chatsworth bakehouse, a short story

I am unbelievably out of breath.
My thighs burn from speed-walking uphill to reach my destination.
How am I already exhausted before midday?

“I’d better be among the first five people in line…” I mutter begrudgingly, fuelled by unwavering determination — I must get there before 12 pm.

As someone who doesn’t like exercise, this is the most movement I’ve done all week… and somehow, it’s always food-related.

I’m almost there. From afar, I spot a bright red interior, and if I squint just enough, I can make out the sign reading Chatsworth Bakehouse.
And if you already know me — as some of you do — you’ll know I’m obsessed with Chatsworth Bakehouse.

I finally make it across the bridge and pause for a brief moment before peering through the ‘hero’ door, waving hello to Tom (co-founder) and the rest of the team, who greet me with equal enthusiasm. And that’s when it hits me.

The smell of their original focaccia tickles my nostrils — warm and yeasty, laced with rosemary. A smile creeps onto my face, and instantly, I know I’m exactly where I want to be.

Yes! I triumph internally when I realise there’s no queue at their second shop. I claim a spot on the bench, finally able to relax while intensely scanning the menu on their trusty blackboard stand, making mental notes as I go.

Ooohhh — they have my favourite maple chilli + sea salt focaccia. I’m definitely getting a slab.
The milk loaves are back too… half a loaf or a full one? Mum would like it, and maybe I’ll eat some with egg mayo? Must check if I have any eggs in the fridge.

Wait — Cacio e Pepe milk buns?! I’ll get one.
Ooohhhhh! Spicy vodka buns! I’m getting that too.

AND THEY HAVE MALTED MILK MARITOZZI.
YESSSSS.
I need two.

I might even get a cereal cookie — and ooohhh, a Guinness cake sounds—

Something buttery and spiced, with a deep, sticky sweetness, stops my train of thought as I take a discreet (but intense) whiff.

Ahhh… I wasn’t even planning to get their vanilla-glazed cinnamon swirl, but I guess I have to now — because that smells intoxicatingly good.

I wish they brought back their iced fingers. Those were, in my opinion, the best — simple, done right, and never too sweet. I haven’t tried all of them, but my favourite was always the passion fruit and coconut.

Sweet and fruity, softly coconutty, with a gentle tang that lingered just long enough. They were divine.

I snap out of my thoughts when I hear the blinds go up. Turning to my left, I notice a queue slowly beginning to form — meaning it’s almost time for them to open at 12:30 pm.

The staff move back and forth with trays of baked goods, and onlookers (myself included) peer over them with quiet curiosity. I smile at a few familiar faces and exchange small talk with one or two; after all, in their eyes, I’m a regular.

The doors open, and of course, I’m the first to step inside. The air greets me with a soft hug, heavy with the lingering aroma of caramelised sugar and melted butter.

The space itself is what I’d call chaotically neat. Rows of neatly packed wildfarmed flour are piled by the front windows, while large tins of Honest Toil extra virgin olive oil are stacked along the side. At the back, a team of three or four bakers are deeply focused on their own stations — grating Parmesan over savoury buns, dipping icing, lining glazed pastries onto drying racks to cool and set.

A sight to behold.

My eyes don’t know where to land first. The counter is one of joyful abundance: seasonal galettes (this time, tomatoes and cream cheese), decadent slices of Basque cheesecake, fudgy — yet vegan — salted chocolate brownies, and nearby, sitting plump and glossy, the famous malted milk maritozzi in all their cream-filled glory.

I smile and greet the bright-eyed, curly, brown-haired front-of-house staff. Everything — from the counter to the large trolley stacked with golden yet colourful baked goods — seems to seduce me purely by visuals alone.

It all becomes a blur the moment I start ordering: a slab of maple chilli + sea salt focaccia, half a loaf of milk bread, a cacio e pepe bun, a spicy vodka bun, two malted milk maritozzi, a galette, and a vanilla-glazed cinnamon swirl.

Hands and tongs move quickly as I watch the bakers and staff in seamless motion — paper bags opening, pastries slipping inside, orders building layer by layer with quiet precision.

I thank them and say my goodbyes before heading over to the Hero shop, where my pre-ordered sandwich awaits. Getting one of these bad boys is harder than getting Glastonbury tickets — but I’d much rather have a sandwich than stand in a muddy field, surrounded by people, unable to see the headliners anyway.

The queue is shorter here, and I get my order number ready on my phone. I greet the Hero shop once more — and Tom, calm despite the chaos and genuinely one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, asks how I am and how my week has been.

(Sian is amazing too — let’s not forget the genius behind their social media and admin.)

It’s always nice to be remembered, even when you haven’t stepped through their doors in over a year. They’re always welcoming, and it’s a really lovely feeling.

I collect the Peach on the Beach — mortadella, roasted yellow peaches, fior di latte mozzarella, crunchy pumpkin seed pesto, wild rocket and basil salad, all tucked inside their OG rosemary focaccia. It’s probably one of the best sandwiches I’ve had this year… and it’s going to be my lunch.

I say my goodbyes once more and head home with my treats.

As I step back outside, arms full and purse lighter (yet no regrets), I realise something simple and true: baked goods have a way of holding us together. In moments of doubt, loneliness, or quiet yearning, they offer warmth, comfort, and happiness — proof that joy can exist in the smallest, most delicious forms.