Early morning in Antigua

Early morning, before the traffic fills the streets, I leave my hotel and walk towards Plaza Major. These early hours are my favourite time to walk in towns and cities. Everything is stripped back bare, the essentials of the life of the place is allowed to show itself. The man lifting the large wooden tray of bread from the truck is lifting them for all of Antigua. The woman walking along the pathway with a plastic bag of cleaning products swinging beside her is cleaning for all of Antigua.

At this hour people’s eyes still hold the balm of sleep. The sun is gentle, the shadows stretch across the streets and buildings, and the chalk white of the cathedral walls has yet to glare bright. Pigeons sit in recesses of the walls, cooing to nobody at all. There’s a softness still present. The ‘busyness’ of the day hasn’t yet taken over. There is more ‘being’ than ‘doing’. Morning birds are singing in the jacaranda trees. The ruins of the old colonial buildings, the churches and abbeys, the centres of learning, are quiet and still closed and the heavy hum of traffic that lurches and sways along the cobbled streets at 10km per hour has yet to begin.

I step into Cafe Cafe and order a tall cappacino from a chalk board menu with over forty different options on it - Guatemala is the home of coffee. I pay twenty five quetzals, about €3. Before leaving I spot the most expensive option on the board at Q65. I ask what it is and am told it contains rum, espresso, vanilla and cinnamon.

In Plaza Major there’s a team of city workers hosing down and scrubbing with plastic brushes the flagstones. They glisten as the men work fast, knowing this place will be filling up soon. Some scrub, while others push the excess water away. There are a few early risers like me in the plaza. One man, deep in concentration, holds a book of puzzles aloft at head height looking unmoveable in his concentration. Another man, topless and in shorts, is running laps of the plaza in great wide circles on the outer path. I’m tempted to time him. There’s a dog walker or two and a young couple sitting on a bench.

Antigua is laid out in grid fashion with streets named norte and sur, este and oeste. The sidewalks are a jungle of holes and broken curbs and built at a width for much quieter times, and so everyone skips on and off the road to get by. The pallete of Guatemalan life is a rich floral bouquit with a love for the brightest colours, vibrant reds, yellows and oranges and deep rich blues are everywhere - in the clothes, the textiles, the tableware and in the rows of hanging garments being sold to the passer-bys. I pass a child hunched against a wall beside his metal stand of little yellow ducks. He is far to young to be left here doing this. I see him shift position impatiently whilst looking resigned to his task for the day. I stop and buy one from him and his eyes light up.

Antigua is home to a legion of great tailed grackles (Quiscalus mexicanus). This big brash blackbird with its long tail gathers in flocks in the evening and cries out with a chorus of chattering that can drown out a sound system. By day they scavenge around stealing food from the tourists. Along with the flocks of brown winged pigeons they are a constant presence in the main plaza.

Looming over Antigua with its slopes seeming to descend straight into the streets is the commanding Volcán de Agua or "Volcano of Water", some 3,766 m (12,356 ft) high. It sits with quiet dominance over the city. Volcán de Agua holds a special place in Guatemalan culture, both as a natural landmark and as a source of local myths and beliefs. The volcano is closely tied to the indigenous Kakchikel people, who have long called it Hunapú, a name which translates to "place of flowers." In Kakchikel and other local Mayan traditions, the volcano is seen not just as a physical feature but as a spiritual entity.

Volcan de Agua

One of the most well-known stories surrounding Volcán de Agua involves a catastrophic flood that shaped the history of the region. According to legend, in 1541, after a period of heavy rains, a massive mudslide and flood were triggered on the slopes of the volcano, destroying the original Spanish capital of Guatemala, Ciudad Vieja, which was located at its base. It is said that the flood occurred when a crater lake at the volcano's summit broke through, cascading down and devastating the town below. This disaster led the Spanish to abandon Ciudad Vieja and relocate the capital to present-day Antigua. Although today its slopes remain quiet and inactive the “volcano of water” is both a respected and feared presence—a reminder of nature’s power and unpredictability. In sum, Volcán de Agua is far more than a beautiful backdrop; it’s a storied presence that has influenced the history, culture, and spirituality of the region for centuries. I feel too it is symbolic of the Mayan people themselves. What they lack in height they more than make up for in strength and resilience,

Sitting on the bench it is those Mayans that I see starting to enter and spread around the central plaza at the first light of day. In time an old man, as thin as a bag of sticks, shuffles over beside me and says good morning. He places his bag beside my feet and gestures with his eyes if I would like my boots cleaned. I find myself unable to say no. For a few quetzals, the local currency, I’m happy to be his first client. He hums to himself whilst working, never ceasing to smile, and simply nods and mutters inaudibly when I ask a question. Before long he finishes his work and bows ever so slightly before moving on. He will spend the entire day here, etching out a living, eating from the local food stalls on the street and then returning home in the evening. The women drape their bodies in rows of trinkets and garments for sale and walk in slow lumbering steps around the plaza hoping to make enough for the day.

Jacaranda tree in bloom

I never stay long in Antigua, a night or two at most before I continue on my way. So I often have a feeling of being temporarily “in” but also “outside” this world. By observing these early-morning tasks of the people I see—bakers, cleaners, joggers—it helps me experience the larger fabric of daily life. As with so many cities there is a great contrast between the rich and poor in Antigua. It is in these hours that the poor own the streets, preparing for the day ahead before the streets are thronging again with all her visitors. By lunchtime I’m exhausted by it all and seek out seclusion but in the morning hours there is the space to breathe.

As the day begins to gather its momentum, and the streets start to fill, I realise that these early hours hold a clarity that’s often lost in the bustle of daily life. Watching the city wake up—the quiet rituals, the steady, enduring labor of the people of Antigua—offers a glimpse into the heartbeat of a place that, like Volcán de Agua itself, holds a quiet but powerful presence. In these brief moments, I feel a connection to something timeless, as though each person here carries a small piece of the city’s history with them.

I may only pass through Antigua, spending just a day or two here, but in these quiet hours, I find a rare sense of belonging, one that will stay with me long after I leave the city behind.