$15.50 for a small lime tart, a commercial biscuit, an Earl Grey tea and a long black, may seem an excessive fee for a morning’s session in a coffee house. But remember folks, this is a Tourist Town, and the store has that expensive feel. Don’t complain.

My l.b. lacks crema and is a tad off correct serving temperature. I feel sorry for the lone black-clad worker though; she is anxious and harassed. Her co-worker has failed to front. On a grey overcast morning it’s not a bad place to be and seems to get the vote from the mixed bag of locals, business types, mothers and retirees. Talk is muted, cutlery tinkles. There was music but now there is — thankfully — none. (I do think we’re reaching the point where cafes will advertise themselves as NO MUSIC ZONES, inspired by John Cage who taught us the music of the ever-present sounds — the turning of a page, the whirr of the machine, a whispered word.)

Décor here is reminiscent of those overdressed interiors one finds in Australian Country Collections — a ladder, skirted to the ceiling and hung with swathes of garlic and dried flowers … A wire cage hooked up to the ceiling with wooden boxes once the repositories of French wine and Aussie cordial. A few black-topped tables, a ‘rustic’ wooden communal table, and a bench out on the pavement. All manner of things are sold in the shop — cheeses, Phillipa’s bread, biscuits, salamis. Lunch offerings include moussaka, lasagna and rolls of various fillings. A large black-framed mirror advertises specials — Potato and Chicken Pot Pies, Thai Chicken Curry, Rhubarb and Apple Tart.

At the entrance, two little bay trees sit in pots worshipped by a host of devoted lemons.