Three years ago, I began writing for the Gazette at the urging of its Guy, the publisher. I wrote my first column while on holiday in England. In the early morning hours, while my family slept off their jet lag, I quietly wrote at the dining table of our Airbnb. One particularly cold morning, I decided to reward my literary efforts with a walk—and, with any luck, coffee. The sun was beginning to rise over Knole Park, and the village of Sevenoaks was barely stirring. Most shops were closed—except one. On High Street (what we might call Main Street) there was a bookshop. It was ope, and it had a café. I stepped inside and immediately felt that this place was special.
The inventory wasn’t massive, but it wasn’t sparse. True crime, novels, history, you name it. Nothing dominated the space. No shelf screamed this is what we’re selling now. Everything felt intentionally chosen without feeling engineered. Each book seemed to be exactly where it belonged. That balance matters more than we care to admit.
The inventory at a Barnes & Noble is vast, but its choices are narrow. You can have any horror novel you want, as long as it was writteBy Stephen King, Dean Koontz, or landed on the New York Times bestseller list. It’s efficient. It’s consistent. And it’s sterile. You aren’t discovering books so much as being presented with pre-approved options. On the other end of the spectrum are fledgling shops still trying to find their voice—too niche, too scattered, too eager to be everything at once. Are they a bookstore that happens to sell coffee, or a coffee shop with a few books? And what about the trinkets and home décor in the corner? What do those have to do with the mission?
We tend to equate success with size: small means fragile, big means successful. But size alone tells you nothing about quality. The Sevenoaks Bookshop had found its “just right” zone—a niche between doing too little and doing too much. They knew exactly what they were trying to be. That clarity is where many businesses lose their way.
Think about coffee shops. On one end are the brand-new cafés with equipment imported from places you’ve never heard of. Beans sourced for scarcity. Baristas trained by zen java monks from the Robusto mountain range. And somehow—despite all of it—the coffee is terrible. On the other end is the place that says, “Yes, we sell coffee,” and when you ask for an espresso, you’re introduced to a Mr. Coffee machine and a can of Folgers from the Reagan administration. That’s not minimalism, It’s neglect.
The best coffee lives somewhere in the middle. The beans matter—but only if they’re brewed with care. Skill matters—but only if it’s paired with care for the person on the other side of the counter. What makes a good coffee shop has little to do with having the best tools and everything to do with using the right ones for the right reasons.
Some businesses grow until they no longer know what they are. Others refuse to evolve and become irrelevant. The rare ones find balance: automation that still feels human, and affordability paired with durable quality. The English Bookshop has won awards, built a following, and earned recognition—but those are outcomes. It wasn’t the picturesque blue-and-gold storefront or the antique oak shelves that made it special. They weren’t trying to be Barnes & Noble. They weren’t trying to be boutique. They were focused on being a good bookshop—and that made all the difference.
