Crying Wolf

Step through the timber‑framed doorway and you can feel the labour of love in every brick: friends sanding the bar top, family sewing the leather banquettes, Bristol’s makers pitching in to bring Crying Wolf to life. Here, syrups bubble on the hob each morning, juices are pressed to order, and seasonal shrubs hum with hedgerow fruit—so every cocktail carries the fresh, foraged spirit of the West Country. Soft amber lighting and a soundtrack of gentle vinyl give the room its whisper‑easy intimacy, inviting strangers to settle, sip and stay awhile. Yet this is more than a bar; it’s a celebration of local craft. From small‑batch vermouth to charcuterie cured just down the road, the menu reads like a love letter to independent producers. Four‑legged companions snooze at your feet, bartenders trade tasting notes with curious guests, and conversation drifts as smoothly as the house‑signature “Howler”—a smoky‑citrus number that arrives crowned with a sprig of garden rosemary. Every visit feels like a reunion, proof that when a community builds a space together, the welcome rings genuine.