The email landed quietly, as these things always do. No fanfare. Just a subject line that made Pete leap from the sofa: an invitation to the MICHELIN Awards, to be held in Dublin.

At that moment in time, I didn’t know what he had just read on his phone that made him literally leap from the spot he was in, reading a story to our two children. He switched the phone around to me. My heart leapt, and I could see in his whole body what this meant to him.

We already hold a MICHELIN Green Star, which we’re incredibly proud of. This was awarded to us last year at the ceremony in Glasgow. The beauty with last year, was the MICHELIN guide had come to film us at the restaurant 2 weeks prior, and mid filming, sent out the children to ‘award’ us the Green Star. So, we went to the ceremony safe in the knowledge of why our name was on the list. It was just pure joy and excitement.

Fast forward to this year, and this invite of course landed differently. We tried to stay grounded. Sensible. Realistic. But once the seed is planted, it grows quickly. Could we be up for a star? Maybe. Possibly. Surely they wouldn’t invite us all the way to Dublin if there wasn’t something to announce?

And just like that, excitement crept in.

But here is the curveball, around 3 months ago, the MICHELIN guide quietly removed all the Green Star logos from the awarded restaurants on their website. When queried, people were told that the award still very much existed, and that this was just part of a rebrand. Yet, to date, there is still no sign of the logos returning. So what does this mean?

The weeks that followed were a strange mix of adrenaline and anxiety. Pride, too—being part of the guide still means something deeply to us. But there was also pressure. Quiet, constant pressure.

This wasn’t just a case of hopping on a train and heading home afterwards. This meant flights. It meant packing. We brought our young children with us, plus someone to look after them while we attended the awards. Coordinating all of it, never really knowing what it was for.

All for one night.

People often talk about awards as glamorous, but the reality—especially when you’re running a small business, a kitchen, and a family—is logistical and exhausting. There’s the cost, the time away, the mental load. And underneath it all, the unspoken question: Is this going to be worth it?

By the time we arrived in Dublin, the buzz was unmistakable. Familiar faces. Nervous smiles. That shared, slightly manic energy that only exists when everyone in the room is pretending not to hope too much.

 

 

We connected with and got chatting to other Green Star restaurants, and with champagne in hand, slowly realised that there was A LOT of us there. Restaurants that were awarded theirs in previous years, yet this was the first year they had been on the guest list to return. No indication of that beforehand. No clarity about what that might mean.

Last night came and went in a blur of speeches, applause. They awarded 7 new Green Stars this year, but gave out no physical trophy for them this year (ours sits pride of place in the bar from last year)… and then came the stars, none of our new friends were called to the stage, and neither were we.

Disappointment is a funny thing. It doesn’t always crash in loudly. Sometimes it just sits there, heavy and dull, while you smile and clap and try to be gracious.

We didn’t win. And yes, that hurt.

Not because we feel entitled to anything—far from it—but because hope had been quietly encouraged. Because of what it took to be there. Because of the emotional energy poured into the build-up. Because when you’re invited into a room like that, it’s hard not to believe you might belong at the centre of it.

We love being part of the MICHELIN Guide. Truly. The Green Star matters to us, and always will. It reflects who we are and how we choose to work. But this experience was tough. It begs the question, why remove the accolade from their website, and then months later, invite us all to the ceremony, dangling this hope and confusion.

It’s hard to explain the pressure that comes with these moments unless you’ve lived them. The way it seeps into family life. The way it distracts you from the day-to-day joy of cooking, hosting, and feeding people. The way it asks you—quietly but insistently—to measure yourself against something external.

And then to walk away without anything changing, except your energy levels and your bank balance.

This afternoon, back home, the restaurant is the same. The food is the same. The values are the same. The reasons we do this are the same. That’s grounding. That’s comforting. As we drove over the misty moors, past the sheep, and home to lighting the fire, and unpacking the suitcases, I felt so happy to be home.

But it’s also okay to say that this was hard.

 

Awards are not just nights out and photographs. They’re hope, expectation, pressure, logistics, and real emotional weight—especially when children and livelihoods are part of the picture. Last night reminded us of that in a very real way.

We’re proud of what we do. We’ll keep doing it. And we’ll keep cooking with integrity, whether or not we’re sitting in a room waiting for our name to be called.

But if I’m being honest—this one took more out of us than we expected.

As I sit my the fire typing this, weary from the 5.30am start, I am reminded of why we do this. We do this because we love it, we love our staff, we also have the most wonderful customers, our children are happy and healthy and adore the restaurant and all that goes with it. So tomorrow morning when we flick the lights on, get the stove burning, and most importantly the coffee machine steaming, we will dust ourselves off and throw open the doors with a smile. As we are SO happy to be here.

I hope as ever, that by sharing the real truths behind running a business, the good, the bad, and the ugly, it might also just make others who are in the same boat feel less alone. Last night we met some truly wonderful people, and we all held space for each other to feel whatever it was we felt, in the safety of knowing we all just got it.

Yes it feels vulnerable, yes I could just share a few pics of us with our gladrags on, but you know me, I literally can’t keep this book closed.

Cecily x