Chasing the Green Lady in Mid Wales

Been dragged up the field by a very excited Gaia, I was relieved this was the last thing I had to do today.

It had been a hectic Monday — at times genuinely stressful. Trying (and failing) to prove to the government that you exist, despite having lived in the country for 35 years and in the same house for 33 of them, is exhausting. Especially when there’s a deadline looming, because if you don’t do this you can’t file your company accounts… and if you can’t do that, the company can’t continue trading.

FML.

Gaia jumps and dives into one of her many "dig holes", clearly full of excess energy after being stuck indoors longer than usual. I’ve tried explaining to her that if I didn’t spend the day fighting with a computer to get verified, she would no longer be getting any biscuits.

Right now, two paws deep in the dirt, she couldn’t care less.

I stop watching the German Shepherd attempt to dig her way to China and look up at the sky.

It’s a very clear night. Standing there, staring up at Orion and the Seven Sisters, my first thought is that it’s probably going to be a frosty morning tomorrow. As I turn to find Ursa Major, I see it.

The sky looks far too red for this time of night.

The sun set over three hours ago, and I live far enough from the nearest town that light pollution shouldn’t be lighting up the sky like this. Surely not again…

I remember the first time I saw these lights in Wales, and as if to confirm what I’m seeing, my phone pings.

Northern Lights app.

KPI 8.

For the next two hours.

This is incredible.

I pull on the lead to stop Gaia mid-excavation. She grumbles — first at being interrupted, then even more when she realises we’re heading back towards the house.

“Sorry,” I say, “but the Green Lady is dancing tonight… and she’s looking good.”

Gaia is bribed into her crate with some cheese, and the grumbling stops.

I race upstairs, grab my Nikon Z5 with the wide-angle lens and GorillaPod, then sprint back downstairs and out into the garden.

Manual mode.

15-second exposure.

Focus set to infinity.

I wrap the GorillaPod around the wooden garden rail, aim the camera skyward, and hit the shutter. Fifteen seconds later, the first image appears. It’s good — not the final composition I’m after, but a solid start.

I leave the camera shooting while I get myself ready.

The app says I’ve got two solid hours of KPI 8, so I do this properly. Layers on. Protein shake down. Water bottle filled. Head torch goes on charge — typical timing, it was nearly dead on the dog walk. A quick ten-minute boost should see it through.

Ten minutes later, I’m back outside.

The camera is still clinging to the fence post, finished with its first batch of shots. I flick through them — promising, but I want a stronger composition. The aurora already looks stunning.

I unwrap the GorillaPod, clip the camera to my backpack, and head up the field towards one of my favourite oak trees.

Halfway up, I stop and look to see where the aurora is coming from.

And that’s when I don’t see it.

The lights have vanished behind thick black clouds.

Clouds.

NO.

The one thing I hadn’t even considered while I was inside getting ready.

The app promised two hours of aurora. I’ve got every layer on possible, a full stomach, water, charged torch — I was ready for adventure.

And now the clouds have turned up uninvited.

Still, I carry on. only slightly jaded but raring to go, trudging through the dark towards the oak.

Tripod out. Camera mounted. A few test shots to check composition. I’m really happy with the framing, and for a brief moment I even catch a hint of green breaking through the clouds.

Now we wait.

The clouds part for seconds at a time — not fully, just enough to reveal a few stars and a whisper of aurora behind them. It’s getting cold. My wellies sink deeper into the mud. Rain starts to fall.

This just isn’t my night.

One final capture on the Nikon Z5 confirms it — mostly cloud, with faint traces of green still lingering in the air.

Not every photography trip ends with the most incredible image ever. And even when the stars almost align — aurora, clear skies, motivation — the thick black clouds of Wales sometimes have other plans.

But back inside, warm again, loading the photos onto the laptop, I realise I’m still happy with what I captured. For the first time dusting off the lens cap in 2026, it feels like a solid return.

Here’s to many more nights chasing the sky this year.