A Winter’s Morning at Dorothea Quarry

We headed out early, the golden morning light spilling across the snowcapped, frosty peaks of Eryri. The air was sharp and bright, and the world seemed dusted in silver. Dorothea Quarry lay about a forty-five-minute drive away, deeper inland where the cold bites harder than on the lower-lying shores of Anglesey. By the time we arrived, the paths were still sheened with ice, slippery underfoot.

I had never been before. A friend from my village had suggested it—a place woven with memories for him and his family, tucked not far from the small former mining village of Talysarn.

Dorothea’s history stretches back to an era when men returned from the goldfields of the far west to work these hard, deep seams of Welsh slate. Now, nature has reclaimed much of what was quarried. We followed the path to the edge, and the view opened up before us: a vast lake, held here by the scars of industry yet softened by time. Rainfall has filled the quarry over the decades, and on this morning its surface was glass-still, reflecting a pale blue sky streaked with winter light.

The surrounding mountains—high, rugged, and watchful—shield the waters from the wind. The sweeping curve of the Nantlle Ridge rises beyond, its slopes touched by frost. Everything felt hushed, as though the quarry was holding its breath. Standing there, it was easy to see why my friend had called this place special.

Dorothea Quarry

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