Summary (by AI): Hunts Court Farm, Gloucestershire; Stinking Bishop cheese; Rare breed Gloucester cattle; Ancient monastic method; Perry-washed rind; Pungent reputation vs mild reality; High price point; Modern 30-year history; Expensive formal farm tours; Runny Brie-like texture;
Blog: I have incredibly strong memories from somewhere in my dim and distant past of my mum and dad buying some Stinking Bishop cheese, and it just smelling like absolute old socks. Once I realised that Gloucestershire was the place where it was made, there was no doubt about it: that was going to be my chosen food for this leg of the journey.
The cheese itself is made over on Hunts Court Farm in Dymock by a man named Charles Martell, but it has quite an interesting story, according to the internet. Essentially, the farmer was trying to resurrect a rare breed of cattle called the Gloucester cow. We’ve all heard of Gloucester Old Spot pigs, but there is a Gloucester cow too. To fund this mission, the farmer decided to make cheese.
He had bought this farmstead and realised it was actually built on the ruins of an old abbey. After looking into how the local monks used to make their cheese, he discovered they washed the rind in perry (pear cider). He decided to resurrect that ancient method, and that is where Stinking Bishop comes from. It’s a washed-rind cheese, which means it gets incredibly runny inside the rind, a bit like a Brie.
Now, this cheese is famously pungent. It often wins the "Smelliest Cheese in Britain" award—which I think is brilliant, that such an award even exists. But the name doesn't actually come from the smell of the cheese itself.
When the farmer was researching different types of perry, he found out about an old local farmer who used to grow traditional pear varieties. He chose one particular pear to make his perry, grown by a man named Frederick Bishop. Apparently, this Mr Bishop was a proper nasty piece of work who was famous for never, ever washing. Naturally, the locals called him "Stinking Bishop". So, the cheese isn't named after its own god-awful smell; it’s named after a pear, which was named after a farmer who had shocking bodily hygiene. It’s a brilliant bit of history.
I set out to find some and finally tracked a bit down in a farm shop, where I nearly fell off my chair at the price of the damn thing. My original plan was to buy a load of it to take on the walk I was doing with my friend the next day. But this tiny, microscopic sliver cost over six pounds. I thought, well, I'm not buying any more of that. I was in my element doing my ABC food challenge, but I didn't think anyone else would appreciate a tiny, outrageously expensive piece of smelly cheese on the trail.
Instead, I kept my little sliver for later. That evening, I was camping at Abbey Farm (which is another entry of mine, if you want to look it up). After cooking up a Jamie Oliver lamb moussaka burger, I decided it was time to dive into the Stinking Bishop.
I have to say, I was incredibly disappointed.
When I peeled back the packaging, there was absolutely no pungency whatsoever. Not in the slightest. It just smelled like normal, everyday cheese, rather than the horrendous sock-odour I remembered from childhood and that the internet had promised me. That said, the cheese itself was lovely. It was nice, creamy, and quite mild. Because it had been sitting in my car most of the day, it was perfectly soft and spreadable on some bread.
It was great to learn a bit more about the history. It's actually a relatively modern creation, having only been developed about thirty years ago, but it has gone on to win heaps of awards. The guy has done incredibly well for himself.
If I'm ever back in that part of the world, I'd love to visit the farm. However, from what I've seen online, you can't just wander into a normal farm shop there. You have to book a formal tour, which looked to be about £120 and included a sit-down meal. I thought, Jesus, I like cheese, but not that much.
Maybe one day, though. But for now: Stinking Bishop—or, in my case, the non-stinking Bishop.
The Map: