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The Royal Oak, located in the heart of the Romney Marsh, had a fantastic write up in the Saturday Telegraph last weekend. The article, written by Jasper Gerard, featured in the "Weekend - Food and Drink" section. The full article is featured below.

Kent restaurant guide: The Royal Oak in Romney Marsh, Kent

It’s become so rare to receive a letter that isn’t either asking for money (bills) or offering money (credit cards) that I felt the kind of frisson a Victorian rustic must have enjoyed when taking delivery of his first penny post. Many emails are obviously junk, the only variable being the type of junk. Depressingly, I’m now offered chair lifts, conservatories and bedding plants more often than extensions to my intimate anatomy. But emails are universally fascinating compared with most letters, spam mail to be turfed from doormat to dustbin.

So what a delight to receive a charming letter from a reader, Charles Wyatt. It seems an age since journalists received hefty postbags. In former times you learnt to look out for missives in green ink (the senders were often cross, mad or both). These were congratulatory compared with the more robust responses now posted online. My parentage has been questioned so frequently it’s a mystery I wasn’t raised in an orphanage.

Those who still pick up a pen, by contrast, tend to be warmer. “I enjoy your restaurant reviews,” Mr Wyatt began. “And this week you struck a real chord when you suggested chefs should be visiting their fisherman and farmer to check quality and provenance.”
Mr Wyatt farms sheep on that magical, mystical stretch of reclaimed sea, Romney Marsh in Kent, and complained that another chef in the region chose not to source his lamb from the salt marshes. Wyatt contrasted this attitude with a pub “out on the Marsh where you will see how Prince Edward’s brother-in-law does things”. A reference to the appropriately named Royal Oak at Brookland, run by David Rhys-Jones, the brother of Sophie, Countess of Wessex.

I was curious to check out her brother’s place, which boasts Prince Edward as a fan. According to Mr Wyatt, when the prince shoots at nearby Sissinghurst he often dines at the Royal Oak in Kent.

 It’s spooky crossing the Marsh at night. But thawing before the blazing inglenook – over which roasts are turned on a spit on Wednesdays – we soon feel comforted, the striped panelling, old bricks and decorative hops offering warm refuge from the wind. This is a tenanted pub but Rhys-Jones and his wife Zara have made it theirs.
The specials menu is nicely judged, with a handful of dishes, all tempting, all trumpeting local sources. We devour exquisite bread with caraway seeds, courtesy of nearby Bodiam’s Lighthouse Bakery. We rip through Rye scallops with all the plump juiciness of Jennifer Lopez. These are served simply with chilli, garlic, soy sauce and lemon, though the attentive young waiter tells us the chef can wrap them in pancetta with black pudding. My pheasant terrine is the first disappointment. It’s full of crunchy peppercorns but so chilly (frozen?) I abandon it.

Main courses are as redolent of the land, but better. Diana is tempted by lamb’s liver and bacon with bubble and squeak, but can’t resist the pheasant. The risk with this bird is dryness, but four breasts arrive in a thick, rich forestière sauce of caramelised red onions, wild mushrooms, lardons and red wine. The dish is delightfully tender and still just pink. The warming, winter vegetables such as divine dauphinoise potatoes taste home-cooked in the best sense of the term. Particularly soothing is red cabbage braised with nutmeg, ginger, allspice, apple and white wine vinegar.

Following Wyatt’s letter it seemed obligatory to try chargrilled (Marsh) lamb. Sheep here roam freely, munching lush grass and samphire, and this lends my two great chunks of rosemary-infused flesh a sweeter, deeper flavour.

We finish on chocolate brownies (good) and treacle tart (fabulous) and made “to chef’s secret recipe”. The tart is incredibly gooey in the middle and full of lemon zest, which gives a lovely tanginess and prevents the treacle from being sickly sweet.

We are told Rhys-Jones is out shooting at Windsor, but I find clues to his character in the loo. This is decorated with snatches of doggerel, such as: “Gordon Brown is my shepherd, I shall not work/ He leadeth me beside the still factories/ He restoreth the faith in the Conservative Party”.

More amusing is the reprinted licence from 1736 in which the rector consents to the publican “that he may suffer ale to be tippled in his house, but not during divine service”. How would that go down in my village, where a group of men assure wives they are off to evensong, only to worship – nay, suffer – at the public bar?

The Royal Oak is a great little boozer, which despite royal connections declines to stand on ceremony. That it is so uncelebrated is a great shame. It’s Friday night and the inn should be rocking, not propping up a few tired farmers'.

My visit has inspired me to explore still further down Britain’s narrowest lanes. If you have a suggestion please tweet me (twitter.com/jaspergerard). Or, if you want to be innovative, you could write a letter.

The Royal Oak, Brookland, Romney Marsh, Kent (01797 344215) www.royaloakbrookland.co.uk)

You can find the full article on the Telegraph website: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/restaurants/7165688/Kent-restaurant-guide-The-Royal-Oak-in-Romney-Marsh-Kent.html