My valentine's date with Snowdonia
The plan was simple: head to Snowdonia National Park in Wales for a Valentine’s Day shot. Not with a girl—just me, my camera, and the mountains. It was Friday, February 13th, and the clock struck 8:00 PM when I finally finished my shift and headed home. The forecast for the next day looked perfect, so there was no time to waste.
I pulled into my driveway at 8:40 PM, showered, inhaled a “breakfast-dinner” hybrid, and started packing the car. By 10:00 PM, I was on the road, leaving everything behind.
It was dark, quiet, and my mind was already there, drifting among the peaks. I remember passing Corwen when I saw the first patches of snow clinging to the fields and the roadside. Hurrah! The snow was going to be there. I pressed on, my excitement growing with every mile.
I didn’t roll into the car park until about 1:30 AM. When I stepped out to check the air, it was -5°C. I paid the fee, climbed into the back of the car, and tried to catch a few hours of sleep.
My alarm was set for 5:00 AM, but I didn’t really need it. The beam of a runner’s headlamp cut through the darkness as he jogged past my car—he was already heading for the summit. That was the kick I needed. I didn’t hesitate; I grabbed my gear and started the trek toward Llyn Lydaw, the silence of the mountain calling me home.
I stepped off the gravel of the parking lot and found the start of the Llwybr Pen y Pass path. It felt surreal—my boots hitting the same earth I’d walked with Paulina twelve years ago. Time blurs the details; I couldn’t remember the path at all. Back then, it was just a day out, but now, wrapped in the absolute, crushing darkness of the pre-dawn, it felt like a brand new world.
I was moving through a void, my headlamp the only thing anchoring me to reality. The beam cut a narrow, dancing circle on the ground in front of me, highlighting every rock and patch of mud, but beyond that, it was pitch black—dark as the devil.
The path was about 1.5 km long. Even in that biting cold, the steady incline had my blood pumping, and I was already warming up. Near the warden centre, I passed a couple frantically layering up in their climbing gear; the guy was grumbling about the freezing temperature. I couldn’t help but grin as I walked past, telling him, “I’m actually sweating—I’m burning up!”
I pushed on along the Miner’s Track, slowly leaving the parking lot behind. Far off on the horizon, the first faint blue light of dawn was beginning to bleed into the sky. The silhouettes of the mountains started to emerge—a truly incredible sight. As I trekked, I glanced back toward the parking area and decided to try a night shot. I’d never done it before, and with the darkness absolute, I had to focus the lens by eye alone. I clicked the shutter, and when the image appeared on the screen, I just said, “Wow.” It was my first experience like this. My shutter speed had been a bit too long, so the stars were slightly streaked, but it didn’t matter. It was magic.
I kept moving deeper toward Llyn Lydaw, pulling out my Garmin 64s handheld GPS every so often to make sure I was still on track. That device is a lifesaver. When you’re out in complete darkness and don’t want to drain your phone battery, that GPS running on two AA batteries is just pure peace of mind.
As I approached the lake in the darkness, the silhouettes of the Snowdon range began to reveal themselves. But what caught my eye were the hundreds of tiny, glowing dots scattered along the slopes. They were headlamps—dozens of people climbing upward to reach the summit of Snowdon in time to witness the sunrise. It was a beautiful sight.
Finally, I reached the banks of Llyn Lydaw. The stillness was absolute. I set up my tripod as the world began to wake up in shades of indigo and cold grey. The water was like a mirror, reflecting the jagged peaks of Snowdon. I spent the next few hours lost in the landscape, capturing the light as it crawled down the mountainside, painting the snow in soft hues.
I couldn’t wait for the sunrise, and I spent the time overthinking my composition, scouting different angles, and nearly missing the main event entirely. I was initially set up right by the old green pumphouse, waiting for the first light, but my restless energy got the better of me. I wandered left to scout another spot, and that’s when I saw it: the first golden rays hitting the peaks—first Snowdon, then Crib Goch. My impatience almost cost me the shot of a lifetime. As I scrambled back to my original spot, I nearly slipped on a frozen puddle; I nearly went down, tripod, camera, and all. I just managed to catch my balance, heart racing, and started firing away, capturing wide-angle shots and sweeping panoramas. I even set up my DJI Osmo Action 5 Pro to record a timelapse of the light sweeping across the valley.
360 Panorama over Llyn Lydaw. Use mouse to view around.
After soaking in the silence at the lake, I made my way back to the car along the same path. Passing the main car park and returning to the trail I’d navigated in the dark, I was struck by the landscape. In the daylight, I realized I had been walking through a stunning ravine—a perspective I’d completely missed in the pitch black.
When I reached my car, I found another vehicle parked right next to mine. Two young guys were there, prepping their gear to climb Crib Goch. They looked to be about 18, filled with that infectious, youthful excitement, truly ready for the mountain. We had a great chat before we parted ways; I grabbed a quick bite, then headed off toward Tryfan.
Back home, a few days later, a heavy feeling settled in when I saw the news on television. Two young hikers had been found dead near Crib Goch. I can only hope it wasn’t them. The mountains can be so incredibly beautiful, yet so unforgiving. Link: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c620e8pn7dlo
For the final act, I drove toward the iconic Tryfan. When I reached the entrance to the Afon Lloer path, I found the lay-by was completely full, leaving me no choice but to turn back and head for the campsite car park about 0.7 miles away. I finally managed to park and set off toward the stream. Just as I was about to leave the main road, I caught myself smiling, thinking about how light and easy the trek had felt so far. But that thought was short-lived—the moment I looked down, I realized my hands were empty. My tripod. Damn it. There was no way to get the shots I wanted without it.
I hiked all the way back to the car, retrieved my gear, and finally started the ascent alongside the Afon Lloer stream. The climb took some time and effort, but the view that opened up was breathtaking—Tryfan standing tall with the waters of Llyn Ogwen nestled below.
I have such incredible memories from this expedition. I captured the shots I came for, but by then, my energy was spent. I’d originally planned to visit the Dinorwig Slate Quarry, but I didn’t have the strength to push for another location. I packed up, feeling deeply satisfied, and began the long drive home. Dinorwig will have to wait for next time. And there will definitely be a next time.