You'll find Dunsum by following the coastal road west from Wyk, past thatched farmsteads and fields where black-and-white cows graze. The village itself is tiny—a few houses, a church, a path leading seaward. The beach unfolds as a generous crescent backed by low dunes and beach-grass tufts, the sand fine enough to squeak underfoot. At high tide the Wadden Sea laps gently at the shore; at low, you can walk half a kilometer across ribbed flats toward Amrum's silhouette.
“A spacious western Wadden strand offering big-sky views, warm shallows, and family-friendly seclusion despite its accessibility.”
Tropical beach hammock between palms
This is Föhr's family secret, a shore where toddlers dig moats and grandparents doze in folding chairs without jostling for space. The water, when present, is shallow and warm—bathwater in July, barely knee-deep even fifty meters out. Parents wade beside inflatable rafts; older children hunt for crabs in tide pools left behind by the receding sea. The beach slopes so gently that the incoming tide takes hours to claim the flats, advancing in a line of white foam that children race and retreat from, shrieking.
The sky here dominates everything—vast, cloudscaped, streaked with contrails from planes heading to Hamburg. Westerly winds carry the scent of salt and eelgrass; gulls wheel overhead, occasionally plummeting after baitfish. By evening the light goes soft and amber, gilding the wet sand and turning the Wadden channels into ribbons of molten copper. Families pack up reluctantly, shaking sand from blankets, promising to return tomorrow.
