A Winter Reset in Snowdonia – 30 December 2025
Christmas has a funny way of doing two things at once: filling the house with warmth and love… and slowly suffocating your creative lungs. After a few days of family time, full tables, slow mornings, and the gentle chaos that comes with the holidays, I felt it clearly—an internal KPI flashing red: get out, go somewhere, make something.
So on 29 December, without overthinking it (analysis paralysis is the enemy of momentum), I made a fast, decisive call. Snowdonia National Park. One location. One objective. One image.
The lonely tree at Llyn Padarn.
Old-school thinking meets modern execution. No endless planning decks. Just a destination, a weather check, and a camera bag.
The Alarm That Didn’t Work (But the Balloon Did)
The plan was ruthless and precise. Alarm set for 2:30 a.m. The goal: beat sunrise, beat crowds, beat excuses.
Reality check? I ignored the alarm.
What actually woke me up at 3:15 a.m. was the bang of a party balloon exploding—prepared for a New Year’s celebration, inflated the day before. If not for that ridiculous, cartoonish moment, this entire trip wouldn’t have happened. Sometimes fate doesn’t whisper. It slams a door.
I got dressed fast. Made sandwiches. Poured hot tea into a flask. Packed cameras, lenses, drones—the whole mobile production unit—and rolled out at 3:45 a.m.
The GPS promised three hours. It delivered.
I arrived at 6:30 a.m. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Hunting the Tree
Here’s the thing they don’t put in location guides:
You can know of a place and still not know where it is.
This was my first time at Llyn Padarn. The famous tree—a Solitary Birch planted in 2010—was supposed to be on a small peninsula. I walked around it in the dark, circling like a confused satellite. At one point I genuinely thought, Someone’s cut it down.
Corporate risk assessment moment: Project possibly cancelled due to missing asset.
Turns out—no.
Wrong side of the peninsula.
There it was.
Standing quietly. Alone. Waiting.
First on Site, Best Seat in the House
Still dark. No time to waste. I sprinted back to the car, grabbed the camera gear, and claimed my position. First on site. Prime real estate.
Then the others arrived.
Two photographers. Then more. Then more.
By sunrise, about 15 people had gathered—tripods shoulder to shoulder, lenses pointed forward, all of us silently aligned around one shared objective. I’ve photographed a lot over the years, but this? This was a first.
And honestly—what a crew. Good energy. Good conversations. No ego. Just people who get it.
The Light Did Its Thing
The sky wasn’t perfectly clear. No dramatic clouds ripping apart the heavens. But here’s the truth they don’t tell beginners:
Perfect skies are overrated.
Good light always finds a way.
What we got was a slow, cinematic transition:
deep blue
into violet
into soft magenta
then gradually whitening, calming
poetry in photons
You could see time moving.
The attached image captures that exact moment—the tree silhouetted, the water reflecting a violet twilight, the mountains holding the scene together like old guardians. Stillness. Balance. Quiet confidence. No drama. Just presence.
That’s the kind of photograph that doesn’t shout.
It lasts.
Just when I thought I’d seen everything that morning, another scene unfolded—completely unscripted. A small group arrived at the lake, and to my absolute disbelief, a few girls went in for a swim. Not a quick dip. Proper cold-water swimming.
The air temperature was around 4–5°C, breath visible, fingers numb, and there they were calmly stepping into the lake like it was a summer wellness retreat. My internal risk assessment went straight to red alert.
I stood there thinking: My gosh… that’s another level of courage.
While we photographers were wrapped in layers, gloves on, thermoses in hand, chasing light and warmth, they were chasing something else entirely—clarity, resilience, maybe freedom. It was raw, old-school bravery. The kind you don’t question, you just respect.
Honestly? That moment stayed with me as much as the sunrise itself.
Onward, Without a Plan
I stayed until 8:30 a.m., soaking it in, packing up slowly, saying goodbye to people who—just an hour earlier—were complete strangers.
Then I did something I strongly believe in, both creatively and professionally:
I didn’t overplan the next step.
I got in the car and drove toward Llyn Gwynant.
No expectations. No pressure. Just forward motion.
Just beyond Llyn Peris, past the village of Gwastadnant and into a shallow valley along the A4086, the landscape was amazing. Cinematic views. Clean lines. Proper Snowdonia drama without the noise. I pulled over, unloaded the drone, and captured a handful of smooth, controlled aerial shots. Nothing reckless — just classic, disciplined flying. The kind that respects the place and lets the land do the talking.
Then it was time to complete the loop.
I drove on, wrapping around Mount Snowdon, passing the Pen-y-Pass Visitor Centre, and descended toward Llyn Gwynant. At one of the roadside viewpoints, I stopped again. From there, Snowdon stood tall and unmistakable, and if my bearings were right, Crib Goch cut its sharp, unmistakable silhouette into the scene as well — rugged, uncompromising, legendary.
This time, the drone stayed part of the workflow, but I went back to fundamentals too. Tripod out. Camera in hand.
I worked the scene with both a telephoto lens, compressing the mountains and pulling drama from distance, and a wide-angle lens, letting the foreground breathe and giving the landscape room to speak. Different tools, same intent. Still photography and motion, stitched together by light and patience.
At the car park, another one of those small-world moments unfolded. I met a fellow photographer — and to my genuine surprise, he was from Loughborough, barely ten minutes from Coalville. Out of all places, in the heart of Snowdonia. The world really is smaller than we like to pretend.
We ended up having a long, easy conversation. No forced networking, no portfolio flexing — just two photographers talking shop, light, weather, and places that still deserve patience. He was a genuinely likeable guy, the kind you could happily share a sunrise or a long coffee with.
He generously pointed me toward a few locations worth exploring in the future, including Llyn y Dywarchen — a lake known for its beautifully balanced views of Snowdon at sunset. According to him, when the light plays along, the mountain lines up perfectly in the background, offering a scene that’s calm, graphic, and quietly powerful.
So I carried on, and when I reached Llyn y Dywarchen, the day delivered another quiet gift. I met two more photographers there — Andy and Ken. Genuinely good people. Easy to talk to. The kind you trust within minutes.
It really struck me how kind people in Wales are. There was no impatience, no rushing, no awkwardness about my not-perfect English. They listened carefully, spoke clearly, and adjusted naturally so I could follow every part of the conversation. That sort of respect stays with you. It matters.
Both Andy and Ken generously shared their local knowledge — pointing out interesting compositions and lesser-known spots around the lake. Information you don’t find on maps or blogs. The kind that only comes from being there, season after season. It was genuinely helpful and deeply appreciated.
We exchanged Instagram details —
👉 Ken’s profile: [link]
👉 Andy’s profile: [link]
And I have to say this clearly: their portfolios are outstanding. They both have an exceptional eye for landscape photography, a real sense of balance and timing, and their edits are clean, confident, and beautifully controlled.
Honestly, I wish to have skills like theirs. It’s the kind of work that inspires you to raise your own standards.
We said our goodbyes properly, not the rushed kind. And what I like most is that we’ve stayed in touch ever since.
Moments like that remind me why I love this craft.
Yes, it’s about light and landscapes — but just as often, it’s about people.
And on that winter day in Snowdonia, I was lucky to find both.
I later put together a short video from the drone clips I captured that day. It’s best watched on a big screen, with the volume up and distractions off. I’m genuinely satisfied with the result — the movement, the rhythm, the feeling of space. The only real frustration? The day was far too short. Winter gives you beauty, but it takes the light back quickly.
Still, that’s no complaint.
Wales is beautiful. Quietly powerful. Honest. Unpretentious.
I’ll be back — no question about it. Next time better prepared, with more time, more locations, and more patience. And I truly hope I’ll run into Ken and Andy again somewhere out there in Snowdonia. Some places, and some people, are meant to be revisited.
And then, finally, it was time to point the car home.
Three and a half hours on the road. Tired, content, head full of images. That familiar post-trip feeling — when the body’s exhausted but the mind is wide awake.
I love this.
Every part of it.
Happy New Year.