Top of Northern Ireland - Slieve Donard

The morning started in a quiet hush — the kind of stillness that only the Mournes can hold. Mist clung low over Newcastle as I laced up my boots, the sea behind me already a pale blur. I’d looked up at Slieve Donard countless times, its peak often swallowed by clouds, but today was the day I’d finally meet it.

The trail began gently enough, weaving through Donard Forest, where damp pine needles softened each step and the air smelled like rain. The river chattered beside me, tumbling over rocks as if impatient to reach the sea. Every turn seemed to draw me deeper into silence — a rhythm of breath, boot, and wind.

As the forest thinned, the gradient sharpened. The Mourne Wall came into view — a rugged stone line stretching endlessly across the landscape, guiding the way like an old promise. I followed it upward, layer by layer, feeling the air grow colder and the clouds draw closer.

Halfway up, the mist swallowed everything. Visibility dropped to a few meters; it was just me, the wall, and the sound of wind sweeping across the heather. My jacket was slick with drizzle, my hands cold, but I felt alive — raw and real, every sense sharpened by the mountain’s indifference.

When the ground finally leveled, I knew I’d reached the summit before I could see it. The stone cairn emerged from the fog like something ancient and patient. I touched it, breath clouding in the cold air, and for a moment there was nothing but quiet — no signal, no noise, just the faint whisper of the wind and the weight of being small beneath it all.

Then, as if on cue, the mist began to lift. Through a shifting veil of cloud, I caught a glimpse of the coastline — the town below, the curve of the sea, the distant green fields of County Down. It lasted only a minute, but it was enough.

The descent was easier, but I carried the stillness with me. Slieve Donard hadn’t just been climbed — it had been earned.