We bought the old stone barn at the edge of Kingham in the spring of 2014, when the roof leaked and the garden had gone back to meadoward. There was no plan beyond a long table, an open hearth, and the stubborn belief that a meal should taste of the place it came from.
Ten years on, the garden feeds the kitchen and the kitchen feeds the room. What doesn't grow here is grown by neighbours we know by name — Tom at Daylesford, the Howse family at Bledington, the mushroom forager who appears at the back door after autumn rain.
We cook the way the year cooks — slowly, and with whatever the morning gives us.
The menu changes every week, sometimes twice in a week if the weather turns. There is no fixed dish, no signature, no hurry. Bread is fermented for two days. Stocks simmer for nine hours. The fire is lit at four. By the time you arrive at seven, the room smells of woodsmoke and rosemary, and the evening has already begun without you.