06:15 at the Venetian Harbour

At 06:15 on a Thursday morning in July, the Venetian harbour is almost empty. Three fishing boats are coming in. A man in a blue apron is arranging chairs outside a café that will not open for another two hours. Two cats sit on the harbour wall, watching the boats with professional interest.

The light at this hour is the thing. The sun clears the hills behind the city just after six, and for forty minutes it strikes the Venetian lighthouse from the east at an angle that turns the stone from white to deep amber. The water, sheltered and still, reflects the lighthouse and the mosque and the old arsenal buildings in a near-perfect mirror.

The fishermen

The three boats carry four men between them. They have been out since midnight. A fish buyer arrives at 06:30 in a white van with a refrigerated compartment. He and the oldest fisherman negotiate briefly. The transaction takes four minutes. The fish will be in a restaurant kitchen within the hour.

The cats move in when the buyer leaves. The fisherman throws them the small fish — the ones not worth selling. There are five cats now. He knows each one. He throws to the ones waiting patiently first. There is a social order here that the cats understand perfectly.

The café

Stratos has run the café at the corner of the harbour for eleven years. He opens at 08:30 but arrives at six because he likes the harbour in the morning. "The tourists see the harbour at ten o'clock," he says, handing me a coffee. "That is not the harbour. This is the harbour."

How to see it

Walk to the harbour at 06:00. Bring nothing. Sit on the wall near the old arsenal. Wait. The light will do the rest. By 08:00 the first tourists will arrive and the harbour will begin its daily transformation into something else entirely — still beautiful, but a different kind of beautiful.