The queue starts just before the roundabout and crawls on for a good few hundred metres, snaking down a small country road. But the official car park is rammed, so a nice man in a hi-vis jacket redirects us elsewhere, and off we go again, slowly inching our way through the surging crowds, streaming past us from every direction.
The whole thing feels like a prelude to a music festival. But this isn’t ÂGlastonbury. This is The Farmer’s Dog, Jeremy Clarkson’s new Cotswold adventure. As my girlfriend points out: ‘This is not a pub. It’s a phenomenon.’
Jeremy Clarkson is an unlikely food hero. Once famed for his crash-bang-wallop school of Top Gear Âtomfoolery, he’s now perhaps best known as a farmer.
Jeremy Clarkson with Tom Parker Bowles. Once famed for his crash-bang-wallop school of Top Gear Âtomfoolery, he’s now perhaps best known as a farmer ,he writes
‘We really had no idea that the show [Clarkson’s Farm] would be as big,’ says his girlfriend, Lisa Hogan, who is also the culinary and creative force behind Diddly Squat Farm shop, a few miles down the road. ‘We thought it would slip out to an audience of one.’
How wrong they were. The first series burst on to our screens like a bull through barbed wire. In the UK alone, nearly eight million people watched the first series. More recently, the third series was streamed by an astonishing 5.1 million households in a mere week.
What makes the programme so compelling is not just Clarkson, Lisa, his right-hand man Kaleb Cooper and the rest of the gang, but its often heartbreaking exposure of farming’s harsh realities, endlessly fighting red tape, bureaucracy and half-baked rules and regulations. All this, for a pittance of a profit. Clarkson’s Farm has done more for British farming in three years than Countryfile has done in nearly 40.
Everything served at the pub, in Asthall, Oxfordshire, is grown or reared by ÂBritish farmers. Some of the meat comes from Diddly Squat, the rest from other local Âfarmers
Anyway, back to The ÂFarmer’s Dog. And having waded through the masses, all waiting patiently for a table (bookings are for dinner only), we’re sitting on the new wooden terrace, gazing out over a view so splendidly bucolic that if you didn’t know better, could have been mocked up for TV.
‘We looked at 40 places before we found this one,’ says Lisa. ‘The pub wasn’t actually for sale, but one of the cameramen on the show came in, and found out it wasn’t doing that well.’
Everything served at the pub, in Asthall, Oxfordshire, is grown or reared by ÂBritish farmers. Some of the meat comes from Diddly Squat, the rest from other local Âfarmers. There are no avocados, Coca-Cola, coffee or ketchup, the wine is all British, as is the tea.
‘It doesn’t make things easy for the kitchen,’ admits Lisa. Across the way is Hops And Chops, a vast butcher, and the Hawkstone bottle shop (for Clarkson’s beer brand), as well as the Diddly Squat farm shop, all housed in the old green Grand Tour tent.
At this point, I have to admit that my views aren’t entirely objective. Clarkson and Lisa are friends. But even the most Ârabidly Left-wing, cycling-mad caravan owner would have to admit ÂClarkson is doing great things for British farming.
The pub only opened a month back, and it’s not like Clarkson and Lisa are seasoned restaurateurs. But the menu is pure pub grub
Though, to be honest, I wasn’t expecting gastronomic greatness. The pub only opened a month back, and it’s not like Clarkson and Lisa are seasoned restaurateurs. But the menu is pure pub grub.
And we’re just settling into our first pint of beer when the Âatmosphere suddenly changes. What starts as a whisper turns into a full-blown babble, and all eyes turn in one direction. ÂJeremy Clarkson has arrived.
I’ve seen the effect some famous people have on a room. But this is something else. It’s like the second coming of Christ. Phones are raised in worship, and there’s even a smattering of applause.
Clarkson smiles, shakes a few hands and sits down with us.
‘I saw that view and that was it,’ he says. ‘This place is Âcosting us a fortune. God knows if we’ll ever make our money back.’ He shrugs. ‘We were going to call it The Dog Inn, in honour of the place once being a famous dogging site,’ he grins. ‘But perhaps that was a little close to the bone.’
There’s proper shepherd’s pie, filled with lamb that has lived long enough to know a thing or two about flavour
As we talk, people edge closer until one finally sums up the courage to crouch down and talk. People come from all over the world – South Korea, China, ÂCanada, Hull – every creed, Âcolour, age and shape. They tell him how the programme got them through dark days of failed crops, bankruptcy, divorce, Âtragedy and heartbreak. Most of all, they want to thank him. ÂClarkson as therapist is something I’d never thought I’d see.
Smoked ham hock terrine arrives, pink, soft and smoky, with incredible sourdough toast, made by Sourdough Revolution, a local baker. More toast comes piled with buttery, garlicky mushrooms, fresh from Diddly Squat, topped with a poached egg.
There’s proper shepherd’s pie, filled with lamb that has lived long enough to know a thing or two about flavour. And Lisa’s plump, juicy, herb-flecked Âsausages with mash. Best of all is an impeccable steak pie, the Âfilling soft and rich, the pastry beautifully burnished.
For pudding, a wodge of treacle sponge with good custard. And a deeply impressive cheesecake. The food is as solid and straightforward as Clarkson himself, pub grub done very well indeed.
‘If you’re going to back British farming,’ he says between bites, ‘you have to back British Âproduce. The meat here all comes from within 25 miles, the Âvegetables too. The pepper comes from Cornwall. We could get it for £10 from Sri Lanka. Ours is £100 from Cornwall.’
Sometimes, I feel like I’m in a bonkers Cotswold theme park, Clarkson World, complete with gift shop selling Diddly Squat T-shirts, caps, key rings and chopping boards. And it would be easy to be cynical. But their support of British farming is genuine, and life-changing.
Take the milk which comes from Emma Ledbury’s North Cotswold Dairy Farm. ‘After TB, her whole herd had been wiped out,’ says Lisa, ‘and she was on her knees.’ Her milk is now used at Diddly Squat to make milkshakes and there’s a machine, near the entrance, where you can buy it by the pint. ‘All the money goes to her. We just Âprovide bottles. She’s now back on her feet.’
The overflow car park is in a field owned by a local farmer. He charges £2 per car, and keeps it all. ‘Far more profitable than maize,’ laughs Clarkson.
As we walk towards Hops And Chops, the adoring crowds parting for Jeremy ‘Moses’ Clarkson, he admits that ‘most of the Âpeople here don’t know anything about my car thing. They’re here because of Clarkson’s Farm.’
‘Right, I’m off,’ he says, as the crowds swell around him. There’s a harvest to finish, and that Âbarley won’t cut itself.
