I am crossing a small wooden bridge, the sound of the river rushing past beneath my feet is very visceral. It surges by with a noisome gurgling that drowns out the only other sound to be heard this early, that of my own feet treading the ground. At this hour, the vanity lights of the town church, the small castle and the bridge itself are all out and there are no tourists awake to take pictures of the night vista. Mists hang like a veil in front the grey mountains in the distance and the churning river is a dark and gloomy.  Only the street lights are on to light my path through the pre-dawn twilight. I feel like a wanderer in this sleeping city, some kind of vagabond or vagrant, but I have a goal and a purpose without which I would never be up to see the world before it wakes up.