Trwyn Du, “Black Point” at the eastern tip of Anglesey, has been calling ships to caution for nearly two hundred years. The black and white striped tower that stands just offshore, known to most as Penmon lighthouse, was built in 1838 after the paddle steamer Rothsay Castle came to grief nearby with terrible loss of life. It still carries the same warning cast into its base, NO PASSAGE LANDWARD, and its light still sweeps the channel between the point and Puffin Island every fifteen seconds, a rhythm that hasn’t changed since it was automated a century ago.

By day this is one of Anglesey’s most photographed spots, and by night, at the right time of year, it draws its own steady crowd of nightscape photographers waiting for their turn at that famous composition. That evening, though, the place was entirely mine. No other cars, no other tripods, not even the usual scattering of camper vans in the car park, likely scared off by the run of storms that had battered the coast in the days before.

I’d spent the whole trip chasing gaps in the weather, and it was clear that the further west I went, the better my chances. Anglesey, right on the edge of things, was where the last of the cloud looked thinnest, so I made the crossing on a whim on my final night. Penmon Point greeted me with a stillness that felt earned after everything the sky had been throwing around, quiet enough to hear the sea working against the rocks below the lighthouse. Cloud built steadily as dusk deepened into full dark, and for a while it looked as though the window might close before I’d made anything worth keeping.

But persistence paid off. In the breaks, I found the composition I’d come for, the path curving down toward the tower, gentle and unhurried, nothing like the wild, battered mood of the nights before. And low on the horizon, so faint it barely registered until I looked back at the frame, a soft wash of aurora hung over the lighthouse itself, a quiet, unexpected gift on a night when I’d been ready to settle for nothing at all.