A crackingly good pub restaurant in dementedly rural Berkshire
Lucifer the rooster scratches around under an apple tree out the back, Darcy the dog bustles through a flourishing herb and vegetable patch, and a clothes line flaps with blue-and-white striped chefs' aprons. The smell of baking bread drifts through the front bar, as a red-haired girl pulls a slow pint of bitter. If this isn't the country pub of your dreams, then I give up.
While lots of other pubs claim to use local produce, Robinson really means it, to the extent that few animals can feel safe within a 20km radius. The crayfish in the bisque comes from the nearby Kennet river; the trout in the hot-smoked trout salad was caught two days earlier in the Lodden, and the muntjac - or barking deer - in the ragu with tagliatelle was shot by mein host on one of his weekly stalks.