A corner shop that stayed small.

We wanted one thing: a place where the coffee is careful and nobody hurries you.

The building was a bakery for forty years, then a phone shop, then empty for a while. When we found it the tiles were cracked and the light was extraordinary. A long window faces east, so from seven the whole room fills with it. We painted the walls the colour of a flat white, kept the bakery’s old enamel sign and the bell over the door, and left the rest alone.

Inside there is a zinc counter gone soft and dull with use, a brass till that rings like it means it, a row of regulars’ mugs on hooks behind the counter (earned, never bought), and eight seats that fill by eight thirty. The soundtrack is the grinder in short bursts, milk steaming, a cup finding its saucer, and a record turned low. Nothing more than that, most mornings.

We roast a few kilos at a time, a short walk away, and only what we will use in a week. It means the blend shifts a little through the year, which we think is the point of the thing. If a batch is singing, we will tell you. If it is just fine, we will tell you that too.

There is no app and no points card. Your loyalty scheme is Rae remembering your order, which takes about three visits. The whole business fits in one room, and we would like to keep it that way.