The rain clatters against the window, it’s queer paths and hollow tapping mimicking the chaos of the near-empty café. My coffee steaming the same as my breath on the glass.

Little Jane, who’s been running this place since 72, as she so proudly declares every other day, is being run of her feet by it as customer after customer comes up to the counter. The locals watch the bustling tourists with narrowed eyes whilst adding a little something to their own drink to make it a true local brew.

Mary, the little girl even the grumpiest of us villagers smile to see, runs into the café, dodging the milling unknowns as though darting from stepping stone to stepping stone. She pops up at the counter, and Jane passes her a biscuit the same size as her face, whilst taking money from a tall woman with a Brummie accent

I fold up my paper, looking around. According to who you ask, this place is either a drinking inn or a café with rooms, that depends on if you’re local or not, and I lock eyes with Mike, one of my better friends, and he’s thinking as I am, and we go through the door marked ‘staff only’ and to a separate counter, Jane’s sister giving us the usual without even asking, us paying without asking either.

This second room is bigger, and already full despite the time. The tourists seem to drive us locals to drink, or maybe provide an excuse.

The sign above the second counter reads ‘To the things that go on in the locals café’ and as is tradition, we raise our glass to it before each other.