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In Cartmel, a picture-postcard Cumbrian village on the cusp of the Lake District, chefs in their whites are scurrying across the cobbled streets like an army of well-dressed worker ants. Some are heaving wheelbarrows stacked with mounds of freshly picked vegetables, still earthy from the farm; others are dashing from one building to another, precariously balancing enormous stacks of clean pans. They all have one thing in common: they work for Simon Rogan. If they’re the workers, he’s the queen. This well-rehearsed choreography is a typical sight every morning in Cartmel, where the Michelin-starred chef – one of only eight to own a three-starred restaurant in the UK – set up shop 20 years ago. After a decade of working at various levels in restaurants around the country (including a placement under Marco Pierre White and two years at the three-star Lucas Carton in Paris), Rogan was keen to open his own restaurant. Priced out of Hampshire and Sussex, he looked further afield and found a rundown 800-year-old former smithy in Cartmel available to rent. “I didn’t come here for anything as glamorous as the area or the scenery or the people,” he tells me, having just taken me on a tour of said area to meet said people. “It was just for this building. I was desperate for my own restaurant. I felt like I had never really achieved the things that I’d wanted to working for other people. I wanted to make my own mistakes and be in control of our own destiny. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true.” He made an offer on his way back from his first visit to the area, and L’Enclume was born. “Once you realise where you are, you think: s***, this is beautiful,” he adds, laughing. Over the next two decades, the ambitious chef transformed the Cumbrian village into a culinary destination unlike anywhere else in the UK. It’s now home to not only L’Enclume – awarded the environmental green star in 2021 and the coveted third star in last year’s Michelin Guide – but also the one-starred neighbourhood eatery Rogan & Co, and Aulis, L’Enclume’s six-seater chef’s table behind the main restaurant. He also put his name to Henrock, a more informal and relaxed offering just a half hour’s drive away at Linthwaite House, overlooking Lake Windermere. The engine behind this mini empire, and the reason I’m here, is Our Farm, a 12-acre plot in Cartmel that supplies the majority of the restaurants’ ingredients. A sustainable, closed-loop growing operation had always been “at the back of his mind”, Rogan says. He was inspired by his father, a fruit and vegetable salesman who would bring home a box of the day’s best produce, teaching him the importance of using every part of the ingredient. When they arrived in Cartmel to get started, though, “the standard of produce”, Rogan says “was absolutely rubbish. The reason we got into farming was my frustration at the ability to buy a perfect radish, which is the easiest thing in the world to grow.” They rented a small plot close to the restaurant, and filled in the gaps with local suppliers. But, back in 2002, it was too expensive to buy organic. “Things were triple the price they are now,” Rogan tells me, taking a sip of his beetroot juice at the Aulis counter. “So we bought little bits and pieces here and there alongside the normal suppliers. Then we had the opportunity to take over the farm. That’s when we thought: ‘Right, let’s start growing radishes.’” What started as a little garden has become something bigger than he could ever have anticipated. A restaurant growing its own produce is not a groundbreaking concept, but a kitchen garden this is not. You won’t find pristine beds and trimmed rose bushes and arty ornaments. But you will find a patchwork of muddy fields growing hardy vegetables, the topsoil painstakingly “fluffed” by hand; a regiment of polytunnels housing the more finicky plants, delicate micro herbs and other culinary experiments (I try something that tastes like pickled onion Monster Munch); and enormous hand-rotated compost bins that process all the food waste from the restaurants into mulch for the farm. All this is surrounded by hedgerows that have been carefully curated to attract birds and other wildlife to act as natural pesticides. None of this would be possible without head farmer John Rowland. Regenerative agriculture might be his trade, but birds are his true passion. During a tour of the farm, he lists off the species he’s seen circling overhead, drawn by the blackthorn, hawthorn, rowan and birch trees he’s been planting on the borders. “We cater for the birds more than the people,” he tells me, in a Welsh accent so bucolic I wonder whether he’s been shipped in specifically for the tour. “Everything on the farm has a use, and not only in a culinary way. The seeds and the berries attract the birds onto the farm. The birds are my pest control, so the more I can attract to the farm, the more pest control I have, and that is fantastic for birdlife. In Britain, we’ve lost 84 per cent of our bird species, but this area is really rich because of these techniques.” While he might prefer looking upwards, it’s what’s beneath our feet that Rowland is really focused on. “The life is in the soil,” he says, grabbing a great fistful of the stuff. “You have hundreds of types of fungus right here. We don’t want to disturb that biome in the ground so rather than rotavating the soil [breaking up the earth with a machine ready for planting] and destroying the millions of organisms that live in it, we build a six-inch layer of compost on top and aerate it with a fork. Once you’ve done that, each year you just top it off with an inch, and that’s regenerative farming,” he says matter-of-factly, clapping the dirt from his hands. Well, that’s the gist anyway, and while it’s perhaps a little more complicated than that, Rowland struggles to understand why more people aren’t farming in this way. “We’re the most nature-depleted country in the world. We’ve lost our wildflower meadows, we’ve lost our insect population, we’ve lost our wild songbird population. They’ve taken the hedgerows away to make the fields bigger. All the natural food in our countryside is being lost to intensive farming.” Regenerative techniques like those Rowland is putting into practice on Our Farm would go some way to reclaiming it, he says, but “it’s a shame that they don’t realise that”. He pauses for a moment, then corrects himself: “Well, it’s not that they don’t realise it. They know. It’s just that they want intensive farming because it makes them money and it’s wrong because we are killing everything.” How this translates to the table at L’Enclume is manifold. Every dish on the menu begins life on the farm, where Rowland will flag what’s in season and at its best, or suggest something new he’s been experimenting with. Or it might start as an ingredient foraged from the countryside or sourced from a local supplier. The idea is then tweaked in the development kitchen at Aulis, before it finally makes its way to the pass at L’Enclume. This results in a transient snapshot of Cumbrian cuisine that changes every time you dine, and a menu quite unlike anything else I’ve come across. When I visit in February, Boltardy beetroot – a variety chosen for its resistance to erratic weather – shines in a bitesize tart with smoked pike-perch fished locally, and perilla, a Southeast Asian herb cultivated on the farm that adds notes of mint and licorice. Elsewhere, there’s lovage and rose hip and lemon thyme, all foraged; there’s Cornish cod and Mylor prawns and potted shrimp and Maldon oysters; sweetcorn and champagne rhubarb from the farm that were fermented after they were harvested last summer so they could be used year-round; and an enormous selection of British cheeses, including Tunworth, which is frozen and crumbled in a palate-perplexing, salty-sweet dessert. It happens to be my favourite dish. Managing a farm-to-fork operation this complex, not to mention the empire, is no mean feat. “I could pretty confidently be a tax exile given how little I am in the UK at the moment,” he jokes. When we chatted in February, the team was preparing to revive their pre-Covid plan for a five-week residency in Sydney, which concluded this month. The punchline, of course, is the delay meant Aussies were given a taste of not a two-star L’Enclume, but all four stars. Given Australia is yet to receive a Michelin Guide and is not particularly well known for its agricultural sustainability, it was an interesting move, but one there is clearly appetite for. Despite the $420-a-head price tag, it was sold out, serving more than 4,000 diners. While the food at L’Enclume, at home and abroad, is clearly special, it’s the people that set it apart from other restaurants in this league. Their hospitality, affability and, perhaps most noticeably, northern accents, are not typically what you find at this price bracket (£250 a head for the tasting menu, plus £100-£290 for a pairing). Stuffiness is neither present nor tolerated. Many of the staff have been with Rogan since the beginning, switched between the restaurants, or left for pastures new only to return. “We get a lot of people coming back – only the ones we want, anyway,” he says slyly. There’s certainly been a few famous quarrels. The “Rogan alumni” is a term thrown around a lot during my visit, and includes Mark Birchall, who was executive chef at L’Enclume during its two-star era before setting up a curiously similar “restaurant with rooms”, Moor Hall, in Lancashire, which also boasts two stars and a further green. Then there’s Dan Cox, who cut his teeth at Rogan’s now-closed Fera in Claridges as well as L’Enclume, and helped him set up Our Farm in the early days. He’s now down in Cornwall, running the farm-to-table Crocadon. But, generally, people are drawn back to L’Enclume for the variety it has to offer. “Look around the country,” says Rogan, “and [other restaurants] haven’t got any staff because they can’t offer as many career progression opportunities for people. I suppose that makes them lucky. “It’s about not spreading yourself too thin. We’re only able to do these things because these guys are really, really hungry.” Acknowledging that hunger, he established the Simon Rogan Academy in 2021 to “nurture aspiring chefs”. It includes paid work across the Cartmel restaurants, and culminates in a week-long placement at his restaurant Roganic in Hong Kong. In the beginning, “we thought that maybe if we had just a third of them left at the end of the quarter, it’d be brilliant,” Rogan tells me. “But almost all of them stayed on! And now they all want jobs” – he comically rolls his eyes – “but really it’s great.” As I drift between the farm and the Cartmel restaurants, everyone hard at work but always smiling, it strikes me that L’Enclume isn’t just a restaurant; it’s a story. And its influence is immense. “Sustainability”, “farm-to-table” and “regenerative agriculture” were mere whisperings 20 years ago. Now they’re affixed to almost every new menu, and you could say they were born here. The people I’ve met could well be the next batch of Rogan alumni, attracting Michelin’s attention with their own restaurants in years to come. If it takes 20 years to craft a legacy like this, then I’ll make sure I come back in 2043. For more information about L’Enclume, visit www.lenclume.co.uk and for more information about Simon Rogan and his other restaurants visit www.simonrogan.co.uk Read More Why I won’t be doing Veganuary this year – or ever again Marina O’Loughlin is wrong – there’s joy in solo dining Michel Roux Jr announces closure of renowned restaurant Le Gavroche to have ‘better work/life balance’ The true story – and murky history – of Portuguese piri piri oil 30-minute summer recipes for all the family to enjoy What to cook this week: Tomato tart, sweetcorn pasta and other summery suppers

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Finding a decent pint of Guinness in London can all too often be a disappointing quest, from sour or bitter to poorly poured pints in plastic cups with bubbly heads. Some even say London is where Guinness goes to die. For those who feel they should at least enjoy drinking the pint they’ve paid ludicrous prices for, here’s a small, non-exhaustive and open-ended list of London pubs where you’re more or less guaranteed a scrumptious pint of what my friends and I call Guinny Jones. I’d like to add a disclaimer that I’m not an expert – though I am a quarter Irish and have taken the Guinness factory tour in Dublin – I just really, really like a good pint. So, I spoke to Ian Ryan, who runs an Instagram account dedicated to the capital’s crimes against the black stuff (@shitlondonguinness) and though he isn’t exactly short on blasphemous submissions, he’s also got a lot of insight into what makes a good pint and where to find it. Plus, Ian has a book coming out in October, A Beautiful Pint: One man’s search for the perfect pint of Guinness - he cares about the cause. Before we get to the pubs, here’s what we’re looking for in a pint. Texture: it should have a texture that withstands the “tilt test”, if you tip your glass slightly to the side and the head starts dripping down the side, it’s too watery. It should rise just above the edge of the glass in an oh-so-satisfying manner. Taste: Guinness has a malty sweetness and bitter hoppines, but it shouldn’t be too bitter, nor should it be sour. It should be rich and creamy, with slight aromas of coffee. If it tastes metallic, run for the hills. Head: a good pint of Guinness needs that signature creamy head. Ideally, it’ll be domed and around three-quarters of an inch. This is essential for balance and flavour. Also, if the head is littered with bubbles, it means it hasn’t been properly aerated and will almost definitely taste bad. Pour: according to Guinness Storehouse it should, of course, be in a Guinness or milk stout glass – it’s just wrong drinking out of a Stella or Beavertown. It should then be poured at a 45-degree angle up to the harp and then left to settle for at least a minute, but up to two if possible. It’s finished by topping up with the glass held straight. Red flags: according to Ryan, any sort of bubbles in the head are a big no-no. “Also, if you walk into a pub and no one is drinking Guinness, it could be a sign of bad things to come…” The Auld Shillelagh, 105 Stoke Newington Church Street, London, N16 0UD This Irish pub is most die-hard Guinness fan’s favourite London establishment, Ryan included. It looks tiny and unassuming from the outside but its narrow interior stretches far back into a surprisingly spacious garden. They have live music, great craic and, of course, perfect pints of Guinness. The best thing about the Shillay is that it doesn’t try too hard, which means it ends up absolutely nailing the pub formula. The Irish Times even named it the “most authentic Irish pub in the world outside Ireland”. If that doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will. The Globe, 20 Morning Lane, London, E9 6NA A pub where you can enjoy Spoons prices without Spoons guilt, The Globe is a local’s pub through and through, but they’re also incredibly welcoming to newcomers. They’ve got live sports, pool, darts, karaoke, live music and pints of Guinness that pass the test at around the £4 mark, for zone 2, that’s practically unheard of. The Coach and Horses, 42 Wellington Street, London, WC2E 7BD Not far from Covent Garden piazza, The Coach and Horses is just far enough off the beaten track to not be inundated as most pubs in central are. This one-room Irish pub was once voted as the best Guinness in Britain by The Irish Post, plus they also sell hot roast beef sandwiches. Gibney’s London, 70 City Road, London, EC1Y 2BJ Staying open until 2am on a Friday, Gibney’s is an Irish pub based in the heart of Shoreditch. Upstairs they have “inventive small plates, Irish meats cooked over the open flame, fresh seafood and more from chef Richard Corrigan”, while downstairs they have Shit London Guinness-approved pints. The Cock Tavern, 23 Phoenix Road, London, NW1 1HB An unpretentious pub that prides itself on not being trendy, The Cock Tavern is a delight for both locals and tourists due to its proximity to Euston. Described by one reviewer as an “oasis of humour, personality and character” in the big city and endorsed by SLG, this rough-and-ready establishment knows how to pour a pint and provide good times. The Sheephaven Bay, 2 Mornington Street, London, NW1 7QD An “Irish bar with a conservatory, beer garden and no less than seven plasma screens for showing sports”, The Sheephaven Bay is easily the best Guinness in Camden. Lively atmosphere and friendly staff, what’s not to like? The Kenton Pub, 38 Kenton Road, London, E9 5BA Most of the pubs listed have unsurprisingly been of the Irish variety, so to throw a curve ball into the mix is the Kenton, a Norwegian pub in Hackney. There’s loads of cosy nooks and crannies, occasional DJs on a Saturday and the fantastic staff all pride themselves on pouring a proper pint. I asked general manager Morgan Ryan about what the secret to serving great Guinness is: “There’s not really a trick to it if you’ve ever poured a pint. Don’t buy old kegs, don’t store them badly and don’t have dirty ass lines.” Read More Marina O’Loughlin is wrong – there’s joy in solo dining Budget Bites: Three recipes to keep food bills down before pay day Meal plan: Romesco chicken and other recipes to fall in love with The chef who hated food as a child Who knew a simple flan could be so well-travelled? Midweek comfort food: Singaporean curry sauce and rice

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