Llyn Padarn, 30 December 2025: one tree, one sunrise
Christmas does two things at once: it fills the house with warmth, and it slowly suffocates your creative lungs. After a few days of family time, full tables and slow mornings, something in me flashed red: get out, go somewhere, make something.
So on 29 December I made a fast call. No endless planning, no overthinking. Snowdonia National Park: one location, one objective, one image — the lone tree at Llyn Padarn.
The alarm that didn’t work (but the balloon did)
The plan was precise. Alarm at 2:30 a.m. Beat the sunrise, beat the crowds, beat the excuses.
I ignored the alarm.
What actually woke me at 3:15 a.m. was a party balloon exploding — inflated the day before for New Year’s Eve. Without that ridiculous, cartoonish bang, this trip would never have happened. Sometimes fate doesn’t whisper. It slams a door.
I dressed fast, made sandwiches, filled a flask with hot tea, packed cameras, lenses and the drone, and rolled out at 3:45 a.m. The GPS promised three hours and delivered. I arrived at 6:30.
Hunting the tree in the dark
Here’s what location guides don’t tell you: you can know of a place and still have no idea where it is.
This was my first time at Llyn Padarn. The tree — a solitary birch planted in 2010 — was supposed to be on a small peninsula. I circled that peninsula in the dark like a confused satellite. At one point I genuinely thought someone had cut it down.
Wrong side of the peninsula.
And then there it was. Standing quietly. Alone. Waiting.
First on site, best seat in the house
Still dark. I sprinted back to the car, grabbed the gear and claimed my position.
Then the others came. Two photographers. Then more. Then more. By sunrise about fifteen of us stood there, tripods shoulder to shoulder, lenses all pointed at the same birch tree. In all my years of shooting, that was a first.
And what a crew. Good energy, good conversation, no ego. Just people who get it.
The light did its thing
The sky wasn’t perfectly clear. No dramatic clouds tearing apart the heavens. But perfect skies are overrated — good light always finds a way.
What we got was a slow, cinematic transition: deep blue into violet, violet into soft magenta, then gradually whitening and calming. You could watch time move.
The tree stood silhouetted, the water held a violet twilight, and the mountains framed the scene like old guardians. Stillness. Balance. Quiet confidence. That’s the kind of photograph that doesn’t shout — it lasts.
The swimmers
Just when I thought the morning was done surprising me, a small group arrived at the lake and a few of the women went in for a swim. Not a quick dip — proper cold-water swimming.
The air was around 4–5°C. Breath visible, fingers numb. And there they were, stepping calmly into the lake as if it were a summer wellness retreat.
While we photographers stood wrapped in layers with gloves and thermoses, chasing light and warmth, they were chasing something else entirely: clarity, resilience, maybe freedom. That moment stayed with me as much as the sunrise did.
Onward, without a plan
I stayed until 8:30, packing up slowly, saying goodbye to people who an hour earlier had been complete strangers. Then I did something I believe in: I didn’t overplan the next step. I got in the car and drove toward Llyn Gwynant.
Just beyond Llyn Peris, past the village of Gwastadnant, the A4086 drops into a shallow valley — cinematic views, clean lines, proper Snowdonia drama without the noise. I pulled over, sent the drone up and captured a few smooth, controlled shots. Nothing reckless. The kind of flying that respects the place.
Snowdon, Crib Goch and the road around the mountain
I carried on, wrapping around Snowdon, passing the Pen-y-Pass visitor centre and descending toward Llyn Gwynant. At a roadside viewpoint I stopped again. Snowdon stood tall and unmistakable, and if my bearings were right, Crib Goch cut its sharp silhouette into the scene beside it.
Here I went back to fundamentals. Tripod out. A telephoto to compress the mountains and pull drama from distance, then a wide-angle to let the foreground breathe. Different tools, same intent.
A photographer from ten minutes down the road
At the car park came one of those small-world moments. I met a photographer from Loughborough — barely ten minutes from Coalville, where I live. Out of all the places, in the middle of Snowdonia.
We talked for a long time. No forced networking, no portfolio flexing. Just two photographers talking light, weather and places that still deserve patience. He pointed me toward Llyn y Dywarchen, a lake known for beautifully balanced views of Snowdon at sunset.
Andy, Ken, and why Wales stays with you
At Llyn y Dywarchen the day delivered another gift: two more photographers, Andy and Ken. Genuinely good people, easy to talk to, the kind you trust within minutes.
Something struck me there. People in Wales are kind in a specific way. No impatience, no rushing, no awkwardness about my imperfect English. They listened carefully, spoke clearly and adjusted naturally so I could follow every part of the conversation. That kind of respect stays with you.
Both of them shared local knowledge freely — compositions and quieter spots around the lake that you won’t find on a map or a blog. The sort of thing that only comes from being there season after season.
You can find their work here: @ken_bland_photography and @andy_d_green. Their portfolios are outstanding — a real eye for balance and timing, and edits that are clean, confident and controlled. It’s the kind of work that makes you want to raise your own standards. We’ve stayed in touch ever since.
Moments like that remind me why I love this craft. Yes, it’s about light and landscape. But just as often, it’s about people.
The drone film
I put together a short film from the clips I captured that day. It’s best watched on a big screen, volume up, distractions off.
I’m genuinely happy with the result — the movement, the rhythm, the sense of space. My only frustration is that the day was far too short. Winter gives you beauty, then takes the light back quickly.
And then it was time to point the car home. Three and a half hours on the road, tired and content, head full of images — that familiar post-trip feeling when the body is exhausted but the mind is wide awake.
Planning your own sunrise at the Llyn Padarn lone tree
- The tree is a solitary birch on a small peninsula on the shore of Llyn Padarn, near Llanberis. It was planted in 2010.
- In the dark it is easy to end up on the wrong side of the peninsula, as I did. Scout it on a map before you go.
- I arrived at 6:30 a.m. and had the spot to myself. By sunrise there were about fifteen photographers. Early matters.
- Expect around 4–5°C at the water’s edge on a winter morning. Gloves and a flask are not optional.
- Leave time for the rest of the valley. The A4086 past Gwastadnant and the viewpoints above Llyn Gwynant are worth the detour.
Wales is beautiful. Quietly powerful. Honest. Unpretentious. I’ll be back — better prepared, with more time and more patience. And I hope to run into Ken and Andy out there again. Some places, and some people, are meant to be revisited.
Images from this morning are available as fine art prints. See the Prints collection →
Read what happened when I went back in February: My Valentine’s Date with Snowdonia →