This pub with its own splendid organic farm continues to inspire latent and glorious talent from a range of diverse local people. Some of them would be spending their evenings smoking a fag in the village bus shelter if we didn’t employ them. The effects can be startling. From wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goose 16 year olds with braces on their teeth, within a year or two they are bossing the place and making allcomers feel welcome, as if it’s their own front room, as if it’s their own business.

The food staff, headed by the star Liz Franklin, constantly come to terms with a kitchen that was never designed to produce anything except an average burger and chips—and now it’s producing an astonishing array: just ask The New York Times, or Good Food Guide, or Michelin Pubs with Food…or our customers.

The front of house manager can’t spell—cheddar becomes chadder, currants become currents—so the blackboards can be confusing…most people know what we’re trying to say. When Helen Browning insists on good grammar and spelling everywhere, it can get lightly fractious.

We hope none of this spills over into our service. It is informal, relaxed, possibly too much so. This is a pub where people can also have often great food. Grown slowly, much from our own farm and our neighbours’ gardens. There are dogs, children, laughter. Mud on the floor, sometimes a bit of straw from farm staff boots. This is a great place when you don’t want any pomp or ceremony, because you won’t get any. Noisy, laugh a minute birthday party for a few good friends, we’re the place. Smart uniformed staff and silver service, try somewhere else. Put your feet on the table if you want, and your dog will only be moved off the sofa if it’s getting in the way.

We’re open for what we think is interesting food, a full menu, every session from Monday night to Sunday lunch. Late Sunday we have a clean up, staff take a rest, the menu is light, short, snacky. But not just ghastly dull sandwiches.

We are a pub, of course. And we pride ourselves on dragging the last ounce of quality from Arkell’s real ales—we have at least three all the time, they’re brewed 6 miles from here. Our wine list is short, about 12 bottles max, all organic, and we only pick stuff that we like to drink ourselves, from time to time. Our soft drinks shun the obvious J2O and appletise, in favour of proper fruit from artisan manufacturers. We are only a short step from banning diet drinks, which we think are utter rubbish and completely disingenuous.

In fact, everything we do mirrors our own taste. It’s the only way we know how to do things. So there are no fruit machines, no darts, no pool, no condom machines, no telly except when there’s a supremely important rugby match and you forced into the snug corner behind the bar; and very few other rules, apart from being genuinely pleased to see you at all times.

You will either love it or hate it, we suspect. You’ll never know unless you try.

We’re also keen to ensure that there’s a lot of stuff for customers to get involved in, if they wish to be part of this Royal Oak community. So far this year we’ve had an artisan bacon tasting (our pigs, village enterprise); slow food whisky tasting (The Balvenie); Eastbrook Farm beef tasting—the big fight, Friesian or Angus, heifer or steer? If I tell you that half a dozen people thought the Friesian fillet reminded them lovingly of  superb chicken liver pate—we have no idea why, or how—you will start to see that a well kept Friesian is more than just a nice dairy cow. Not something you discover very often in pubs.