This article is taken from the October 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
“You might say that entry into Brewer’s Dictionary is the reference equivalent of making it to the Order of the Garter,” declared etymologist Susie Dent on the 2012 edition, which included “Chipping Norton set” amongst its annual gems.
In still more thrilling news for Oxfordshire, that very same year saw the publication of quondam popstar Alex James’s autobiography All Cheeses Great and Small, in which England’s most exclusive rural idyll figured as an “Hieronymus Bosch twatscape”, a phrase I long to have come up with but which must be credited to the great Marina Hyde.
Yet, in a breathtaking twist of fortune, scarcely had Chipping Snorton founder member David Cameron stormed to victory in the 2015 election on the promise of a referendum on Europe than the clique was officially declared socially dead!
It was always nonsense, of course. No-one except journalists ever cared who was invited to kitchen sups with Elisabeth Murdoch and by then people had more than a crack in their Daylesford Organic pheasant’s egg to worry about. The mayor of Chipping Norton spoke presciently for the nation when he commented, “We would prefer to be put on the map for something more positive.”
The Howard Arms in Ilmington is as positive a reason one could imagine to give the Cotswolds a chance. The quintessence of gorgeous pubness, the 16th century building on the village green was revamped in 2017, retaining all the features a purist could demand: log fires, gleaming flagstone floors, a serious range of beers, along with a perfectly pitched menu and eight extremely pretty bedrooms.
Masses of glorious flowers, gently chalk-hued walls and eclectic textiles lend an easy elegance, but nothing is too too — the garden gives on to a playing field saved from development by the owners, the bar area is spacious enough for conviviality rather than grudgingly carved out of the dining rooms.
Food walks the same thoughtful line between classics and Mediterranean inspiration. The Howard’s menu encapsulates everything that’s positive about the way food has evolved in the UK, in that it’s no longer surprising to find ham, egg and chips with piccalilli alongside burrata with roasted peach and pine nuts.
That the kitchen really cares about what it sends out was evident from a dish of sugar snaps with gremolata and sea salt to crunch whilst we ordered.
A perky local take on edamame, they could have been supper alone alongside fat cushions of fresh bread and butter from Holmleigh Farm eleven miles away.
Lamb belly croquettes with anchovies, parsley mayo and parmesan were another clever adaptation, unctuous without being fatty, dense meatiness with a jagged jolt of sea.
White crab muffin with poached egg and hollandaise was so good we had to order a second for quality control purposes, but the Howard’s triumph is the fish and chips. There’s an axiom that one can tell a good chef by their omelettes; fish and chips might be a good substitute for showcasing essential skills.
Fluffy, friable beer batter, springy haddock, chips the right side of chunky and genteelly crushed peas which actually tasted of pea — impeccable.
Onwards to the puddings, where I could have fancied the chocolate crême brulée with shortbread but swerved to the sticky toffee pudding with treacle sauce and honeycomb when the waitress offered to bring clotted cream and ice cream. Again, pretty much peerless.
A gastropub that feels like a proper pub is a tricky combination, but the Howard manages welcoming and unfussy. The menu and interiors are chic enough for a smart lunch or a date, whilst the bar feels like a fine place for a quick one.
Beyond a Bollinger-shaped nod to Chipping Norton, wines are priced for real people, divided between “Easy Drinking”, “Full” and “Classics”, and the staff know the list — a suggested Portuguese Prunus Dão Tinto was gutsy without being overwhelming.
The Howard opens early for coffee, there are Sunday roasts and (I imagine) spectacular breakfasts, plus a cheerful pizza van, open afternoon through evening on weekends, when it’s not trundling off to local festivals.
Which leads us to the big reveal. Not only is the Chipping Norton set not dead, it seems we have misjudged it. JD Vance may have repositioned the Cotswolds on the political map when he chose the hapless hamlet of Dean for his summer holiday, rousing locals to slogans such as “JD Vance’s Netflix password is ‘password’” or “JD Vance claps when the plane lands”, but the real revolution was kicking off in Kingham.
At August’s “Feastival”, held on the farm of Britain’s premier cheese bore, Mr James, the audience was treated to a finale of Britpop Classical, ninety minutes of symphonic Cool Britannia tunes including not one but two Oasis hits. “Full credit to Alex that he has put past disagreements behind him,” gushed one review.
Look, if Alex has the diplomatic skills to overlook the fact that Noel Gallagher once wished AIDS upon him and set “Wonderwall” for strings, what might he not achieve on an international stage? The Garter isn’t good enough. Maybe the key to world peace was lurking behind Sam Cam’s Aga all along.
