Quite often I’ll type ‘Cirencester’ into Rightmove to soothe me at night. I know it’ll never happen, but for a fleeting moment, in that second, I’ll take myself and my future wife to the southern Cotswolds, to a little cottage walking distance from the quiet town centre. I’ll change my style to fit in with the locals, shop in Barbour, buy some Hunters and give my evenings to long walks through woodlands instead of mornings to chasing last nights rush. There’ll be a log fire and beams, blankets draped over chequered sofas and floors that creak with every step.

We went recently. Another gorgeous stay navigating the cobbled steps from the car park to the hotel, a room in The Kings Head with beams and a massive bed, gorgeous bathroom, and a bar stocked with local whiskies, beers, and chocolates. Into the bar after dinner for a gin or three, back up to the room for a proper nights sleep in a deep mattress with too many cushions. Down at breakfast for truffled scrambled eggs on toast, a buffet bar that includes an option for mimosas, so naturally three breakfast mimosas, then a morning in a spa in the Roman basement they only found a few years back. I stay in a lot of hotels, some great, some not so great, and some in Elephant & Castle which could have done with a farmers wife for pest control. You can put The Kings Head firmly into the ‘great’ category.

For dinner we strolled around the periphery of the Roman walls, ten minutes out of the town centre to Cattivo. My initial thoughts of “who wants to travel out of town to get pizza” immediately dispelled by the sight of a queue to get in and another for takeaway. The room is large, the big circular tables well spaced with a kitchen taking up a large portion of the room with its giant white domed stone pizza oven. Two front of house, both polite and charming. Two men in the kitchen, one singing. We order wine, a good chianti, full of autumnal fruits and spice.

The pizza is sensational, no two ways around it. At the time of eating I’d say only Poli was better in the UK, but given they’ve closed, it might just be the best sourdough pizza in the UK. The dough is pleasingly sour, puffed-up and charred like a Brit in Benidorm, the tomato sauce vibrant, the mozzarella so fresh I imagine it left a teat the day prior. We had two pizzas; both generous in toppings, one with capers, olives, and anchovies that’s a big salty snap of the sea, another with ‘nduja, roast peppers, caramelised onion, and hot honey. It’s so good I just typed a swear word, deleted it, and decided to type it again. Fucking brilliant. They are £16 each.



The tiramisu is the only thing stopping this getting a ten. It’s a great rendition, made properly with zabaglione and lots of booze, but I eat a better version most weeks at the in-laws. I’m not sure I’ll get to eat a better pizza though, not anytime soon. I swear if this were in a major city there’d be press inches galore to go along with the queues out of the door. There would be countless TikToks of the singing chef and endless reels of attention seekers eating a pizza slice like a guinea pig drinks water. I’m kind of happy they do it quietly, just turning perfect pizza in a small but perfectly formed part of the world.
9/10