The Clarendon Cafe
Hyde, Merseyside

The Clarendon is an ostentatious building. Standing on a plain street in Hyde made up of grey roads and pavements, the peeling white paint of shop windowsills and the flaking black shutters, our destination is a rebellion against the bland facades of its neighbours. It is a slender cafe, ornamented in bright orange and shocking green — eye-catching by its refusal to be ordinary.

We would come here, my dad and I, not every weekend — but often enough for it to become a little routine, yet always felt like a treat.

The Clarendon was not near to us, yet we commuted for the love of its bombast. It’s an escape from the ordinary.

The interior was a similar curiosity — lemon yellow walls ornamented with hand painted flowers and scenery.

The music is calm, there is always a guitar ballad playing through the speakers — the most unusual form of piped music I’ve encountered, and still some of my fondest memories.

I recall bacon most strongly. The sight of it fizzing and popping on the overhead grill of a decades old gas cooker. The sound of the sizzle and spit broken only by the enchanting guitar melodies and the clatter of cutlery on well-worn white plates. The smell. Oh the aroma of bacon cooking away! It’s the smell of home. Of comfort.

It was always a cooked breakfast at The Clarendon — not a healthy meal, but a warming one for the soul. The food was always decidedly ordinary, yet we drove past countless other greasy spoons to land at this one. There was something about it that sparked joy. It was a happy place.
        The Clarendon closed down a great many years ago now, and my dad passed away decidedly more recently. All I have of them are memories, and I'm glad the ones I have of both are so fond.