Two raised beds, a polytunnel and an ongoing argument about whether to grow our own potatoes.

One sitting, twelve till four, and we stop serving when the beef is gone rather than portioning it thinner.

Four handpulls, three of them from within thirty miles. The fourth rotates and is chosen by whoever is behind the bar.

Parties of six and over from the first week of December. A deposit holds the table; the menu is fixed a fortnight ahead.

Game from the estate two villages over, root vegetables from our own beds, and the return of the suet pudding.