Something odd had happened. One morning towards the end of the first week I woke up. Well ok, I woke up every morning - half a lifetime has passed since my late teenage era when I gradually honed a 2pm to 4am lifestyle into something of an art form, But waking up before sunrise is something that has always been highly irregular in my foggy little world. Regular visitors to my page may have already noted that I don’t do sunrise shoots, and if I were living on the east coast rather than the west, I’d probably never have become quite so immersed in this landscape photography lark. Just now and again, and almost exclusively with some special mission in mind, I might just creep out rubbing the sleep from my eyes while the world remains hidden in shadows with just the merest hint of light breaking its way over the eastern horizon. Unplanned morning expeditions are almost unheard of. In fact I can only think of one such occasion - a New Year’s morning three years ago, when, equally unusually, West Cornwall was covered in a thin blanket of snow.
Now, here in Zakynthos I’d woken up, peered blearily at my watch on the bedside cabinet and turned over with the intention of going back to sleep. It was long before seven and I usually see the other side of nine o’clock before dragging myself out of bed and heading unerringly in the direction of the kettle. But sleep wouldn’t come. The beach was a three minute walk from the apartment and being on the east coast of the island began, a peculiar notion gradually came into focus. I could get up, walk down to the beach and take some photographs. Maybe there would be some medium or high level clouds that would light up like a fire in the sky. I couldn’t actually see the sky because it was still quite dark, and opening the shutters to inspect the conditions more closely was only going to wake Ali up - and she sleeps even longer than me in the mornings. So I crept out, strolled down to the beach, took some shots, witnessed a kingfisher flying low across the water right in front of me, got stung on the right calf by a belligerent wasp, chatted to a local man who was out for a morning jog, and befriended a stray cat that wrapped its tail lovingly around one of the legs of my tripod. Then I went back to the apartment. No award winning shots to speak of - just a faint golden glow in the saddle at the end of the silhouetted headland beyond the edge of town. Even without a shot, there was a certain sense of triumph at having defied my natural instincts at this time of day. Coffee an hour earlier than usual. I might even have a second cup a bit later. It’s surprising what passes for decadence when you’re in your desperately late fifties.
The next morning I was up again. The forecast the night before had suggested I might be in for a treat, so nursing a still sore calf I marched back to the same spot, this time wearing jeans to reduce the target area for passing insects with aggressive designs. The clouds I’d been hoping for remained almost non-existent, but there was just enough interest around the glowing patch of brightening light to try all over again. No kingfishers, no joggers, no cats, and happily, no tiresome wasps to distract me this time. It still isn’t a shot that’s going to win an award any time soon - but it’s a story that deserves its place in the Zakynthian archive. To think that just a few hours later, the first wristband wearing all inclusives would be loitering a few yards away, nursing ice cold pints of lager, steadfastly refusing to budge more than six inches from the hotel grounds for fear of missing out on the breakfast buffet. I mean I like a cold beer as much as the next person, but not until lunchtime at the very earliest. People often ask if we go all inclusive, and then assume we’re cheapskates when we say we don’t. Well we are cheapskates of course - everyone knows that - but this is merely a happy coincidence as far as we’re concerned. After all, when you struggle to crawl out of your bed sometime after nine in the morning and steadfastly refuse to leave that beach on the other side of the island until long after the sun has set, “normal hours” hardly apply do they? Forever two or three hours behind the main body of the flock, we’re not very good at conforming.
It wasn’t the last time I got out of bed for sunrise either. It took until almost the end of the holiday to drag my sorry hide out for one last morning, but I did it - heading for a group of olive trees a little further along the coast. It is possible when needs must. But it’s not going to be a regular occurrence any time soon. Something of that long slumbering teenager still remains, especially since I found the exit door from the daily grind. But now and again I’ll make a special effort. When there’s a worthwhile shot lying in wait that is.
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