wake up and smell the coffee

Most days, for most people, start with rituals. Mine is to switch on the coffee machine. I’m usually downstairs before Anniemay and I flick the switch before anything else. Without fail.

I learnt to drink it black and unsweetened when I was an impressionable youth, about 19 or 20; a long time ago, now. A group of friends and I drove down to Spain in an old van, for a camping holiday. We travelled through the night and found ourselves in a small French town around six in the morning. It was dusty and already warm - that sort of early warmth that tells you it’s going to really hot later on.

We had no idea where we were; the main street comprised an avenue of Plane trees and in the distance we could see an old bridge crossing a large river. The only signs of life came from a small cafe and we sat outside under the trees and ordered coffee and croissants. The coffee came in bowls, which we grasped in both hands and tried to wake ourselves up for the next stage of the journey.

The coffee was strong, too strong and I had to force it down. I was reading Hemingway at this stage and I knew that I would have to persevere with this alien taste if I was going to be really cool. In the end it took about 6 weeks for my palate to adjust.

Many years later Anniemay and I rediscovered this town - it turned out to be Cahors, in South Western France. We also found the (then) small fishing village on the Costa Brava were I had camped.

Whenever we travel now, we have to find a small bar or cafe that makes ‘proper’ coffee. Although Anniemay doesn’t drink the stuff, she loves the smell and recognises my need for this ritual.

The memory of that morning all those years ago is still strong, as strong as the coffee. As my friends and I were preparing to leave the cafe, I said to the owner in my best schoolboy French, “tres bon”. He looked at me and said “James Bond” and went off laughing, evidently pleased at his little joke.