The Cliffs of Moher

The Cliffs of Moher are the edge of Europe standing up: eight kilometres of sandstone and shale rising two hundred and fourteen metres straight from the Atlantic on the west coast of Clare, in layers laid down by a river delta three hundred million years ago and cut back, since, by a sea that has nothing between here and Newfoundland to slow it down. On the highest point stands O'Brien's Tower, a landlord's folly of 1835 built for the view; along the top runs a coastal path from Doolin to Hag's Head; on the ledges nest puffins, razorbills and guillemots; and below, in the swell, the boats from Doolin show the cliffs at their true scale, which is the only one that fits.

The traveller comes early or late — the coaches own the middle of the day — and walks the cliff path in both directions from the visitor centre, buried in its hill; climbs O'Brien's Tower on a clear day for the Aran Islands and the mountains of Connemara; watches the puffins from April to July on the sea-stack the locals call Goat Island; takes the boat from Doolin to look up from the water; ends in Doolin's pubs, where the music starts when the fiddlers arrive; and, with a day, crosses to the Aran Islands or drives the Burren's grey limestone for its impossible flowers.

The Guide's honesty: the cliffs are Ireland's most visited natural site and the car park proves it — the shoulder hours and the coastal path away from the centre are the whole strategy —; the edge is real, the wind is real and the unofficial paths beyond the walls have killed people, so the walls are where to stand and the selfie is not worth it; the weather changes by the quarter-hour, and mist can hide everything, so a second chance in the day is worth building in; the entry fee funds the path and the centre; and the boat is the view the postcards cannot give.