Chasing Light Rays at the Western Edge of Ireland

Ballydavid Head sits on the western edge of the Dingle Peninsula, a place that has long drawn photographers and walkers alike for its expansive views across the Atlantic. It’s a climb that demands commitment — not particularly technical, but steep enough that once you make the ascent, you’ll want to make it count. I arrived there in the early afternoon with Diarmuid and Patrick, knowing the light could shift at any moment and hoping the effort would be worthwhile.

The headland has deep roots in Ireland’s history. At its summit once stood a Napoleonic-era signal tower, part of a chain built along the coast in the early 1800s to warn of potential invasion. These traces of history add perspective to the scene — reminders that people once watched the same coastline for reasons far different to ours, yet drawn by the same vantage and the same light.

We reached the top after a steady climb. The sky was heavy with low, moving cloud, and light broke only in narrow gaps. Every so often, a beam would push through, lighting the water or one of the headlands for just a few seconds before closing over again. These were not easy conditions to photograph, but they offered potential for something dynamic.

Rather than start taking stills straight away, I decided to set up a few timelapses. My plan was to capture the speed and flow of the clouds and to see if the light would drift through the scene during that time. With the intervalometer running, I sent the drone up for some aerial footage. That’s not my usual sequence — I normally prioritise the camera first — but given how unpredictable the light was, I thought the drone might reveal an angle that wasn’t obvious from the ground.

The view from Ballydavid Head takes in the “Three Sisters” — three distinct headlands that curve out into the Atlantic, forming one of the most recognisable features of the Dingle coastline. To the south, Sybil Head juts out sharply, with the Blasket Islands lying beyond. Even in poor light, this is a strong scene to work with. The composition has depth and scale, the kind of landscape that holds structure even when the light doesn’t fully cooperate.

The first round of timelapses showed little more than moving grey, but I began to see breaks opening toward the horizon. I switched to stills and waited. When the next gap appeared, a soft ray caught the water and slid over the cliffs. It didn’t last long, but the way it shaped the texture of the sea and the dark edges of the land gave the frame some life. I kept shooting as the light moved along the line of the headlands.

A few minutes later, it happened again, this time more direct. The beam landed right above the Three Sisters, casting one section into glow while the near tip fell back into shadow. It was subtle, but the balance of light and shade worked well. These were the kind of short-lived moments you only get when you’re already set up and ready to go.

Behind us, the clouds were shifting fast over Mount Brandon. We’d photographed that mountain earlier in the morning from Beal Ban Beach, where sunrise had given us clean light across the bay. Now, from this angle, it looked far more imposing, with its upper slopes wrapped in cloud. I ran another timelapse from the top, watching the weather roll through the peaks.

As the day moved toward evening, we stayed put. The light was faint, the temperature dropped slightly, and the wind picked up. With around half an hour until sunset, we hoped for one last break — a final lift of light that might spill across the cliffs. The sky showed faint colour high up, but it never reached the foreground. Even so, I took a few more frames, trying different focal lengths and viewpoints, and then sent the drone up once more to see how the scene looked from above.

From the drone’s view, the coastline unfolded with more structure than I could see from where I stood. The headlands lined up neatly, the shadows giving shape to the folds of the cliffs. I captured several shots there before the light faded completely.

The climb down was slow, the last light disappearing behind Mount Brandon. We stopped a few times to look back. Even without the ideal conditions, the place had delivered strong material. The interplay of cloud and light, the vastness of the Atlantic, and the sense of standing on old ground all combined to make the day worthwhile.

Ballydavid Head is the kind of place that rewards patience more than planning. You can’t schedule a perfect beam of light or guarantee the conditions will line up, but you can give yourself enough time to be there when it happens. The scale of the landscape means even small variations in light can transform it. That’s part of what makes shooting on the western edge of Ireland so engaging — you never quite know what you’re going to get, but when the moment arrives, it’s worth every minute you’ve waited.

We reached the van just after dark, tired but satisfied. Between us, we had a mix of shots, timelapses, and drone footage to review. Some sequences showed light breaking over the water; others captured the motion of clouds across the Three Sisters. It might not have been the most dramatic evening we’ve had, but it was one that showed me why patience in this kind of work matters.

This headland, with its layers of history and its unpredictable light, sums up much of what I enjoy about photographing along the Irish coast. It’s wild without being chaotic, challenging without being inaccessible. Standing there, watching the weather shift and the light move across the sea, you get a sense of how all these elements — history, geography, and patience — come together in one frame.