There is something rather predictable about the arrival of a Gail's Bakery.

Not the sourdough, which is perfectly good, nor the pastries which are exactly as you'd expect from a company with dozens of locations and a well-oiled recipe book. No, the predictable part is the reaction. Half the town welcomes a shiny new bakery with Instagram-friendly interiors (which is absolutely fine). The other half wonders which brilliant local business will quietly disappear next.

Because this isn't really about Gail's.

It's about what happens when our high streets become places that only national chains can afford to occupy. Rising rents, rising rates and landlords chasing the safest tenant have slowly squeezed the independent businesses that actually give towns like Cheltenham their personality.

And personality is something Cheltenham has never been short of.

From artisan bakeries and family-run bars to independent restaurants, delis and coffee shops, this is a town built on people who know your name, remember your order and probably made your croissant before most of us had hit snooze for the second time.

Which is why the response from La Boulangerie Artisan last week felt so refreshingly Cheltenham.

As Gail's opened its doors, the independent bakery took to the streets offering free coffee and pastries, along with a simple message: remember your local independents. Their social media post struck a chord with locals, attracting thousands of reactions and comments from people who clearly understand what is at stake.

It wasn't a protest, neither was it bitter. It was simply a reminder that behind every independent bakery is a local family, local jobs and money that stays in the local economy rather than disappearing into a national balance sheet.

Nobody should be criticised for spending their money at Gail's. If that's where you enjoy going, that's entirely your choice.

But choices have consequences.

Spend £20 in an independent bakery and you're helping someone pay local wages, buy from local suppliers and keep a business alive. Spend the same amount in a national chain and you've bought a nice lunch, but you've also reinforced the slow drift towards a high street that could be almost anywhere in Britain.

The villain here isn't really Gail's. Businesses expand because they're generally very consistent and people support them for that reason. The bigger question is why so many independents are increasingly unable to compete for prime locations in the first place. That's a conversation for councils, landlords and anyone with an interest in what our high streets look like in ten years' time.

In the meantime, the answer is pretty simple.

Use your local bakery. Pick up a coffee from an independent instead of the familiar logo. Make the extra effort. Because once an independent closes, we all mourn what we've lost. The trick is supporting them while they're still here.

Cheltenham has no shortage of brilliant bakeries. Let's make sure they're still around long after the novelty of the newest chain has worn off.

There is a peculiar delicacy has been doing the rounds for a few years now. No, not braised pig cheek or wild garlic. Not even those all-too-familiar scotch eggs that seem to be made from equal parts sausage meat and marketing budget.

No, the real growth industry in our part of the world is the free meal.

And not the old-fashioned sort of free meal either like the occasional pint slipped your way because the landlord likes your face, or a pudding appearing with a wink at the end of a meal because you’ve laughed at one of their bad jokes earlier. This is something far more modern, far more sanitised, and far more tragic.

This is the era of the Hospitality Handout, delivered not to the starving, but to the aspiring.

To the content creator.

To the influencer.

You’d think seeing hospitality on its knees would prompt a fairly obvious reaction: book a table, go for lunch, pay the bill. Instead, it seems to have triggered something rather different, an instinct to see it as an easy target, a chance to grab a freebie, or worse still, get paid for the privilege of eating someone else’s food and calling it “content”.

And before anyone starts sharpening their steak knives, let me be clear: I’m absolutely not against marketing (I work in it!). I’m obviously not against social media (The Cotswolds Gentleman has been pretty much built on it). And I’m not even against people taking photos of their food (I do this sometimes and still suffer that feeling of embarrassment each time and feel it should come with a small fine).

What I am slightly against is the sheer, jaw-dropping volume of people in the Cotswolds who seem to be eating out as a part-time job.

Not as critics. Not as journalists. Not even as particularly interesting human beings.

Just eating. For free.

You may have seen them, migrating between Burford, Stow, Broadway and Cirencester like a herd of particularly well-dressed wildebeest in search of their natural prey: a pub that has opened, or one very close to closing. Some are wrapped in a neutral-coloured coat and Hunter wellies. Others go in their normal clothes, almost undetected until they are seen leaning over the table photographing a pork belly from seventeen different angles while it quietly dies.

And then later that day comes the Instagram post.

“Hidden gem.”

“Obsessed.”

“Such a vibe.”

“You NEED to try this.”

“Honestly unreal.”

And the most common lie ever told in the Cotswolds: “We just stumbled across this place.”

And then, the most fascinating part: the engagement.

Within seconds, the comments roll in from other influencers who have apparently been waiting, poised over their phones like air traffic control for mediocrity, or more likely summoned on a WhatsApp group.

“OMG this looks amazing!”
“Need to visit!”
“Adding to my list!”

All from people who will, inevitably, be sitting in exactly the same restaurant the following week doing exactly the same thing with exactly the same dishes in wide-eyed astonishment, as though they’ve just discovered fire while using the hashtags #invite or #ad.

Now, I understand transparency and the rules. But if you look at someone’s Instagram and every single post has #invite or #ad attached to it, that should be deeply embarrassing. At that point you’re not a food or hospitality lover, you’re essentially a freelance seagull.

And the awkward part? I honestly don’t know who's to blame.

Let’s start with the easiest target: the influencer.

There is something uniquely shameless about messaging a small independent business, already fighting soaring energy bills, staff shortages, VAT, and the general British public’s determination to stay at home, and saying, “We’d love to come in and experience your menu. Happy to collaborate!”

Collaborate. As though eating a £33 ribeye is a joint venture.

And it’s never the ones with genuine influence, is it? The ones who can actually fill tables don’t need to ask. They just go, quietly, like normal people, pay like normal people, and then mention it, if it’s good, in weekend newspaper. They don’t arrive with the air of someone about to do the restaurant a favour by ordering the scallops.

A friend who manages a local restaurant’s social media recently forwarded me a message from someone with 400 Instagram followers asking if they offer invites to “smaller creators”. A true and rather telling example. At that level, it’s less about being a “creator” in any meaningful sense and more about someone with a phone, a platform, and a slightly inflated idea of what their reach represents.

But then again, are the restaurants to blame?

Because they are doing it. They are actively feeding these people. Handing out food and drink like they’ve mistaken Instagram for the Red Cross.

And, yes, of course I understand why. Hospitality is on its last legs. It’s battered. It’s exhausted. Many places are running on fumes and goodwill. And if someone turns up offering “exposure” in exchange for a free meal, it probably feels like a bit of a lifeline, an easy way of making people aware that you exist, and a bit of a bargain.

Except it often isn’t.

Because what exactly are you buying? A photograph of your roast beef, with a caption reading “best roast ever”, which they also wrote last Sunday about a different pub just down the road.

And then there’s PR.

Ah, PR. Once the noble art of getting your client into The Times, The Telegraph, Condé Nast Traveller, or at the very least a glossy magazine that appear in doctor waiting rooms and people pretend to read. Now, increasingly, it involves sending messages like:

“Hi lovely! Would you like to come in for a complimentary dinner and share your experience?”

I know, as I receive them!

This is not public relations.

If your PR company’s greatest achievement is inviting Instagrammers for free meals, save yourself several thousand pounds a month and do it yourself if you truly believe this form of marketing works for you. At least if you’re going to give away your food, you can do it without a monthly retainer.

One of my personal rules on The Cotswolds Gentleman has always been simple: I don’t take free meals. Not because I’m holier-than-thou or morally superior, but because the hospitality industry is made up of real people trying to survive real pressures, and it doesn’t need yet another person treating their livelihood as a content opportunity.

Paying for your meal is respect. It also means you can be honest. Because once you’ve eaten for free, you’re no longer reviewing anything, you’re thanking. And a thank you, however enthusiastic, is not an honest opinion.

On the incredibly rare occasion a restaurant won’t take “no, I’m definitely paying” for an answer (this has happened twice as they were trying to thank me for something), I’ll settle it by leaving a tip for the staff that more than covers the cost of my meal. If someone insists on giving something away, it should go to the people doing the hard work, not to me.

Here’s the part that nobody seems talks about.

Because while restaurants or PR companies may believe giving away food brings in customers, it might actually be doing the opposite. I know it does for me. Because when I see a restaurant constantly giving away free meals to people with tiny followings and even tinier influence, I don’t feel inspired to book a table.

Sadly, for many, repeated gifting to low-reach accounts can start to create the impression that the value of the product is being diluted by how it’s being positioned and distributed. 

And then, quietly, without drama, I simply don’t go. Not out of spite, not because I hate influencers (The Cotswolds Gentleman falls into that bracket sometimes) and not because I’m jealous. I assumed it was just me being slightly judgemental until I asked my Instagram following a month or so ago. I was genuinely shocked by how many people shared the same view and had stopped going to particular pubs and restaurants because of this. It was more widespread than I expected.

The sad thing is, the Cotswolds has some genuinely brilliant places. Proper pubs, incredible restaurants, brilliant chefs who care, menus with thought behind them, landlords who are grafting away seven days a week just to keep the lights on. They deserve to be busy because they're good and deserve to be celebrated properly. They just need customers. Real ones. Paying ones. Returning ones.

Of course, I appreciate the world of marketing is changing. Businesses have to try things. If you’re in hospitality right now, you’ll do whatever you can to fill tables, and social media can absolutely work when it’s done properly, especially when it reaches real people in the local area who might actually come in and spend money.

But too often what’s happening is a kind of circular economy where restaurants feed influencers, influencers post for influencers, influencers comment for influencers, and the only people being influenced are other influencers looking for their next free meal.

Hospitality is being squeezed dry. And it’s not just influencers, either. There are local publications too, promising hospitality the world and delivering very little in the way of actual customers, yet charging a small fortune for the pleasure. It’s the same racket in a smarter jacket but offers the same promises: Plenty of “exposure”, minimal footfall, and an invoice that suggests they’ve just landed you a double-page spread in The Guardian.

And so I’ll end with this. Please stop taking from hospitality, no matter how much you convince yourself you’re “helping”. The industry doesn’t need more people eating for free in exchange for a few tagged photos and some performative enthusiasm. Over 3,000 venues went bust in 2025 alone, and the more we normalise this culture of taking, the worse it will get.

​If you genuinely love pubs and restaurants, do the most radical thing imaginable in 2026: book a table, pay the bill, tip the staff, and go back.

Which, call me a dinosaur, is still the best PR there is.

There was a time when the pub was where Britain happened. Arguments were settled in the car park or over a game of darts and spilled beer, lifelong friendships were forged and local legends born.

Yet, somewhere between lockdown number whatever and the first delivery of warm Sauvignon Blanc to your doorstep, you started gradually forgetting about that pub or bar that you once frequented every Friday or Saturday night. And that's it really, we've allowed the pub, the heartbeat of the town or village, the nation's living room to wither while we guzzle chicken wine in our pyjamas and half-watch the kind of telly that we used to go to the pub to avoid, while scrolling through TikTok and Instagram.

It’s been happening for years, of course. The spreadsheets will tell you it's the rise in cost of living, or healthier lifestyles, or the price of beer, or the rise of Deliveroo. And they’re all a bit right, but none of them are quite it. The truth is, we let it happen quietly, politely, as only the British can by choosing convenience over community. And yet, somehow, when these places have truly gone, we feel it. That big aching space where life used to happen.

And a pub, a real pub, is not about the drink. It never has been. It’s about people. It's the somewhere to go when you’ve nowhere else to be. It’s about knowing that the world still spins, that someone remembers how you like your pint, that someone will look up and nod when you walk in.

But here's the twist. Things are starting to change.

There’s a new kind of pub resurgence taking place. Not a PR campaign from the soulless arms of corporate chains who think that putting “Craft” in front of lager makes it a revolution, but in the hands of chefs and locals who get it. Yes, actual chefs. The ones who once did 90 hour weeks cooking rabbit saddle in Michelin-starred kitchens, now turning up in small villages and towns to bring the boozer back to life.

Let's take The Hollow Bottom in Guiting Power as an example. A racing hotspot. A local legend, in fact. A place where jockeys (on their days off), trainers, stable staff, gamblers, and gentry would stand side by side screaming at one of the two televisions showing the races. And then the lease changed and so did the pub. This was followed a big brewery not understanding its heritage and then in May, like so many pubs in the UK, it closed. 

A couple of months on it's back open, with top chefs Nathan Eades and Liam Goff at the helm, the duo responsible for bringing The Halfway in Kineton back to life in 2023 and more recently putting The Horse and Groom in Bourton on the Hill back on the culinary map with a Bib Gourmand in their first six months of opening. In fact it's just open, but singing, literally. There were over 400 locals there on the night of their "soft launch" last week enjoying the music from local heroes Andrew James and John Neild, the owner of Splash Of Ginge who has a lager named after him in the pub.

And all it needed was someone to give a damn, not just about the pub but its heritage and locals too. 

The horse racing memorabilia, some saved from the skip, has been reinstated to the walls. The food is comforting but clever. The drinks are local but lush with Deya Steady Rolling Man, Hook Norton and North Cotswold ales on the taps and a bar you lean on like an old friend. There's a two-hour happy hour every day for the farmers and stable staff that finish work at 4pm in the winter or are rained off in the summer and a TV showing live sport.

The Hollow Bottom isn’t just a comeback story. It’s a blueprint. Because the pub is not dead, it just needs people who care on both sides of the bar.

Just in the last couple of weeks, Cheltenham has seen two new openings too.

The Beehive, nestled into the pretty Montpellier quarter, was always a popular pub. It's where I, and many others who live far from Cornwall, discovered Rattler. Never again. And then it closed. 

Weeks later it flung its doors back open with new Executive Chef Tom Rains (formerly of The Daffodil and No.3 in town) and new General Manager Richard Shakeshaft (formerly of, oh, The Beehive and back for his second stint) and a bold new vision for what proper pub food should be. 

The Beehive isn’t reinventing the wheel. It’s about making sure the wheel has good tread, rolls smooth, and pairs beautifully with Chef Tom's Pie of the Day, mashed potato and gravy. They have kept the same previous soul with classics on the menu. Nothing too shouty or flashy, just a real kind of pub that feels like a pub, with hearty food, proper ales and decent wines.

You go to The Beehive and remember why pubs matter. Because everyone’s there from young to old, professionals to trades persons, all mix well in a friendly, relaxed atmosphere with a drink in hand.

Away from pubs but something equally important is Parler, Cheltenham's new high-fidelity listening bar. There are no pork scratchings or dart boards, but it plays the same role with community, atmosphere and connection at its heart.

Think turntables, vinyl and cocktails that feel like they've been stirred by Marvin Gaye himself. You walk in to Parler and the world goes quiet except for the music. It’s the kind of bar Tokyo has been perfecting for 30 years, and now we’ve now got one on our doorstep that offers beautiful beer brews from the awesome folk at Deya and flaky, golden pastries and small plates from La Boulangerie Artisan.

And all of this matters.

Because this isn’t just about pints, cocktails and "Chef Tom's" pies. It’s about community. It’s about having a place to go when you’re toasting another orbit around the sun, or celebrating a new job, or when you just want somewhere to sit quietly with a pint of Guinness and watch the rugby. It’s where you meet people you wouldn’t swipe right on. Where you talk to strangers. It's where life happens, unfiltered.

Even Jeremy Clarkson, he of farming and petrol gets it. His Farmer's Dog pub has been open for nearly a year and has been heaving since day one. He’s not doing it for kicks, he’s doing it to create a community of people coming to his pub, to support the locals who contribute to his menu and to sell his own Hawkstone beer, of course. 

We need to support them. Not once a year for a Christmas pint. But regularly. We take friends. We try the new place. Rain or shine. And we don't complain about the prices like it's still 1995. Because these pubs and bars can’t exist on sentiment alone. They need us, and we need them.