mostly birdwatchers scanning the skies with binoculars. One sight made me feel mixed emotions: a man walking back from Denmark carrying a plastic bag full of discarded bottles. On the surface, it was a small act of environmentalism. But the irony is that on the German side, strict rules forbid walking into Denmark’s protected reserve. So he was simultaneously helping nature and — technically — breaking conservation law.
When I finally reached the narrow path to the northernmost point, the place began to make sense. The old border guard houses, the drained marshland, the endless wind — everything here was shaped by practical decisions rather than aesthetics. It’s a landscape built to manage water, borders, and wildlife.
A low fence ran along the frontier, cutting across the fields almost casually. I later learned that Denmark built it in 2019 to prevent wild boar from crossing the border and spreading African swine fever. Not dramatic, not imposing, but a reminder that even here, on Germany’s quiet northern edge, modern concerns leave their mark.
Standing on the border, with marshes opening toward the North Sea and Denmark just a few steps away, the place felt understated and stubborn. There was nothing monumental about it — no cliffs, no statues — just wind, water, and the sense that you’ve reached a point most people never bother to find. And most people here were for the birds.