Rhoscolyn Head, Anglesey

A still, grey afternoon in winter. The cliffs at Rhoscolyn seemed to fold into the sea like a wall of old stone — unmoved by time, untouched by the hush that settled over the water.

I used a long exposure to smooth the tide into silence. There was no surf, no sparkle — just the faint breath of foam at the shoreline, and the Snowdonia range on the horizon soft as memory.