There was a time when I stayed up to watch the sun rise; these days I get up for it: often as early as four, or five, but never later than six o'clock. I am addicted to sunrise, that mysterious still time before reality is revealed, before shapes emerge, when everything floats nebulously in that queer light that makes you think of the beginning of time.
Long before the huge garbage truck comes hissing down the lane on a Friday morning, long before the efficiency of the plumbing in the house is put noisily to the test, I sit on the verandah with a big thick mug of tea and watch the world reveal itself to be pretty much what it was yesterday.
I am lucky to have watched the sun rise from atop the Shwedagon Pagoda, from tropical islands in the South Seas and bobbing fishing boats in the Aegean Sea, and I shall never forget watching the sun rise from the Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion.
I don't know whether it is true that dawn is the time when the majority of people choose to enter the world or to leave it, but it does seem to be a suitable hour. I should count myself lucky to push the Publish button on my last blog as I watch the sun turn the Clyde into a river of gold.
Until that happens, I shall continue to be a dawn watcher. It's why I'm so hopeless in the afternoon.
