It is the done thing, sometimes, to characterise the Cotswolds as a Stepford mess of villages bound by furious arguments over walled gardens and flower arranging. But it has its quirks, too: the wonky Bell is one.
The building looks like it’s had a drink, appearing as if it might stumble into the road nearby. Inside, it is tight with small windows and low ceilings, with a hard stone floor and blackboards everywhere. But the food — crikey, is it good. Peter Creed and Tom Noest do buttermilk fried chicken to travel for — Londoners can but dream — one hell of a cheeseburger and beautiful devilled kidneys on toast.
