Some stories don’t start with a plan. They begin with a feeling — a pull towards something that feels right long before it makes sense. Music was that feeling for me. Long before coffee became part of my everyday life, before roasting and sourcing and seasons, there was sound, rhythm, and the quiet belief that following what you love will eventually lead you somewhere meaningful.
I didn’t move to London by hopping on a plane.
A good friend drove us. We crossed the water by ferry, packed into a car full of gear, ideas, and expectations, heading towards something we couldn’t fully name yet.
We first ended up in Manor House, near Finsbury Park — a place that felt rough around the edges but alive. Later, we were lucky enough to live in Brockley, South London. Music venues, late nights, cheap rent (by London standards), and that feeling that something could happen at any moment. I moved to London almost 16 years ago, and music was the reason. Coffee came later — quietly, patiently — the way important things often do.
At the time, I was deeply involved in my band CHPLN. We made electronic pop music — emotional, melodic, built on rhythm and atmosphere. Between 2014 and 2020, we released a few singles, played shows, and somehow found ourselves being played on radio. White Snow became one of those moments — a track that travelled further than we ever expected, picked up by radio stations and listeners who found their own meaning in it.
Music shaped how I experienced London. It also shaped how I worked.
Somewhere between rehearsals, gigs, and long nights, I started working at The Espresso Room. At the time, it was a small space with big ideas. The people there — along with a handful of other early specialty cafés — were pioneers, pushing boundaries in coffee before it had fully entered the mainstream. I was incredibly lucky to be there when curiosity mattered more than rules.
One of the people roasting our coffee back then was James Hoffmann. Before the books, the videos, and the global reputation, James was simply another obsessive — about flavour, process, and craft… and, yes, also a little bit weird. What probably not many people know is that he was also into electronic music, even making his own at the time. There was a shared understanding there: precision, texture, patience. Music and coffee spoke the same language.
That overlap never left me.
CHPLN played a gig very early on at Round Hill Roastery, long before they became the respected and well-established specialty roaster they are today. We played inside the roastery itself — surrounded by green coffee, roasting equipment, and people who genuinely cared. That night turned into friendships, especially with Eddie, and it felt less like a performance and more like a shared moment — music and coffee meeting in the same space.
Looking back, it all makes sense.
Music taught me how to listen — really listen — to rhythm, silence, tension, and release. Coffee taught me to slow down, to notice small changes, to respect process and time. Both require attention. Both punish shortcuts. Both reward patience.
When I roast coffee now at June And July, music is always there. Not as background noise, but as a companion. The same instincts I used when shaping a song — balance, restraint, knowing when not to add more — guide how I think about coffee.
I didn’t come to London to work in coffee.
I came for music.
But sometimes the things we love quietly guide us somewhere deeper. And if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that the best paths are rarely the straight ones — they’re the ones shaped by people, moments, and the things that move us without us fully realising why.
