There’s something slightly absurd, yet quietly radical, about slowing down on a weekday morning to grind beans by hand while watching water coil from a gooseneck kettle. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

Today I joined a few friends for a coffee gathering—a proper one, the kind where someone inevitably produces a set of scales and everyone debates the merits of grind size. One of them had sourced a natural-processed Yirgacheffe, which happens to be my favourite bean in the world. That sun-dried sweetness and those deep fruit notes are unmistakable.

We brewed through two filters: a V60 and a B75. Once the coffee hit the cup, it lived up to the hype. Beyond the expected florals and citrus, it tasted more like a mountain fruit tea—all grapefruit acidity, stone fruit body, and a clean highland finish. I stood there holding the cup, thinking: this is what “slow living” actually looks like in practice.

It took me back ten years. Around 2014, pour-over culture was having a real moment. We were all obsessed with Hario V60s, Kalita Waves, and Chemex. We chased light roasts, terroir, and that delicate, bright acidity that a good V60 pulls out better than almost anything else. I learned the craft alongside a friend from Taiwan who was meticulous about every variable—water temperature, bloom time, pour rate.

Then, life happened. No time, no ritual, no kettle.

Coming back a decade later, I half-expected the scene to have moved on to something unrecognisable. And in some ways, it has. But the V60? It’s still sitting right there at the centre of it all. Some things earn their permanence.

Today was a reminder that a good cup of coffee isn’t really about the caffeine. It’s about being present. It’s the deliberate act of making something slowly, with your hands, with friends around you. I think I’ll keep the kettle out this time.