How often do you have a truly awful meal? The consensus at RoF Towers is hardly ever. So when we come across an absolute, stinking howler of a restaurant it probably merits being flagged up. Eat your own eyeballs before going to the Feathers at Woodstock.

Sunday lunch kicked off in an empty dining room with a gaudy, feathered carpet (see what they did there?) and a request for a manzanilla sherry. The waitress came back to say that they didn’t have it. In fact they didn’t have any of the dry sherries on their list other than Tio Pepe. Which came in a glass the size of a thumbnail, one of those awful things from which ancient aunts who smelt of cats and lavender used to sip coloured liquers. The waitress said that it was 50mls. At £5:80 a pop. By our maths that's £87 for a bottle that can be picked up at an offie for nine quid. Is there a more extortionate markup anywhere?

The starter was pigeon. Which tasted overpoweringly of fish. Fishy pigeon. Even Heston wouldn't attempt that. It was left in a partially masticated lump on the plate, the small amount of juice which had been inadvertently swallowed inducing waves of nausea for the rest of the afternoon.

Next up was slow cooked belly of lamb. Big, gross, gobs of fat, nothing else. The waitress took it away and replaced it with some thin, grey, miserable slabs of roast beef smothered in what tasted suspiciously like Bisto. She said that as it was a belly it would inevitably have lots of fat. Well, yes, before it’s cooked. The point of slow cooking cheap cuts is that the fat is rendered off over time. If the chef can’t manage it he shouldn’t attempt it. And how can he bugger up roast beef? Even a Harvester can get that right.

A brace of large, sweaty, rain-soaked ramblers came in and sat next to us, gnarled toes poking out of the holes in their sock-clad, stinking feet. To be fair they smelt better than the pigeon.

Cheese was unwisely ordered, and came curled up and sweating like a horse. But that's OK, because it was on a slate with artfully presented crackers and a teaspoon of "pinot noir jelly".



Hmm. Sweaty...

We paid and left. The nice lady behind the desk asked how it was. Truly awful, which was a great shame given how lovely the staff were. She looked appalled. The deputy manager stepped in, and said that while we were entitled to our opinion we were clearly wrong. And thankfully he had a loyal following of loyal regulars who are presumably sufficiently inbred and asbestos-mouthed to eat anything. Although he did admit that the cheese didn't look in the first bloom of youth when shown a photo of it. 

This is the worst sort of throwback to Ye Olde Coaching Inne from the 70s. Get a sandwich at the deli next door.