The Pig and The Pony

Words & Photographs by Emma Latham Phillips

To come out of a lockdown is to emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis; your movement is tentative. What was once normal feels entirely abnormal, so the best thing to do is to start the transition back to regular life slowly. For us, this means remaining as a family, staying warm beside the fire, cooking together, and enjoying walks in solitude; the only difference was that we were doing these activities in the New Forest.

The four of us were staying at Riverside Lodge – a bungalow that appeared to gently levitate above the large pond on which it stands. The illuminated windows cast ribbons of light into the black water, and in the field below the River Avon flows flat and fast.

Not many visitors appreciate the uniqueness of the New Forest, and many are surprised to find that it’s not really a forest at all. In 1079, William the Conqueror took ownership of the area, claiming it as his hunting ground. The rights of the common people were eventually restored in 1217 and these still exist.

Today the commoners have the right to turn ponies, cattle, pigs, donkeys and sheep out onto the unenclosed land of the New Forest to graze and browse. You might spot a pony on the road, a donkey on a village green or a pig blocking your hiking route.

The enclosure movement from 1750–1860 saw communal fields, pastures and arable land divided up like a jigsaw and handed over to larger farms. Once enclosed, the land became restricted and available only to the owner, not the community. The loss of common grazing elsewhere has led to the New Forest becoming an incredibly unusual place. These farmyard animals are able to browse woodland, heathland and wetland and not simply grass like we see everywhere else. The result is the preservation of a landscape of open heath, mire and natural woodland that would have once been widespread across Southern England.

The New Forest juxtaposes the wild and the tame, from the picturesque village greens to the ragged heathland, and in the sleet, rain and wind, the surroundings feel particularly unrestrained. With a homemade mince pie in my pocket and woollen gloves keeping my fingers from freezing, we begin the walk from Fritham to the Sloden Inclosure. These enclosures are fenced, set up in 1483 to protect young trees from grazing deer. Here the trees are mainly conifers. The dark green of the spruce needles appear dark against a low-lying blanket of rust-red bracken, and I can see hedgehog mushrooms sprouting up from the mud. We make our way onto Hampton Ridge and the rain picks up. The sun casts its rays through the dark clouds, straight and sharp onto the heather and gorse. The leaves of the oak trees we pass shine a brilliant amber orange, fiery spectres in front of a gloomy sky. As we head back into the more open mixed woodland, the downpour subsides and a double rainbow links the trees together.

Sodden and cold we return to Riverside Lodge for my mum’s homemade stew. I carefully pick out tender slices of sausage from the tomato sauce. We eat beside the wood-burning stove, moving from the dining table to the sofa, where we stretch out and play cards, our dog taking it in turns to lie on our feet.

The unique nature of the New Forest makes it a wonderful place for food, so we weren’t only going to eat in. It’s here that The Pig Hotel found its footing. We visit for dinner and breakfast, gathering around the table on characterfully mismatched chairs, beside sweet-smelling pots of mint and rosemary. The Pig breaths fresh air into the stuffy country-side-hotel-model, waving goodbye to the stiff-upper-lip and game of manners. In the bar, you’ll find London escapees craving long walks and vegetables just pulled from the earth.

Group Chef Director, James Golding, has been at the helm of The Pig since it opened. He grew up in Hampshire and his desire to showcase local producers resulted in the 25-mile-menu. 80 percent of fresh ingredients are sourced within 25-miles or from the market garden: “the market garden is what drives our menu”, he explains. “Our chefs go there every week and the head kitchen gardener tells them what’s ready to be harvested; this means our dishes change weekly depending on what’s ready”.

I was shown around the site by Jim; who grew up on a farm 20 minutes away. Brassicas fill the plot with a splash of winter colour. Kales, regal in their purple hue, billow in waves like scrunched up saffron silk. I pick and pluck, trying scorpion rocket, garlic chive, lemon-chive and filly mustard leaves. “Having a market garden teaches the chefs about seasonality. You see the plant grow and you respect the amount of work that’s gone into nurturing it”, explains James. “As a result, you find there’s much less food waste”.

For dinner, we start with a trio of ‘bits’ – saddleback crackling, oyster mushroom vol au vents and chalk stream trout pate on toast. I devour Abbotts Anne venison with crushed neeps and red wine sauce. For breakfast, I can’t resist James Golding’s very own smoked salmon, smoked using New Forest oak. “We set up a smokehouse on the grounds”, he explains. “And I found a local sawmill who were happy to barter. I swap my smoked salmon for their sawdust, curing it with sea salt, lemon zest, black pepper and honey.”

You can’t think about The Pig without talking about its namesake. The pig is at the heart of New Forest culture and every Autumn is pannage season. From September to late December, pigs forage through the leaf litter on the forest floor to devour the acorns, beech mast, chestnuts and other nuts that are poisonous to ponies and cattle. The New Forest is one of the only places left in the UK that still practices pannage and it’s a true example of how nature helps nature. The loss of ancient farming practices to industrial methods is a sad fact of modern life, and in our fields today we’ve pushed these practices and nature out. 

“When you meet the locals and hear how their grandfathers and great-grandfathers did the same thing, you understand that it’s a way of life”, James tells me. “Something that’s produced on your doorstep with love is far better than something that has been sat in a plane flying across the world. If you support your local producers, you support your local community.”

With the buzz of a busy dining room still reverberating around my head and a fresh fruit and veg box on my lap, we return to Riverside Lodge. I sit on the slim decking outside the bedroom that overlooks the pond, enjoying a cup of tea and a book. The sun is finally shining on the wooden exterior and the shadows of branches lace an intricate pattern. The wood-smoke coming out from the chimney smells of winter.

The Montagu Arms

Words by Sarah Jappy, Illustrations by Piera Cirefice & Photographs by Liz Schaffer

“DONKEYS!” My companion emits an ear-piercing shriek of excitement and bashes her hand violently against our bedroom window. It’s a testament to The Montagu Arms’ durable windows that ours resists this assault, somehow emerging unscathed and unshattered.

I’m by no means playing it cool either. Together we press our faces to the glass and peer down in delighted wonderment at the dozen or so donkeys languidly pottering past the tea shop opposite. The locals we spy at their tables, midway through mouthfuls of buttered crumpet, carrot cake and brie-and-cranberry sandwiches, are not at all perturbed by this equine procession; clearly living in Brockenhurst makes one somewhat blasé when it comes to streetside animal encounters.

As exports from London and Sydney respectively, we in no way approach blasé. Had those donkeys decided to pootle into our handsome hideaway, past the guardianship of the Montagu’s two stately stone dogs and Andrew, the highly likeable hotel manager, we would have welcomed them with open arms. The Montagu Arms has more than enough room to go round; perhaps we could have joined the donkeys for convivial afternoon tea on one of the library’s squashy sofas, or for cocktails and nibbles in the cosy conservatory. We probably wouldn’t have invited them up to our room: a snug ivory-and-honey-hued haven with whitewashed furniture, toucan-and-leaf-print curtains, a tempting bed with a blue-patterned headboard and a glittering white-tiled bathroom with a generous rain shower and a big bath tub.

We definitely wouldn’t have shared dinner that night with them. The thickly carpeted, wood-panelled, ruby-walled Terrace Restaurant is a smart setting for very smart food – and donkeys aren’t permitted, even in dinner jackets.

Our meal kicks off with gin-fizz cocktails and a flurry of canapés – gobstopper-sized venison doughnuts, cheese-and-onion macarons and butternut-squash tartlets – followed by a plaice-and-lamb-and-caramel-fondant feast of gout-inducing proportions, culminating in a magnificent cheese trolley with approximately 40 ponky perks, a plethora of crackers and a lifetime’s worth of quince paste. (Bonus points to sommelier Sergio for his ruinously good wine pairings.)

Food is a running theme at The Montagu Arms, which regularly expands visiting waistlines via bacon-toting breakfasts, pastry-laden afternoon teas, multi-course dinners and leisurely, pub-grub lunches at Monty’s Inn, which remains perma-packed with happy locals and in-the-know out-of-towners throughout our stay. Likewise, we spend most of our time in Brockenhurst putting delicious things in our mouths, including five-star chicken-and-pesto paninis from The Buttery Café and old-fashioned cola sweeties from Cards & Candies. Fearing likely starvation on the train back to London, we cautiously invest in about £40-worth of chocolate bars and truffles from Beaulieu Chocolate Studio, including Turkish delight, ginger, vanilla and rose flavoured numbers.

When we’re not eating, we’re donkey-spotting. This is mainly unsuccessful, as when we loop around various rural ring roads, wander down a mad-dog-inhabited field and get lost in the Brockenhurst black hole that is the World of Top Gear; once or twice we strike donkey or mini-pony gold. Recent rainfall means that the local walking paths are gravity-defyingly boggy, causing my companion to amusingly topple over into a bath of mud at one point. Undeterred, we enjoy multiple tramps in the wintery Brockenhurst countryside, heartened by the image of the crackling fires and cracking G&Ts awaiting us back at boutique basecamp.

After two days of intrepid feasting, falling over and going on wild donkey-chases, it’s time for us to pack our bags for home and reach for those survival train truffles. We do this reluctantly. The Montagu Arms won’t make you slimmer – but it will make you happier, with or without those dinky domesticated horses.

To learn more - or simply book a room - click here.

We first ran a story on The Montagu Arms in our England magazine (along with Piera’s illustrations). You can order a copy here.

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