The November air hovers a hair breath above zero, knife slicing through coats, clothes and skin. It animates the pale green of seagrass; rippling, swaying, water like. On the outskirts of Bun Dobhráin (Bundoran), expansive hills, untrammelled and wild, meet a jagged edge of soot black rock, and plummet down to the vast sandy stretch of Tullan Strand. Its pale golden skin runs two kilometres to the mouth of River Erne, washed on one side by the colour Atlantic.

From that bluff, we stare down at the waves beneath, our backs to the impassive gaze of the Dartry Mountains. Named after the old territory of Dartraighe, the limestone plateau stretches between Lough Gill and Lough Melvin before dipping and rising to the poised summit of Benwiskin (dubbed “The Breaking Wave”) that looms, condescending, over the infamous monsters of An Mullach Mór (Mullaghmore) daring them to do their watery worst.

We had started our morning just nearby, hunting waves, snaking our way up the coastline from Tullaghan, past Drowes Rivermouth and The Peak. Then a left at a fast food joint, where the road crooks around a lengthy pasture and the slow moving statues of horses graze in the morning chill, blanketed and serene. I wonder: do they think us mad as we strip and – yelping, whooping, childlike – climb into wetsuits still damp from yesterday’s session?

Perhaps they’ve given up; most humans would dub us daft. But this stretch of Northwest Ireland has become a mecca for cold water surfers over the past sixty years. While the region has been a popular seaside resort since the 19th century, it’s not until 1964 that we have photographic proof of Mr. Ian Hill from Portrush surfing Bundoran Beach, scoring a mark in Irish surfing history. Today, from the shores of Sligo up around to Rossnowlagh and beyond, Donegal Bay boasts waves that equally awe and terrify; glassy and melodic one day, murderous the next.

At Tullan Strand in particular, the water is a nipply twelve. From around the cliffs, the swell shoulders in, deceptive, sluggish with intent, aware of our presence. Without warning, they shift and surge forward, heaving and rearing into cerulean towers, steep and gnarly. Locals demonstrate their prowess, slipping into the dark creases. From above, sunlight slants through fingerlike clouds, scratching the precipice, flaring as it strikes the ocean. Gulls swoop and soar, pinwheeling in those rays.

On a personal note, it’s been a barely whispered dream of mine to surf beneath wintery mountains. Never did I imagine it would be here, in Ireland. In the distance where the coastline curves back on itself, the headlands all the way to Sliabh Liag (Slieve League, one of Europe’s highest sea cliffs) shimmer white from last night’s snowfall. Faced with this otherworldly panorama while skirting the shadows of the eerie crags, I bask in the sunlight and stare skywards, resolved to hold this moment precious so as not to take its glory for granted.

Hours later as we pile into the cozy darkness of a pub to sip pints of Guinness beside a coal fire, this Irish collision of land and sea will blush rose gold for a moment before a resounding nightfall, subject to the spine chilling power and beauty of the North Atlantic.