A Northern Light to End On

Alexandra Schüller

9 hours ago

4 min read

I remember my first visit to Sylt in the summer of 2018 all too well. Jan suggested we take a walk north along the west beach. I was wearing a far-too-tight denim skirt, high wedge pumps and a thin, snow-white blouse. Why not? The sun was shining. It was summer, after all.

We set off, and with every step my feet — pumps included — sank deeper into the fine sand. Meanwhile, the sky seemed to cycle through every possible mood of an April day: blazing sunshine, strong wind, even stronger wind, drizzle, clouds, warmth, cold. Within minutes I was alternating between shivering and sweating. Being half Greek, I was used to Mediterranean holidays with steady heat and reliably predictable weather. Switzerland has no sea. And this? This was driving me mad. I complained at length about the ever-changing weather, about my clothes being wrong for every single one of its minute-by-minute variations, and about the sheer pointlessness of this walk — until Jan quietly began considering whether to give me my marching orders. Quite literally.

But I came back. More than once. And once I had finally made peace with heading out in July — yes, July — armed with gloves and a beanie, riding an e-bike into the one thing you can reliably count on here: a headwind, I started to fall for this little corner of Friesland.

With every ride and every new discovery, I liked it a little more.

One day, I decide to cycle north. As far north as the island will let me go. And no other trip has brought Sylt closer to me quite like that ride to List.

Migrating dunes are real. They have been here for around 700 years. Not because we can wander across them, but because they wander themselves. Up to ten metres a year, in fact. Formed as great masses of sand and driven by the wind, they slowly move across roads and landscapes. I stop and stare at the giant wall of sand in front of me.

To keep the dune from setting off on too many further adventures, marram grass is planted across it. Its dense network of roots helps to hold the sand in place and gradually slow the dune down.

At List harbour, surrounded by wooden huts, little shops and places to eat in and around the old Tonnenhalle with its small market stalls, I stop for a fish roll.

Seasoned seagulls circle above my windblown hair, ready to exploit the slightest lapse in concentration and steal a bite. Hitchcock’s The Birds feels like a bedtime story compared with the hunting routine of the gulls here.

Just a few steps from the harbour is the Erlebniszentrum Naturgewalten, an interactive nature centre where you can learn all about the origins of Sylt and explore the island’s remarkably diverse natural environment.

From there, the experience continues for real as I ride on towards the true northern tip of Germany. The further north I go, the fewer the distractions become. The number of tourists drops, while the number of grazing sheep in fields overlooking the sea steadily rises. Fewer clouds. More sky. It grows quiet — only the wind gets louder. I push on with my e-bike against the headwind. The sun is shining now, and the clouds have almost completely disappeared. The view of Sylt’s two northernmost lighthouses is perfectly clear.

At the northern tip of List, there are no beach chairs, no snack stands and no surfers. The sea is dangerous here, and warning signs point to strong undercurrents. The area is privately owned, with one clear priority: preserving this place in its original state. I walk across the dunes, past the island’s northernmost lighthouse, and continue along the water. In the solitude of the wide beach and the rough sea, I watch a family with two children flying a colourful kite. They are learning to read the moods of the wind, turning its unpredictability into a dance of colour across the sky. With my head full of new impressions, I begin the journey back.

On another visit, Jan and I stopped at Dittmeyers Austern Compagnie at the entrance to List. Oysters farmed on Sylt were served in surprisingly varied ways — and even for me, as someone who is not usually an oyster fan, they were extremely good. For the main course, we had Breton lobster. The poor creature was presented to us beforehand, still alive and well. Admittedly, after cooking, it tasted exceptionally delicious. If one is neither vegan nor vegetarian, the least one can do is remain conscious of the animal on the plate, where it came from, and that it had a good life before becoming part of the meal.

My southern roots and habits did not exactly make it easy for me to fall for this place at first. And yet, the fascination — even the love — people develop for Sylt is a well-known phenomenon, and eventually it caught me too. A phrase printed across the backrest of a place here on Sylt that has become very dear to me reads:

“The sky here is bigger and more varied than anywhere else in the world.”

So true.

By now, our next trip to Sylt feels almost within reach. I am looking forward to the island’s unpredictable weather like a child — and to long walks along the beach, heading north.

With a sense of authenticity, closeness to nature, tradition and hygge, our five-part Sylt series now comes full circle. This time, with one more location-inspired interior concept for a home in the far north.