Pints, Plates, and Pubs (Part 1)

As a chef, the journey never truly ends. Each plate teaches me something new, every kitchen offers another lesson, and the wider world is a larder of flavours waiting to be uncovered. To grow, I’ve learned I must step beyond my own stove—taste new cuisines, lose myself in unfamiliar towns, and sit at the tables where culture and cooking meet.

At long last, the chance came to roam Europe. For me, one notion rose above all others: to throw myself headlong into the great British pub culture. As a pub chef by trade, the very thought of stepping through those weathered doors, pint in hand, felt like coming home to a place I’d never yet been. I was eager to taste the differences, to weigh the humble heart of the English pub against the boisterous spirit of our Australian watering holes.

"With gusto & glee, i've set off to see,

The delights of the this world, still foreign to me.

To a land off a far, Where the Romans once trenched,

In search of a pint, a plate & a bed.

I'll taste what i can, all this place has to offer.

I'll do the hard yards, so my fellow poets may prosper."

  - RR

So, I did what any devoted wanderer of food and ale might do—I buried myself in research, sketching out itineraries, filling notebooks, and whittling down an ever-growing list of must-visits. Of course, food led the way: Tom Kerridge’s Hand & Flowers, gleaming with its two Michelin stars, stood proudly at the top. Yet history tugged at me too, and so The Porch House, England’s oldest recorded pub, beckoned me from the Cotswolds. The list was becoming less of a plan and more of a pilgrimage.

Bags packed, itinerary tucked safe, I boarded my very first flight to London. This wasn’t just a trip—it was a calling, a chance to raise a glass in the shadow of centuries.

Travelling solo was its own curious companion. I’m no stranger to adventure, but usually my journeys are shared with my partner—this time she was on her own grand path, and we’d meet later for an Italian rendezvous. For now, it was just me, a suitcase, and the open road of pubs, pints, and stories yet to be poured. Apprehensive, yet excited, i boarded my first flight, took my seat, and buckled in, ready for the adventure.

"With maps in hand and pints in sight, I plot my course from morn to night.

Through cobbled lanes where stories flow, the village inn’s warm fireside glow.

A plate of pie, some cheddar sharp, the fiddle hums, a laughing harp.

Across the fields, where hedgerows bend, my pub-bound quest may never end."

~RR

After thirty-odd hours in the air, with a bounce and a screech, my plane kissed the tarmac at the iconic Heathrow Airport. To my surprise, London greeted me with pleasant weather—though locals called it a heat wave, it felt much like a mild Australian winter’s day. With keys to a hire car in hand, I slipped free of the city’s sprawl and steered towards High Wycombe, my first stop on this adventure, it was finally time to go off in search of Pints, Plates and Pubs.

There's a lot of similarities between driving in the UK and driving in Australia, but there is also some glaringly different takes. To this day, i will not understand why most big UK round-abouts have lights on all entry points. Why is that a thing? Anyways, after navigating my way around, i finally arrived at my hotel.

A gentle stroll through town soon led me to the Mad Squirrel, where a hot pizza and a frosty pint provided the perfect welcome to England. Satiated and content, I tucked in for the night—ready to rest, recharge, and rise for the pub pilgrimage that lay ahead.

In To The Country Side

When sketching out this holiday, I quickly realised that to truly taste what I had in mind, I’d need to escape the bustle of London and head further afield. I needed to venture in to the country side. High Wycombe became my base camp—perfectly placed for easy forays into the Cotswolds and nearby gems like Oxford, Maidenhead, and Marlow. But first on my list was a detour to a town small in size yet mighty in reputation: Bray.

Bray is the kind of village you might miss if you blink—one road in, one road out, quiet and unassuming. Yet for food lovers, it’s hallowed ground. Once crowned “Most Beautiful Town in the UK”, Bray is also home to one of the most iconic culinary institutions in the world: Heston Blumenthal’s The Fat Duck. This three-Michelin-starred temple of molecular gastronomy has been redefining the dining experience for over two decades.

This, however, was just a prologue. Today wasn’t about diving into Heston’s multi-sensory wizardry—that indulgence was still to come. Today was simply a stolen glimpse of The Fat Duck, paired with a wander past its equally historic sibling, The Hind’s Head—a one-Michelin-starred gastropub where centuries of English tradition meet a chef’s playful imagination.

Driving through the English countryside was everything I had pictured and more. The roads wound tight and narrow, little more than a single ribbon of tarmac, with the odd gravelled pull-off where locals would politely tuck in so another car—or a lumbering tractor—could squeeze by. Potholes jolted the tyres, hedgerows brushed the mirrors, and the landscape rolled on with a quiet charm that felt timeless.

What struck me most was how untouched it all seemed. The countryside still looked like the countryside—unfussy, weathered, and real. It wasn’t polished or primped, but lived-in, as though the fields and lanes themselves had been carrying on this way for centuries, unconcerned with the modern world rushing somewhere far beyond.

A First Taste of Marlow: The Hand & Flowers

My first true stop on this culinary adventure was none other than The Hand & Flowers, the famed pub of celebrity chef Tom Kerridge, lovingly run alongside his wife, Beth. This isn’t just any village watering hole—it’s the only pub in the world to hold two Michelin stars, a destination that’s equal parts warm English charm and fine-dining theatre.

The setting couldn’t be more idyllic. Nestled in the postcard-worthy village of Marlow, The Hand & Flowers feels like it belongs to another time. Marlow itself struck me with a sense of familiarity, reminding me of Katoomba in Australia’s Blue Mountains—that same blend of quaint charm and quiet confidence, where the streets hum with both history and hospitality.

I wandered along the main road, lined with boutique shops and artisan storefronts, each one tempting passersby with unique treasures. Cafés spilled out onto the pavement, their tables dotted with locals and visitors basking in the afternoon sun. The air buzzed with the easy chatter of people savoring the kind of day that makes you grateful just to be in England.

And there it was—waiting patiently at the heart of it all—the pub that redefined what a pub could be.