Every photographer knows the feeling. The alarm goes off at some ridiculous hour and, for a few seconds, nothing makes sense. What time is it? Where am I? Why am I awake?
On photography trips, the confusion is often worse. I wake up in an unfamiliar room and have to remind myself which city I’m in. Was I in Mostar yesterday? Am I back in Sarajevo already? It takes a moment for the fog to clear and for the day’s plan to return.
Then comes the internal debate. It’s four o’clock in the morning. The bed is warm. Surely one more hour won’t matter.
Yet somehow, I always end up getting out of bed.
Part of it is the fear of missing out. Sunrises don’t wait for anyone, and neither do the moments that surround them. A city at six in the morning is not the same city at ten. A landscape at dawn feels completely different from that same landscape a few hours later. The light changes, the atmosphere changes, and even the people change.
So I pull on whatever clothes seem reasonably clean, grab a pastry, down a quick coffee, and head out into the darkness. The first few minutes are rarely enjoyable—it’s colder and darker than I expected, and I sometimes wonder why I thought this was a good idea. But those doubts never last.
Great Joy
Eryri (Snowdonia), Wales
Most people are still at home, exploring their own dreams, whilst I’m out exploring a landscape that, for a brief period of time, feels like it’s my own. That’s what I love most about early mornings.
People often talk about the light, and rightly so. The soft oranges, pinks, and golds of sunrise can transform even the most ordinary scene. Buildings glow, rivers catch reflections, and landscapes seem gentler somehow. But what keeps dragging me out of bed isn’t really the light. It’s the feeling of seeing a place before it becomes itself.
Photography creates these opportunities. Without the camera, I doubt I would willingly wake up at four in the morning while on holiday. It rewards curiosity and encourages me to visit places when everyone else is asleep. Over time, I’ve realised that some of my favourite travel memories have very little to do with the photographs themselves.
One memory comes from Snowdonia. I arrived before sunrise and stood waiting in the cold as the first light began to appear above the mountains. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just cold enough to make me appreciate what came next. As the sun slowly climbed above the peaks, shafts of light spilled into the valley below. Gradually, the warmth reached my viewpoint, and I could feel the sunlight on my face for the first time that morning. The photographs from that day are nice enough, but what I remember most clearly is the feeling of watching the landscape wake up around me.
Llyn Idwal
Eryri (Snowdonia), Wales
The same feeling came in Llandudno. I arrived at the pier before sunrise and found it completely deserted. The sea was almost perfectly calm, reflecting the colours of the sky as dawn slowly arrived. There wasn’t a breath of wind or a sound to be heard. For a brief window, it felt as though I had the place to myself. By mid-morning, families would be strolling along the boards and the town would be fully awake.
Llandudno Pier
Llandudno, Conwy, Wales
More recently, in Sarajevo, that quiet early-hour world shifted into something more alive. I wandered through the old town shortly after sunrise. Tourists hadn’t arrived yet, but the city was already beginning to stir. Shopkeepers were setting up outside their businesses, workers were washing the streets, and cafés were just starting to open. By mid-morning, the streets would be crowded with visitors, but in that moment, I was seeing a side of Sarajevo that most tourists never experience.
Đulagina
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Some of my favourite mornings have produced very few images. Sometimes the light doesn’t cooperate. Sometimes the compositions don’t work. Sometimes I return home to find none of the photographs particularly memorable. Yet I rarely regret getting out of bed.
What I remember are the experiences: the silence before a place wakes, the warmth of the first sunlight after a cold morning, the sight of empty streets that are usually crowded, the feeling of being present for a moment that only lasts an hour before disappearing.
Within a short time, the spell is broken. Traffic returns. Cafés fill. Tourists emerge. The world resumes its normal pace.
But for a little while, you’ve been allowed access to a different version of it. That’s why I keep setting the alarm—not because I enjoy waking up at four o’clock in the morning, I never will—but because photography gives me an excuse to experience places when they feel completely different.
The photographs are often wonderful to bring home. The real reward is being there in the first place.