The bakehouse

Three of us, one old oven, and a start at three in the morning.

Made for this page The middle deck, up to heat, doors still shut. On your build we swap this for one of your own photographs.

Rows of bread tins under a heavy linen cloth on a steel rack in a cold room before dawn, only the risen shapes showing through the cloth, with one tin at the near end uncovered. — Made for this page Tins under cloth, at the end of the night. On your build we swap this for one of your own photographs.

The oven is a deck oven, twenty years old and still going. It comes up to heat from three and does not go off until the last tray is out. Everything on the board has been through it.

There are three of us. Ros bakes, Tama bakes, and Jo runs the front. Ros and Tama start at three; Jo turns the sign at half past six. By seven the first batch is on the shelf and the coffee is on.

The flour comes from a Canterbury mill. We buy it by the sack and get through a lot of it. The sourdough starter is older than the café.

The café side is here because people kept waiting for the bread with nowhere to sit. So we put some chairs in, then a coffee machine, then the cabinet. Now it’s a room, and the room has a window seat.

A rough ball of dough on a wooden bench, surrounded by a wide ring of scattered white flour. — Real bakery Flour on the bench. On your build these are your own loaves, your own counter, your own oven.

The room at seven

Coffee from seven. The cabinet until it runs out, which is usually before we close. The window seat goes to whoever gets there first.

Dogs are welcome outside, and there’s a bowl. Cash and card.

Eighteen Afghan biscuits cooling on a wire rack, each topped with chocolate icing and a walnut half. — Real bakery Afghans, cooling. On your build these are your own loaves, your own counter, your own oven.