The Greyhound is not a Russian doll or a tardis, but like them it offers endless surprises.
It is unassuming from the outside, another pretty whitewashed pub in the calm of one of those genteel market towns that form the skeleton of the Home Counties. But inside, though it is cosseting in an old world, wood-beamed way, what appears to be a pub dissolves into a restaurant that Michelin surely must have missed on their jollies this way.
