Why ARTE’s ‘Ireland’s Wild Coast’ Has Malta Questioning Every Development Plan

Watch: Ireland’s coast (ARTE) – and why Maltese eyes should care
By Hot Malta contributor

The first drone shot lifts off the Cliffs of Moher and, for a split second, every Maltese viewer thinks: “That’s like Dingli, but greener.” Then the camera keeps climbing, revealing 300-metres of vertical Atlantic limestone that could swallow our entire island and still have room for Gozo. ARTE’s new 90-minute documentary “Ireland’s Wild Coast” (streaming free until 31 August) is being passed around Maltese WhatsApp groups like contraband ħobż biż-żejt, and not just because we’re addicted to drone porn. The film has struck a nerve precisely because it shows what a coastline looks like when nature, not concrete, is in charge.

Local context: we’re running out of coast
Malta has 196 km of shoreline; only 2.8 km are still undeveloped. Planning Authority data shows 13 new hotel-apartment blocks approved within 100 metres of the water in the past three years. Meanwhile, Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way stretches 2,500 km—twelve times our entire perimeter—and you can count the high-rises on one hand. The ARTE film doesn’t preach; it simply lets barnacle-studded rocks, breaching humpbacks and 300-year-old Gaelic songs speak for themselves. The result is a gut-punch to any islander who has watched Ramla Bay shrink another metre every season.

Cultural mirror: two islands, two relationships with the sea
Malta’s coast is our motorway, our billboard, our selfie backdrop. Ireland’s coast is still a character in folklore—where selkies swap seal skins for human hearts and children are warned not to eat yellow seaweed after dark. The documentary spends ten uninterrupted minutes on a currach (hand-made canvas boat) race off Connemara. Commentary is in French and German, but Gozitan fishermen watching on Facebook translate instantly: “That’s a dgħajsa tal-pass, but with more Guinness,” laughs 68-year-old Nenu from Xlendi, who still rows the feast of St Peter every June. “The difference is they race for pride, we race for tourists.”

Community impact: could Malta ever ‘do an Ireland’?
The film’s second half pivots to community-led conservation. In County Clare, a cooperative of 45 former fishermen now run eco-kayak tours; last year they turned over €1.2 million without adding a single berth to Doolin pier. The template is simple: cap visitor numbers, keep accommodation small, tax every tourist €3 for coastal restoration. Malta’s Gozo Ministry is already taking notes. “We invited the Clare CEO for a closed-door session in April,” reveals a senior official who asked not to be named. “The takeaway: you need political courage to say ‘enough’ before the carrying capacity snaps.”

Back in Malta, NGOs are weaponising the documentary. Moviment Graffitti will screen the film on 14 July at Valletta’s Pjazza Teatru Rjal, followed by a panel on the proposed Żonqor marina. “We’re not anti-development; we’re against giving away every centimetre of public coast,” spokesperson Andre Callus insists. Tickets disappeared in 36 hours. Expect a livestream link to crash faster than a summer Enemalta outage.

The language angle
Irish Gaelic whispered in the voice-over sounds oddly familiar to Maltese ears—another minority language that refused to drown. When a 12-year-old girl recites a poem about “an t-uisce ag damhsa leis na carraigeacha” (“the water dancing with the rocks”), Facebook comments fill with Maltese verses: “Il-baħar jibki u jħakkini, ħdejn l-għar tal-imħabba.” For a moment, two peripheral islands recognise each other across 3,000 kilometres of saltwater.

What happens next?
Don’t expect ARTE’s lush cinematography to halt the Midi marina or the Sliema yacht pen. But the timing is exquisite: Ireland’s Wild Coast drops just as Malta’s Environment & Resources Authority closes public consultation on the new National Marine Policy. Submissions have already jumped from the usual 40 to 230, many citing the documentary. “People finally have a visual reference for what ‘undeveloped’ can look like,” says ERA chairperson Michelle Piccione. “That’s powerful.”

Conclusion
We will never have Ireland’s rainfall or its endless Atlantic horizon. Yet watching 90 minutes of spray-lashed granite and hearing curlegs outscore car horns reminds Maltese viewers that coastline is not just real estate—it is memory, identity, breathing space. If ARTE’s film nudges even five per cent of us to demand one less slab, one more metre of public access, then the buffering wheel was worth it. Close the laptop, walk to the nearest natural inlet—be it Għar Lapsi or Daħlet Qorrot—and imagine the waves narrating our story in Maltese. What would they say?