Heavenly jockeys, splitting trousers and plenty of Pinot Grigio – Imogen Lycett Green enjoys a breathless lunch in the Cotswolds with Jilly Cooper Two hours earlier she had rushed, panting, into the Crown Inn in Frampton Mansell. ‘I am SO SORRY I am late!’ she said, falling into the fire-smoky bar wearing leggings, knee-length brown
We move through silent streets walled by shuttered houses and closed stores. I know that the French leave en masse in August, but in Cognac the ritual seems also to extend to wintertime. Even the landscape seems somnambulant. Skeletal vines whose cordons point crabbed fingers towards where the sun should be line the roadsides. Yet
Bernard Hine has impeccable manners. However, as we meet for an apéritif at Hine House, he is a little disgruntled. The source of his unhappiness is a stomach upset which means he is unable to indulge in the foie gras and the 1953 Vintage port, among other treats. A lesser man would have made his
Last year, in a nod towards austerity, I gave up my membership to Milk and Honey, a cocktail club in Soho. I rationalised that as a non-member, I could still book a dimly lit, silver-toned booth downstairs to enjoy their delicious Penicillin — a reviving concoction of peaty whisky, honey, ginger and lemon — at
