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Sometimes the coffee. Sometimes the axe.

by 
On favourite cafes, small rituals and the quests that begin with a cup in hand.

The Nearest Cup

My favourite coffee shop isn’t just the closest, though that helps. It’s genuinely good. It sits a few minutes from my front door, right by the train station, perfectly placed between home and the town centre. I like to think I chose it for the beans or the vibe, but the truth is simpler: it’s on the way, and it’s there when I need it.

An americano in a pink cup with an almond croissant on a white plate, places on a speckled cafe table

The Atmosphere

From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. A handful of tables, a cute mirror sign, the steady shuffle of people coming and going. But it has its own rhythm. You hear the roll of suitcase wheels on the pavement, the chatter of office staff escaping their cubicles, the run club on some Saturday morning. The hiss of the steam wand cutting through it all, like they’re trying to take us back to the golden age of train travel. And inside, time does slow down just enough. Long enough to take a breath, to sip, to watch the world hurry past without you.

The Coffee Itself

And the coffee? It’s good. Not just good-for-a-train-station, but actually good. Smooth espresso shots, that taste like someone cared about getting it right. It’s the kind of place you could recommend to a friend and not have to apologize afterwards. Which makes it even better that it’s mine: close enough to be casual, but good enough to feel like a treat.

And then there are the pastries. Real pastries, not the sad shrink-wrapped kind that taste like regret. I’m talking about almond croissants dusted with sugar, the kind that leave a little trail of flakes across the table like edible confetti. Pair one with a cup and suddenly errands feel like indulgence. Coffee in one hand, pastry in the other and even I will concede the day doesn’t look half as daunting.

The Ritual

What I love most is that this place has become my starting line. The stop that marks the beginning of whatever comes next. Some days it’s just errands, other days it’s train journeys or something bigger, but the coffee is always the ritual that kicks it off.

It’s my Rivendell of coffee: a pause before the quest. Sometimes I’m off to the Undying Lands, sometimes I’m trudging toward Mordor, but either way, I start here . A cup in hand and the sense that at least I’m equipped for whatever’s coming. And sometimes it’s not just me. Sometimes there’s a council. A friend across the table, a small circle of confidence before we set off. Not quite the Council of Elrond, but close enough. Plans are made, jokes are shared, and for a moment the world feels steady. And when it doesn’t? Well, someone will loan me an axe.

Closing Sip

It’s not the best coffee I’ve ever had, that title still belongs to some rainy day in Wellington, memory-polished and unreachable, but it’s the best coffee I can get today. And that matters more. Because this place doesn’t just hand me caffeine; it hands me a beginning. A reason to keep moving.

A Rivendell in a paper cup.

And honestly? That’s magic.

“Even Bad Coffee…”

by

I’ve drunk more bad coffee than good, but I’ve never turned down a cup.

The Worst Coffee

When my local Krispy Kreme opened they handed me a cup of what can only be described as caffeinated despair. Burn shots of coffee poured over the water of disappointment. I didn’t complain, obviously, I just drank it and ate my donut. I even went back, just to see if I had been wrong, like it was some sort of Emperors New Clothes trick.

I left the second time absolutely aghast that somewhere could make coffee that was so bad, even I hated it. But I still drank it.
Because having bad coffee in hand is still better than having nothing. Lynch knew.

The Best Coffee

On the other end of the spectrum sits Mr Bun’s Bakery, a café in Wellington, New Zealand where I had the best coffee of my life. It was a rainy day, the coffee was the right temperature, the sounds of Wellington just hit the right tempo, and it was just perfect.

Shhh. Just for a moment. Let me remember. FUCK.

I doubt I remember the actual coffee correctly these days. It was more than 20 years ago. If you’ve ever been to Mr Bun’s Bakery in Wellington, New Zealand you’re probably confused at how it’s the best coffee of my life. But every cup since has been chasing that high, and none of them have even come close. It hasn’t stopped me trying though.

Why I Keep Drinking It Anyway

Here’s the thing: it’s not just about taste. I didn’t describe the roast or the altitude the beans were grown at. What the mix of Arabica and Robusta was. Did I get a flat white, or a doppio? Did that matter?

For years I thought I just loved coffee. I’ve worked in coffee chains, opened my own coffee shop. In one place I worked you could plot the times I was away from the location by the change in the amount of beans used in that week. My coffee consumption literally tracked by the kilogram.

Turns out, I was probably self-medicating undiagnosed ADHD with americanos and loyalty cards. Coffee helped me focus. It gave me a ritual. It gave my restless hands something to do and my restless brain something to cling to.

The weirdest part? I’ve never had a caffeine withdrawal headache in my life. Not once. Apparently my nervous system just accepted that coffee is part of the package deal. Superpower, or giant red flag? Hard to tell.

Ritual Over Quality

Good or bad, coffee is less about flavour and more about existence. It’s a prop. A crutch. Proof of life. Even the worst cup can trick my brain into thinking I’m at least doing something.

So yes, I’ll complain. I’ll roll my eyes at the sludge in my cup. But I’ll still drink it. Because god forbid I sit here with nothing in my hands but my thoughts.

Closing Sip

Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.” – David Lynch

I’m fortunate these days that I don’t have to go to Krispy Kreme for coffee, my children don’t need to be bribed with donuts when we go to the city center. There are many great places to get coffee within a short walk, but non of them are Mr Bun’s Bakery.

Never forget David Lynch was right.