Exploring Svaneti in Georgia

Starting in Gelati, where the morning light hit first

It had been a few weeks since I’d last filmed anything, mainly because I’d been travelling so much. When I found myself in Gelati, that gap made sense. I wasn’t short of material; I was short of time, because this photography trip was built around a commission, and the photography had to come first.

Gelati Monastery gave me a strong start. The morning sun lit the exterior beautifully, and that low light gave the stone a warmth that worked straight away in photographs. I spent time outside first, because the shape of the monastery and the light together were too good to ignore.

Inside, the draw was the frescoes. When I visited, parts of the monastery were under restoration, and it looked as though the work still had a year or two to run. Even so, the place already had a huge visual impact. You could see the care going into the restoration, and it made me think how extraordinary the interior would look once everything had been completed.

A lot of this journey worked because I had local help, and I was also fortunate to have support from the Georgian National Tourism Board during my time in the country. That made a difference, especially on a trip that covered a lot of ground in a short time.

I only had limited time to vlog that day, because there were more locations ahead and the schedule was tight. Still, Gelati set the tone for the whole trip. Georgia already felt like a place where history wasn’t tucked away behind glass. It was right there in front of me, in the walls, on the plaster, and in the light.

Motsameta Monastery and the story carried by the river

From Gelati, I moved on to Motsameta Monastery. The first view came from above, looking down towards the monastery with the river below and a railway line cutting across the scene. It wasn’t the easiest place to photograph, because I had to find a clear gap through the trees, and I was also half-aware that a train might appear at the wrong moment.

Even so, the setting had real presence. I worked with a long lens, tightening the composition around the monastery and the doorway I liked on the southern side of the entrance. There was a small steeple there as well, and I wanted that included if I could manage it. The problem was that a service was taking place at the time, so I had to work around people coming and going.

What made this place stay with me most was the story my guide told me. In the middle of the 8th century, two brothers were captured by Arab forces, killed, weighted with stones, and thrown into the river below. According to the account I was told, the river ran red. About a week later, their bodies were found, buried near the area, and later moved, first towards Gelati village and then, in the mid-11th century, under King Bagrat IV, brought back to the monastery.

That history changes the way you look at the scene. The river stops being background. The buildings stop being quiet stone.

Some places stay with me because of the light. Motsameta stayed with me because of the story as much as the view.

From a photographic point of view, I liked the contrast here. The sky was clean, the monastery sat well in the frame, and the river gave the image weight. Yet it wasn’t a simple postcard view. The railway line, the crowds during the service, and the limited angles all forced me to think harder about the composition.

Reaching Svaneti, where towers dominate the valleys

After a long day of travelling, I finally reached the mountainous region of Svaneti. This was the part of Georgia I had been especially keen to see, because the old defensive towers are one of the great visual signatures of the region. They sit in the landscape like markers of a harder past, and once you start noticing them, they take over the scene.

The area felt remote straight away. Standing there, with the mountains closing in and the Russian border somewhere beyond, I had the sense that I was close to the edge of the country. That feeling added something to the work. Svaneti didn’t feel polished or staged. It felt raw, high, and old.

The towers were the main reason I was there. I wanted to understand why they were built, how they fit into village life, and what sort of history still clung to them. In photographs, they have a strong graphic quality, especially against snow, stone, and cloud. Yet they aren’t only good subjects because they look dramatic. They matter because they tell you how people once lived in these valleys.

By the time I reached Mestia, the trip had shifted into a new gear. Gelati and Motsameta had been about monasteries and frescoes. Svaneti was about defence, survival, and architecture shaped by the mountains.

Dawn over Mestia and the problem of the perfect frame

I woke in Mestia to one of those views that makes you get out onto the balcony before you’re fully awake. Across the valley, the defensive towers were lit up, and the sight was striking. My guide had told me that these towers dated from the 11th and 12th centuries, and seeing them picked out in the early light made the whole valley feel theatrical.

The setting looked simple at first. I was on the hotel balcony, facing the towers, with the mountains behind them. In practice, the shot was awkward. The gap across the valley was narrower than it seemed, and one grey-roofed building kept ruining the wider composition I wanted at around 70 mm. So instead of forcing the image, I changed approach.

I put the 100-400 mm on the camera and worked more tightly. That let me isolate individual towers and groups of towers, mostly between 300 and 400 mm. Once I stopped chasing the wide shot, the place opened up. I could focus on shapes, spacing, and the way each tower sat within the village.

There was another detail from my guide that I found fascinating. These towers had several entrances, but the true way in was often a family secret. Only the male members of the family were told which entrance mattered. The reason, as it was explained to me, was practical. If a daughter married into another family and relations later turned hostile, she would not be able to pass on the access point of her own family’s tower.

That small piece of social history made the buildings more than stone blocks in a valley. They became part of the family strategy and survival.

Breakfasts in Georgia started later than I was used to, so I had time to stand there in the cold, still half-asleep, and study the scene before the day began. Later on, the plan was to visit small churches, look at frescoes, get closer to the towers, and spend more time understanding the place. Ushguli was also ahead, and I was already hearing that it was considered the highest permanently populated settlement in Georgia, and by many, in Europe as well, although there is some debate depending on how “settlement” gets defined.

A small church in Svaneti with walls full of frescoes

One of the finest surprises of the trip came inside a 14th-century church in Svaneti, the Church of the Archangels. From the outside, it didn’t shout for attention. If anything, it looked modest. Then I stepped through the door, and the whole interior changed the mood of the day.

The frescoes were everywhere. Not tucked into a few panels, not limited to a ceiling or an apse, but spread across the church in a way that felt immersive. I’ve seen plenty of frescoes in Italy, and there are many fine ones there, but this felt different because of the sheer coverage. The walls seemed wrapped in image and colour.

The door itself caught my eye too, although I was told it wasn’t the original one. Even that detail added to the sense that this was a place still in use, still changing in small ways, and not frozen for display.

What struck me most was how few people seemed to come through. I was told the church was mostly used on special occasions, which explains why many visitors probably pass it by. That felt hard to believe once I was standing inside. The interior was breathtakingly beautiful, and it reminded me how easy it is for the quieter sites to become the most memorable.

For a photographer, places like this ask for restraint. There is so much to look at that the temptation is to photograph everything. I found it better to slow down, study the surfaces, and let the detail guide the frame.

Ushguli, high roads, old towers, and hard-earned photographs

By the time I reached Ushguli, the journey itself had become part of the story. This settlement is generally regarded as the highest permanently populated one in Georgia, and often in Europe too. It is also protected by UNESCO, which makes sense the moment you see the defensive towers and the setting they stand in.

The first thing in front of me was a group of 10th-century towers, rising out of the village against the mountain backdrop. Even after seeing towers in Mestia, Ushguli had a different feel. The place felt harsher, higher, and more exposed. You could sense what winter must be like there.

Photographing it wasn’t straightforward. The sun sat high and slightly awkward for the compositions I wanted, so I worked in the direction that gave me the cleanest structure. I had my 24 mm tilt-shift lens on the camera, along with a 1.4x extender, because I wanted to keep the buildings upright and avoid that falling-back look you get when you tilt a wide lens too far.

I also visited more than one part of the settlement, because Ushguli is spread across separate village areas. Every turn seemed to offer another line of towers, another roofline, another patch of snow, and another decision about where to stand. I photographed the Lovers’ Tower as well, a place with its own local story attached to it, and there was also a tale told to me on a nearby mountain pass. Even when I wasn’t recording every detail on camera, it was clear that Ushguli is one of those places where history and folklore travel together.

Why the road to Ushguli matters as much as the destination

The route up to Ushguli is not something I would suggest treating casually. Conditions were sub-zero, and the road was rough enough that “road” felt generous in places. There were holes, sections damaged by rockfall, and long stretches where you needed complete confidence in the driver.

That mattered because the journey could easily catch people out. A 4×4 wasn’t optional for the conditions I saw, and neither was local experience. I was lucky to be travelling with a guide who understood the route and also had the patience to work around my photographic needs. That combination made the difference between rushing through and being able to stop, think, and make the pictures properly.

Ushguli is beautiful, but it asks something from you first. You earn the view on the way up.

The driving sequence alone showed how serious the approach can be. By the time I arrived, the towers, the snow, and the mountain setting all felt more meaningful because of what it took to get there.

Leaving Georgia, with another journey already beginning

After all that snow, stone, and high ground, the final shift felt abrupt. I left Georgia with the sense that the next stage of the journey had already started before I had properly processed Svaneti. The snow disappeared, the setting changed, and I was suddenly somewhere else entirely.

That kind of ending suits travel photography. One place rarely finishes neatly before the next one begins. Still, Georgia had given me more than enough to think about. Between Gelati, Motsameta, Mestia, and Ushguli, the country had shown me an unusual blend of sacred art, defensive architecture, mountain weather, and difficult roads.

I carried on the journey beyond this point, and I shared the next stage of it through my YouTube channel. I also post updates through my website and newsletter, plus regular work on Facebook and Instagram.

What Svaneti gave me as a photographer

Svaneti stayed with me because it never felt easy. The compositions needed work, the roads asked for patience, and the history kept pulling my attention beyond the frame. That combination is part of why the region is so rewarding to photograph.

When I think back on Georgia, I don’t only remember the towers or the frescoes on their own. I remember the way the country moved between them, one moment soft morning light on a monastery wall, the next a hard mountain road leading to a village of stone towers.

For me, that’s the pull of Svaneti. It isn’t polished, and it doesn’t need to be. It gives you history, distance, weather, and character, and if you like photographing places with a real sense of place, it gives you plenty to come home with.