Keeping ice cream at the right temperature sounds easy until you try to cross York’s cobbles in summer. The phrase “cold chain” is often imagined as a line of metal freezers and barcode scanners, but here it’s more about rhythm and timing than technology. Each delivery we make depends on steps that are small, predictable, and human.
Every morning starts in a quiet storeroom at 23 Goodramgate. The freezers hum, the thermometers blink green, and the riders check insulation sleeves for wear. Our cold chain begins long before any bicycle wheel moves. We don’t have a warehouse filled with dry ice or high-speed loading bays—just a few disciplined minutes that matter.
Each tub from our partner creameries carries its own label with the batch time and maker’s initials. They arrive in reusable crates, usually still frosty from the churn room. We let them rest for ten minutes before sealing into soft-wrap bags. That pause helps stabilise the surface and avoids micro-cracks that can appear when something too cold meets air that’s too warm.
Our insulated sleeves are simple fabric rolls with layered inserts. They’re not fancy but they fold around each tub like an old picnic blanket, tight but not crushing. Every rider knows that a neatly packed bag saves more cold than any gadget. We treat the bike basket as an extension of the freezer, not an afterthought.
When setting out, the riders follow an unwritten rule: the shortest route is not always the best route. A road with fewer stops and gentler corners can save more chill than one that looks faster on a map. Each turn, curb, and delay adds seconds of exposure. The difference between a soft edge and a solid scoop is often just one minute less under the sun.
We keep timing notes on paper, not apps. Each drop has its own code and short comments—“lift access,” “south gate,” “ask for Tom.” There’s no GPS breadcrumb trail because our focus is practical, not surveillance. Riders rely on experience: knowing when traffic at Micklegate slows, or when the Ouse path breeze can cool the bag naturally.
If a route runs long, we rotate the order of stops. Delivering denser flavours later helps preserve texture, while fruit-based tubs travel earlier. These micro-decisions sound trivial but they build reliability quietly. Our approach is closer to craft than logistics.
Sometimes the chain breaks a little—perhaps a tub sits open too long during a chat, or a handle comes loose. When that happens, we log the note and mark the batch for tasting later. Nothing goes back into circulation once it’s thawed even slightly. Waste is painful, but so is doubt.
At the end of each round, sleeves are hung to dry, thermometers are checked, and leftover cold packs are rotated. The cold chain closes where it began: in the same quiet room with the same hum. Each small correction—tightening a strap, sealing a bag more evenly—shapes tomorrow’s round.
What makes this process sustainable isn’t fancy technology; it’s attention. York’s rhythm changes daily, and we adapt like water finding its level. The goal isn’t perfection but consistency. Every calm, plain step we take keeps the promise of flavour alive until it meets the spoon.
Our version of the cold chain isn’t frozen in steel or jargon. It’s a living pattern that links people, places, and temperature. From the first churn to the final doorbell, we keep things cool by staying patient, observant, and quietly proud of what we deliver.
If you ever receive a tub with a neat little paper tag tucked beneath the lid, that’s our silent signature: it means someone double-checked the temperature before it left. It’s not corporate quality control; it’s just a person making sure your scoop stayed true to its maker.