jord is the retreat at Mount Farm Vineyards, home to Ark Wines here in Suffolk, and when the invitation came to cook a one-night tasting menu in the middle of it, there was only one answer. The whole point of produce-led cooking is proximity — to the soil, the season, the people who grow the thing. It rarely gets closer than a menu built around the same vines that made the wine in your glass.

The brief was simple and the hardest kind to do well: British produce at its late-summer peak, a vineyard thread running from the welcome to the petit fours, and everything touched by fire or the garden. Nine courses, one seating, and the Ark range poured alongside by the family who make it.

It opened cold and bright — garden bites and a chilled Gamay glögg — then moved through peak heritage tomatoes and into the sea. From there, the land: Norfolk Black chicken, day-boat bass, and beef with the first of the hedgerow blackberries, before the vines had the last word in a peach-and-verjus pre-dessert and a Riesling pét-nat to finish.

Some plates you build; this one the evening finished for you. A single hand-dived scallop, coloured hard and kept translucent at the centre, set against a silky sweetcorn purée with charred kernels, toasted sunflower seeds and a sharp little coastal garnish. When the low sun came across the pass it lit the corn from within — the kind of moment you cook all year hoping for.

The chicken came as a pressé — the bird cooked, layered and set overnight, then sliced clean to the edge — with charred baby leek and summer peas straight from the pod, and the tender shoots off the top of the plant. Nothing on the plate travelled more than it had to. A Meursault-style Chardonnay carried it.

Bread is never an afterthought on a menu like this. A slow-proved focaccia went onto the board warm, crust crackling, crumb open and soft — the kind of thing you tear rather than slice, best eaten standing up with a glass in the other hand while the fire settles.

As the sun went, the tempo picked up. Plating a tasting menu to a single seating means everything lands at once — sauces held at temperature, garnishes to hand, every plate wiped and identical before it leaves the table. Doing that off a fire, in falling light, with the family pouring alongside you, is about as alive as this job gets.

By the time the petit fours went out — a verjus jelly from the vines, a square of Pump Street chocolate from just up the road in Orford — the sky had gone from gold to rose to a deep Suffolk indigo, and the festoon lights had taken over from the sun.