Melting into the Butcher’s Arms: A proper chef cooking food you can’t wait to devour at a pub that didn’t need Michelin to make it a star. No wonder I’m swooning!
Fires roar, ales foam and a long bar is steadfastly propped. There’s a fug of genuine bonhomie, too, as unfiltered as their excellent cider. But the place has scant interest in dewy-eyed, soft-focus Tourist Board visions of Great British bucolic boozing.