It’s high tide when I drive through the city in the wee small hours of the morning. A lone seagull cries overhead, its call echoing in the stillness of the city which slumbers under empty pavements and silent shop fronts.

Slivers of light leak from behind the poorly-drawn curtains of the windows I pass. Nursing mothers sing lullabies to small crying babies, while others hit snooze buttons, desperate for ‘five more minutes’.

I’m on my way to the airport collecting a much-loved friend who has come for a visit.

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It’s a happy journey, in stark contrast to those other early morning runs. You know, the ones that respond to ‘that call’ from the hospital when you jump into the car, barely awake, teeth unbrushed, coat thrown on over your pyjamas. “Drive carefully,” the nurse says.

Early morning peace

The road ahead is empty, just me and the salty water’s rhythmic lapping onto the cycle path as the waves spill over the embankments. Teasing the city with the power they hold in their deceptively gentle swell. Trying to decide if today is the day they’ll reclaim this city, built on land stolen from the sea. But despite the threat they pose every full moon, they never have.

Yet. There’s something about the peace of those early mornings. Those magical moments that gift you the promise of a new day before everyone wakes and the sun shines a light on all that is wrong with the world.

We early-morning people know this is the best part of the day. We pity those who sleep through the stars and sunrises. Those who never see the urban fox dart across dewy lawns or hear the night owl’s screech as it returns to its roost. Cherishing the silent complicity among those of us who share these quiet, dark hours.

We early-morning people know this is the best part of the day. We pity those who sleep through the stars and sunrises

The dog walkers stand and shiver as their dogs sniff the pavements and lampposts, knowing the names of all the dogs they pass but not their owners. Exchanging nods with the Lycra-clad early morning runners who jog pass them, dancing around the discarded take-away containers, their feet moving to a different beat.

The docks are stirring. Slow-moving cranes flexing their creaking joints in the quiet dawn air, stretching their long limbs ready to lift the first load of the day. As office windows blink with fluorescent lights. Two here, one there as they stare out onto the empty streets with vacant eyes.

A red traffic light pauses my journey, and I idle my engine behind a diesel-spewing bus, its windows fogged up hiding the empty seats inside. Soon to be filled with half-asleep commuters plugged into their own lives, oblivious to those around them.

Tap, tap, tapping their phones all the way to work, catching up with friends they haven’t seen for years but know intimately, in this strange virtual life we live in.

Taxis idle in their ranks, their drivers waiting for fares that will take them to the airport, to offices, or perhaps to some drama that will make the papers.

Stories not yet written, like the black and white printed pages of the press sitting on the newsagents shelves, still waiting to unfold.

Slow-moving Garda cars cruise through the dim light of dawn, their sirens tired and silent now after another busy night, their flashing lights no longer painting the sky blue as their crackling radio finally falls silent.

The cars inhabitants relieved to see the sun come up, chasing away the darkness and illuminating the shadows.

The coffee shop windows steam up, beckoning passers-by with the welcome aroma that froths from their sleek black machines, as the music from my car radio washes over me and the softly spoken presenter eases me into the day.

I gently rest my foot on the accelerator, smiling as I catch the eye of the driver in the car beside me, wondering what his early morning journey is.

He returns my smile as the traffic light turns green and our cars pull away from each other, as the tide retreats behind us and the city takes back its streets.