When I was shooting last — poshos and rich chefs invite me to dance occasionally — I commented to one jolly Army officer that my favourite peg (where you stand to shoot the birds) was the one adjacent to the old farmhouse and cottage, to which he replied, “Ah yes, is that because it reminds you of an urban setting, plenty of guns there too?” I laughed again when I thought about it at the Hawthorn, another meeting of countryside and town.
The pub is the work of Peter Creed and Tom Noest, whose portfolio of Cotswoldian pubs in the rolling fields west of London have long been fostering acclaim. There are six now, including the Bell at Langford, and the Hawthorn is the group’s first London endeavour. It feels that way too — a bucolic, rural import placed neatly into Shepherd’s Bush, bringing mustard walls the colour of trousers, bouncing chatter and real ales.
