Thirty acres in the Vale · est. 2014
We are a farm first and a restaurant second — the kitchen is forty steps from the rows, and the menu is written each morning by whatever came up overnight.
The turning year
Choose a month. The wheel is our whole pantry — nothing on the plate that isn't on the wheel.
High summer — the rows outrun the kitchen and we pickle what we can't chase.
click a month — the leaf follows ↝
From the rows, this week
Nine varieties, none round. Served warm from the vine with salt we smoke over vine prunings.
Striped like a barber's pole. Roasted whole in embers, skin on, butter after.
First of the year. Pressed for the table juice; the bruised ones become tonight's chutney.
Foraged at dawn while the pollen still holds. Cordial, fritters, and a vinegar for next year.
From our neighbour's herd, still warm at collection. The butter is churned to order on Fridays.
Blue Lake and Borlotti on hazel poles. Blanched, blistered, dressed in green-tomato oil.
The long table
Once a week we push everything together and cook a single supper for whoever booked first. Five courses, family style, cider from the orchard, no menu until you sit down.
Chairs saved — see you in the yard.
We'll email before the weekend with the where-to-park and what-to-bring (nothing, bring nothing).