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It does not matter that today is Sunday, we have to get up early, because two cats are waiting for us, and we mind of them over the weekend. The seagulls scream from five in the morning as if their white, and sea-scented feathers are being stripped off. But in the cat garden, petunias and bluebells wake up calmly.

I open the wooden wicket, and then the green door, Ginger and Black-and-White walk around the kitchen, their furs shine like suns ready for the next day. The radio purrs some news at random, but we don’t care about it, because the most important thing is breakfast, fresh water, and opening the pet door.

Finally, Ginger settles down in the flowers, dips his snout in a watering can, and then jumps nimbly over the high, stone wall like a puma, and gets going into the malachite thicket. Meanwhile, Nóinín stretches out on the garden table and stares at me with olive eyes.

Galway wakes up more lazily, but outside Bar Italia smells of coffee from quarter to nine. Since we got up very early this morning, we sit down on a piece of the street, Laura brings americano and croissants, into which she first stuffs the pistachio cream. I feel like on a nice vacation, a little seagull is nibbling on sweet crumbs, and someone is hanging pink geraniums over the pub. It is beautiful and peaceful in my imperfect city.