In a leafy West London flat with a walled garden and herringbone floors, one couple has quietly mastered the art of living with — and around — a homebrew business. Not kombucha. Not sourdough starter. A full, fermenting, small-batch brewery.
The flat is a classic Victorian conversion: generous bay windows, high ceilings, a living space that spills into the kitchen, and enough room to entertain — provided guests don’t mind the occasional crate of IPA lurking behind a fiddle-leaf fig. But there’s a system. And it’s deceptively elegant.
“It’s not exactly pretty,” says Will, a former architect turned brewer, “but it’s extremely efficient.” The ‘brew station’ occupies a 1.2m-wide nook off the kitchen, hidden behind a sliding oak panel. Inside: stainless steel fermenters, a converted fridge for cold crashes, and vacuum-sealed tubs of hops, grains and yeast. Overhead, custom shelving holds beakers, bottles, siphons, and a clipboard of madcap flavour ideas (“Szechuan saison?” “Ginger + fig porter?”).
When guests come over, the station vanishes. The fridge doubles as a drinks cooler. A vintage sideboard nearby holds the fancy glassware. On warm days, a few choice bottles make their way into the garden, nestled in an ice bucket. “It’s not about showing off the brewery,” says Will’s partner, Sam. “It’s about integrating it — making it part of the life we live, not the whole story.”
It’s a design philosophy rooted in adaptability: functional by day, ambient by night. And in a city where space is a luxury, it proves that even a ground-floor flat can quietly double as a nano-brewery — without spilling into your social life. Well, unless you count the tasting sessions.
