Those of you who’ve been unwise enough to keep up with my recent reviews will know I’ve been on a bit of a German bender — bratwurst this, Bauhaus that, and enough Riesling to irrigate the Mosel. But today, back on dear old Blighty’s turf, I found myself luxuriating in something so English it could’ve been wearing Union Jack socks and humming Jerusalem: a Sunday roast in the countryside. And not just any countryside — the warm, sun-dappled folds of Somerset, no less, where the Wheatsheaf in Combe Hay hides like a tipsy hobbit’s dream.
Honestly, this place is so tucked away, it might as well be protected by a spell — or at the very least, a passive-aggressive network of B-roads and farm tracks. I’m not entirely sure anyone knew it existed before satnavs became a thing. But perhaps that’s the charm — the sense of discovering something too good for the masses.
And it is good. Gloriously, smugly good. So good, in fact, I sat outside — outside, in England — to have lunch. That’s how sunny it was. In April! Or May! Or whenever it was — point is, the weather was playing along, and the Wheatsheaf was the perfect stage. It’s built on levels like a well-heeled amphitheatre: parking at the top, then a handsome, honey-coloured building with a terrace, and below that, another terrace leading to lawns that slip down into a green, sunlit valley like butter off a hot knife.
If you’re looking for a pub-restaurant hybrid where you can eat outside without staring at a car park or the bins, this is it. You could honestly spend hours here, drinking in the view and something cold, muttering “God, this is nice” every few minutes like you’ve just discovered beer.
Now, let’s get to the roast — because if there’s one thing in life I take seriously, it’s roast beef. Not children. Not taxes. Not death. Roast beef. And thank God, this one delivered. It was pink, as promised — not the insipid, nailbed-pink of a coward’s roast, but the deep, contented flush of a cow that died knowing it had fulfilled its destiny. Juicy, well-rested, and carved with something bordering on affection.
But — and it’s a polite but — the rest of the plate wasn’t quite up to the beef’s standards. The roast potatoes had that slightly over-university-catering dryness, the gravy was a bit shy (come on, give me a puddle, not a smear), and the cauliflower cheese lacked… well, cheese. More cauliflower suggestion, less cheese reality.
And yet — and yet — it doesn’t matter. Not really. Because you’re in a location that feels like a Richard Curtis film without Hugh Grant stammering all over it. It’s the kind of place you bring your mum, your in-laws, your lover, or even a French person you’re trying to convince that England can do lunch properly.
Would I go back? In a heartbeat. Would I recommend it to someone who wanted the quintessential English countryside dining experience? Without a doubt. The Wheatsheaf isn’t perfect — but on a sunny Sunday, sitting under a blue sky with a pint in hand and a cow’s noble end on your plate, it feels...
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