There are pubs, and then there are Sunday pubs. The ones that make you forget what time it is, loosen your belt a notch, and briefly consider moving in. From windswept highlands to south London gems, we’ve mapped out the places worth planning your weekends around. Some are centuries old, others barely out of soft launch, but all have one thing in common: they know exactly how to do Sunday properly.
Whether you’re high in Edinburgh, low in Cornwall, or somewhere in between, here’s where to find your next lazy brunch, unbeatable roast, or possibly the perfect excuse to order yourself a cheeky pint. Take your time, and by the end of November, you might just feel like you’ve lived a month of Sundays…
Ardfern, Leith, Edinburgh
Not all Sundays call for muddy boots and tweed. At Ardfern, Sundays are for good coffee, quiet style, and that smug Leith glow that comes from eating something you didn’t technically need but couldn’t say no to. Brunch here runs all day, because they take mornings seriously – seriously enough to pair fried maitake mushrooms with rocket mayo, treacle-cured trout with soda bread, crème fraîche, and cornichons, or roast squash flatbread with goat’s curd and kale pesto. Whether you wander in at 9am or saunter through at 4pm, there’s a seat and something as marvellously creative as it is delicious waiting.
From 11am, the roast makes its entrance: beef rump cap, ox-tongue Yorkshire pudding, and, yes, hash browns alongside the gravy because why not combine all the best bits of Sunday on one plate? The menu flits between Scottish produce and Mediterranean ease, like someone in cashmere ordering negronis. It’s the Sunday treat, perfected, and dangerously easy to make a habit of.
The Feathers Inn, Northumberland
They say you can see for miles from the top of Hedley Hill, but once you’ve sat down at The Feathers, there’s really no need to look anywhere else. Menus change daily, ingredients come from just down the lane, and there’s a sense that if you asked for ketchup, they might gently take you outside for a word. Proper Sunday fare, done the right way, with gravy that deserves its own postcode.
The Olive Branch, Clipsham, Rutland
Sundays at The Olive Branch start with a gentle wander through the Rutland countryside, maybe a stretch along the Rutland Round or a lazy loop around Rutland Water, before you collapse into a chair by the fire, perfectly justified after your exertions. The small plates set the tone: padron peppers, pickled cockles, or confit duck leg croquetas with leek and orange, each bite a reminder that walking is serious business when there’s lunch waiting at the end.
Mains are equally rewarding: pan-seared cod with preserved lemon risotto or 28-day aged beef sirloin with all the trimmings. And yes, desserts like sticky toffee pudding with miso toffee sauce are mandatory, think of them as carb-based medal ceremonies for your Sunday efforts. By the time you leave, you’ll have walked, eaten, and rested enough to feel like you’ve truly owned the day.
The Fishpool Inn, Delamere, Cheshire
A pub so quintessentially Sunday it should come with its own weather forecast. Nestled by the woods of Delamere Forest, The Fishpool Inn is the perfect reward after a bracing walk among the pines. Firelight flickers off exposed beams as you pore over a menu of hearty comforts. There’s something reassuring about the combination of forest walks, pints, and proper pub roast dinners, not least when the sides include triple-cooked roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, and Yorkshire puddings that could double as hats. For those not in the mood for Sunday traditionalism, seafood or woodstone truffle-tossed Padana pizzas offer a playful alternative.
The Gunton Arms, Thorpe Market, Norfolk
If an art gallery and a hunting lodge had a love child, it would probably be The Gunton Arms. Set in a deer park with Emin and Hirst on the walls. The food is smart and comforting: smoked salmon with soda bread, whipped squash with feta, or lamb shoulder slow-cooked until it practically falls apart on the plate. Outside, the deer continue their unhurried patrol in the crisp autumn weather. By mid-afternoon, you’re leaning back with a second glass of wine watching the tide of locals drift in and out, overhearing a conversation about who should really have made it through to this week of The Great British Bake Off.
The Poet, Matfield, Kent
There’s something inherently lyrical about a pub called The Poet, and Sundays here start as all sensible ones should: with a Bloody Mary balanced enough to cure Saturday’s best intentions. Settling into the oak beams of this 16th-century building, sunlight spilling across the tables. The room glows softly, and the menu reads like a love letter to Kentish fields, all seasonal produce and desserts you’d cross counties for. Think seared Orkney king scallops, 14-day dry aged fillet followed by chamomile panna cotta with basil sorbet. There’s a nod to history too: Siegfried Sassoon walked these lanes, and you can almost imagine him lingering over a plate of something just as considered.
The Half Moon, Herne Hill, London
Londoners like to pretend they leave the city for a proper Sunday pub, plot twist: they don’t have to. The Half Moon has history, music, roast potatoes capable of ending arguments, and a clientele who treat brunch like a contact sport. It’s proof that you can do Sunday properly, even within sight of a bus stop, and still leave feeling as far from the city as you could wish.
The Nobody Inn, Doddiscombsleigh, Exeter
After a winding drive through Devon lanes that seem to have been designed to test your sense of direction. Low ceilings, flagstone floors, and a whisky list long enough to make the kids’ cries of “are we nearly there yet?” all worth it. This is a pub unapologetically itself, right down to the mismatched chairs, the well-worn beams, and a Sunday menu worth the journey.
The menu is hearty but thoughtful, from perfectly crisp fish to umptious homemade pies all made in house, and all the better for being enjoyed with you curled up pooch under the table, ears perched with the optimism for leftover chips.
The Pilchard Inn, Burgh Island, Devon
Built in 1336 and once the hideout of Devon’s notorious pirate Tom Crocker, The Pilchard Inn is not a place you stumble upon, you earn it. Literally. You arrive by sea tractor when the tide decides, and by the time your boots hit the sand, the Atlantic air has already done half the work. Inside, it’s proper, unapologetic pub grub: pies that could double as hand warmers, fish and chips that make you briefly forget table manners. The walls are low, the beams are stout, and there’s a mischievous sense that Crocker himself might approve of a slightly indulgent Sunday. By the time dessert lands, the tide has rolled out, the fire is roaring, and you find yourself playing cards, content to let the rest of the day drift by exactly as it likes.
Pen-y-Gwryd, Snowdonia
You don’t just pop into Pen-y-Gwryd – you arrive, slightly windswept and already rehearsing your tale of how “the weather turned halfway up the pass.” The walls are lined with mementos from the 1953 Everest expedition, a gentle reminder that this is where heroes once trained, although no judgement if all you scale is the specials board.
By midday, the fire crackles, the tables fill with walkers peeling off layers and the bar hums with the kind of quiet camaraderie that comes from surviving both the elements and the A-road traffic – a mix of hikers, locals, and those just there for the lore. Lunch is hearty, the ale well-earned, and the feeling of life returning to your fingers is half the reward. By late afternoon, you’re warm, full, and vaguely convinced (given the right socks) you could climb something big yourself.
