Old English
uhta
‘the last part of the night, the time just before daybreak’. Also dagian
verb, meaning ‘to become day’ (root of ‘dawn’, the time that marks the beginning of twilight before sunrise)
Middle English, also Scots Gaelic
greking
‘In the grekynge of the day, sir Gawayne hente his hors wondyrs for to seke’ (Malory, Morte D’Arthur)
Irish
le fáinne geal an lae
‘the bright ring of the day’
French
l’heure bleue
Spanish
madrugar
verb, meaning, ‘to get up early’
proverb, Al que madruga, Dios le ayuda, ‘God helps those who rise early’
US Pennsylvania Dutch
the blush
Early morning gives me time, hope, space. At a moment when they are all at a premium. The city (largely) sleeps. Interference is low, distractions minimal. My day opens up. Stretches languidly. My mind is clearer. My thoughts easier to read. Anxious urgency is removed. The light is almost elusive. I feel my way around, the room, my home. I become like a cat with whiskers. I pour tea. I fill the pot by sound not sight, a reassuring glug. It is curiously comforting to decouple from incessant electric light. I am aware of the air around me. I have hours on my own, free to follow my feelings. I am liberated from the day’s demands. More at one, if you will, with the more natural world. Perhaps just sitting, watching my thoughts scroll by. I can write, walk, gaze out of the window, soak it in, enjoy it, luxuriate. There is time to wonder what I want to say. Time to drink good tea while people around me sleep. Time to hear the blackbird signal dawn (midsummer sunrise 4.42 a.m., London, and gone 8 a.m. by midwinter).
Early morning connects me, moves me, makes me more awake. I listen to more isolated sound while the day and light lift. My room more slowly makes its presence felt. My day, my world, knock politely. There is time to wait, rising sun on my face as I write. Cool light as I walk or garden, free from chatter, except my own, perhaps today a loop over Hampstead Heath, just me and the bumblebees, another early walker in the distance. I’ll nod, quietly say hello if we pass, a brotherly sisterhood of sharing with other early morning appreciators. An hour’s open-hearted meditation on morning, light and life. Stopping to admire the fading greening, perhaps catch sight of a solo heron. I am back before breakfast, in time to wake others up. Time to read, say, Ted Hughes’s ‘The Hawk in the Rain’, to catch undone things from days before. Time to build in new memories, sow new seed.
From night to day, dark to dawn, winter to spring, there is enchantment for me in transition. This is when the owl flies, the curlew calls, the earth inhales or exhales. Flux, a natural thing. From boy to man, child to adult, it is in the letting go, watching, observing, not trying to control the change, where enchantment, even the miraculous, happens. Before breakfast was when I roamed by the river, ambled through fields and woods as a child, in search of young mushrooms and magic. Seeing the dog fox returning to his den, hearing the call of the wild, I knew anything, everything, was possible; reality’s grip lessened for a moment and therein lay the charm. No longer defined by home or who my parents were, there were other possibilities on offer. Whatever I wanted. My imagination soared with the shift in light.
Decades later it still holds true. You can do near anything you want to, be almost anybody you want, the rest of the world is asleep. Loosen your shackles. For an hour or two feel free. There is nothing holding you back. Dawn is an enchanted world behind a hidden door, there if you want it, fine if you don’t. ‘Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me,’ says Thoreau. He’s right.
First, could you tell me a little about yourself?
I am a writer, an editor, a gardener. At twenty, as a single parent, I could sometimes skip sleep completely if, say, my young daughters were unwell. Now I need maybe seven hours, perhaps a nap at the weekend.
What time do you wake up (and why)?
Some time before 5 a.m. in summer, a little later in winter. I sleep with sliding doors open, no curtains. It is usually the birds that wake me, even gulls a joyful thing. It is the time I write or summer-garden, though I sometimes get caught up in social media, before my wife gets up.
Do you have a morning ritual?
I like to make tea in the dark. I think my senses may be heightened. Earl Grey in a pot, no milk.
How does being awake early affect your life?
It gives me time to be me, before the day begins.
What time do you sleep?
Mostly around ten-ish, give or take.
Does your sleep vary through the year?
I am up earlier in summer, more energetic, more excitable and so are the birds. I don’t know that I get more done.
Has your sleep pattern changed?
Maybe less sleep with age, though it is more likely I have carved out time to write and/or garden that I don’t have in the evening when I need to cook and digest the day.
Is the light important?
It is everything. I think I am addicted. The shift from night, the sometimes timid start of day. My world wakes. Particularly if there is sun, of course. I write by an open window facing south-east; the light draws me outside, catches the vase of flowers beside me (there are always flowers). Most mornings I take a photo, same photo, same view, of the sunrise. I tell myself it is like Monet’s water lilies or haystacks but I think I am mapping my life in mornings.
What do you like least about being awake early?
I can lose an hour reading useless links to politics or old YouTube, purely because I can.
What do you like best about being awake early?
The energy, the time it gives; it feels like a gift (apologies for romance but it is true). Sometimes it allows me to escape to the allotment, feed it, water it, sow seeds, connect with land and wild.
How would you sum up your thoughts on your mornings in 100 words or less?
Sometimes I feel it is my secret, like Narnia, outside time or at least the rest of the day. I cannot believe everyone doesn’t know about it and take an occasional step through the wardrobe.
First, could you tell me a little about yourself?
My name is Jamie Oliver, I’m