(And What I Almost Missed). The best travel photos rarely happen the way you planned. Here's what was actually going on behind the frame.

Every time I come back from a trip, the ritual is the same.

Download everything to my PC. Open the files on a proper screen — not the tiny camera viewfinder, not my phone. And just look. What I saw through the lens in the moment and what I see on a full screen are often two completely different things. A photo I thought was nothing turns out to have the light exactly right. A shot I was sure about looks flat. A moment I nearly skipped becomes my favourite of the entire trip.

That's the part nobody talks about. The discovery happens twice — once when you press the shutter, and once when you finally sit down and see what you actually got.

After years of travelling with my camera, I've learned one thing above everything else: I will always regret the photos I didn't take. I will never regret the ones I did.

This post is about the stories behind some of my favourites. Not the most technically perfect photos. The ones that mean the most — and why.

Why Does a "Favourite" Travel Photo Feel Different From the Rest?

A favourite travel photo isn't about the sharpest focus or the best composition. It's about what happens when you look at it — that feeling of being pulled back into a specific moment. The temperature. The sound. What you were thinking right before you pressed the shutter.

The photos I keep coming back to are almost never the ones I planned. They're the ones I found.

My All-Time Favourite: Holy Lake of Yamdroktso Lake, Tibet (2015)

Ten years and dozens of countries later, my number one still hasn't changed.

It was taken in Tibet, Holy Lake of Yamdroktso. I was new to photography then. I had no idea what I was doing. What I did know was that I wasn't going to miss anything, so I just kept shooting.

We were on a long bus ride through the Himalayas. I didn't nap during the bus ride. While everyone else rested, I was at the window trying to figure out how to take photos without catching any reflection in the glass — pressing the lens up close, adjusting the angle, testing different spots. Not glamorous. But I was learning in real time and I wasn't going to stop just because it was awkward.

When we reached the first viewpoint — the top of a hill overlooking the lake — I wasn't prepared for what I saw.

The lake sat below us, impossibly blue. Not a postcard blue. Something deeper and more serious than that. The sky above it was clear with white clouds, and the green hills curved around it like the land was cradling it. The scale was difficult to process. You know a place is big when your eyes can't figure out where to stop.

I took as many photos as I could from that hilltop. I thought that was the shot.

Then we drove down to the lake level.

Everything changed.

At the edge of the water, the lake became a mirror. The clouds, the hills, the sky — all of it reflected back perfectly. Where the hilltop view gave me the full picture, the lakeside view gave me something almost abstract. Two images of the same place, and they looked nothing like each other. One was blue, vast and open. The other was still and doubled and quiet in a way that felt almost sacred.

I have two photos from that day. Ten years on, they are still my top two. Not from any particular technical skill — I was brand new to all of this. Just from being there, staying awake, and not stopping.

Holy Lake of Yamdroktso Lake

Top view from hill

What Was Actually Happening Behind the Frame

What most people don't see when they look at travel photos is everything that went into the before.

For the Tibet photos — it was a long bus journey. It was altitude sickness (Tibet sits above 3,600 metres and your body notices). It was not sleeping because I was too busy trying to learn how to shoot through a moving window. It was arriving at a viewpoint with a camera I was still figuring out and just pointing it at something so overwhelming that I stopped worrying about technique entirely and just shot.

The best photos I have often came from moments like that. Not when I was calm and composed and executing a plan. When I was a little overwhelmed and just reacting.

That's something I couldn't have told you in 2015. I understand it now.

What Does a Photo Look Like Before You Find It on Screen?

Here's something I think about a lot: when I'm shooting, I'm not always sure what I have.

Through the viewfinder — or on a small camera screen in bright daylight — you get a rough idea. But a 3-inch screen in the Himalayan sun tells you almost nothing. The real photo view on a bigger monitor, when the photos are big enough to actually see.

This is why I shoot a lot. Thousands of photos per trip, most of the time. People ask if that's excessive. I don't think so. Because in those thousands, there will always be a handful that I didn't plan, didn't expect, and couldn't have known to look for. They only reveal themselves when I get home, sit down, go through them one by one, and suddenly stop.

That's the moment. When you find the photo you didn't know you were taking.

What I've Learned About Documenting a Moment

The camera is not just for recording. It's for remembering.

When I look at my Yamdroktso photos, I'm not just seeing a lake. I'm back in the cold. I'm back on that bus. I'm back at the edge of the water wondering how something could be this still.

Without the photos, the specific details would have faded by now. I've been to a lot of places. The ones I documented properly are the ones I can still return to.

This is what I mean when I say I will never regret taking too many photos. Memory softens things. Photos keep them sharp.

Every moment is a one-time event — even if you go back.

I could return to Tibet tomorrow. I could stand at the same spot at Yamdroktso. But the light would be different. The season would be different. I would be different. The photo I took in 2015 is not a photo of a place — it's a photo of a specific day, a specific sky, a specific version of myself standing at the edge of something beautiful and not quite believing it.

You can't recreate that. You can only catch it the first time.

Being new doesn't mean missing things.

I was a beginner in Tibet. My technique was rough. I was learning how to shoot through a bus window, for goodness' sake. But I was paying attention. And I think attention matters more than technique, especially early on. The photos I took that day are not perfect. They are mine, and they are true, and they are still my favourite.

That's enough.

Frequently Asked Questions

What makes a travel photo become a favourite? A favourite travel photo is the one that collapses time when you look at it — pulling you back into the specific moment, feeling, and place. It's not always the most technically perfect shot. It's the one with the most story attached to it.

How do you find the best shots when you're travelling? Shoot more than you think you need to. The best shots often reveal themselves later on a proper screen, not in the moment. Stay awake, stay curious, and don't put the camera away just because you've already taken what you think is the shot.

Is it worth taking thousands of photos on a trip? Yes — because in those thousands, there will be photos you didn't plan and couldn't have predicted. You only find them during the view bigger screen at home. The ones you didn't take are gone. The ones you took but didn't need cost you nothing to delete.

How do you photograph somewhere you've never been before? Accept that you can't fully plan it. Research helps, but the place will always surprise you. Stay alert, don't sleep on the bus, and give yourself permission to just react to what you see rather than trying to execute a perfect plan.

How important is camera technique for travel photography? Technique improves over time, but attention matters more — especially early on. Paying attention to the light, to the moment, to what's actually in front of you — that will take you further than knowing every camera setting perfectly.

The Stories Behind My Favourite Travel Photos