The revelation occurred at dinner; Mr C and I ensconced in the Feathers’ bustling restaurant one sunny, summery Saturday evening. The dining room was buzzing: glamorous middle-aged couples and friends exchanging holiday stories and local tip-offs, couples seeking seduction (culinary and otherwise) and Mr C and I in one corner, quietly observing our Woodstock surroundings.

We observed our waitress and found her to our liking: friendly, smart and smiley. When she recommended the tasting menu (six courses, six wines, six slices of heaven) we could do nothing but comply. And so a plate of cauliflower textures arrived at our table: cauli tempura stands out, but I think there was some sort of cauli mash, cauli escalope and cauli gratin, along with a slender cauli sliver atop a plump scallop. Raisins and sherry added peppy shots of sweetness. We swooned, and wiped our plates clean.

Next up was Cornish mackerel with marinated crab, radish and hazelnuts. This was tasty enough (of course it was, the chef is a genius) but its successor stole the glory: beef carpaccio with carrot and anise puree, crisp shallots, poached quail egg and caviar. We peered at the button-sized poach egg (is it wrong to eat an egg so small, so pretty?) then plunged in. Mr C is a regular carpaccio-muncher, so was bound to be critical. He felt that the meat could have been more melting. For me, it was perfect: the kind of food that makes you smile, and more than enough textures to tease the taste buds:  crunchy shallot rings, silky egg yolk, chewy discs of beef.

The meaty main, a love-letter to quail (featuring breast, leg and another perfectly cooked egg, along with Anna potatoes, smoked corn puree and morel jus) reunited us: we both agree that the dish is divine. The little quails have died a noble death, adorning our plates with perfectly tender meat, complimented by sweet corn and earthy morel. Delicious. If we hadn’t been amid polite company (the sort that wears red trousers and drinks sherry) we’d have licked our plates.

Remaining just within the bounds of decency, we polished off the cheese course and moved on to dessert. Here it’s time to wax lyrical, for our pudding was pure, perfect poetry: strawberry jelly and mousse layered with cold custard and topped with whisper-thin shards of glassy, minty sugar crisps. Since I’ve run out of words, just one thing remains to be said: go there.