If I were to open a pub, I would open one like the Crooked Billet. Tucked away in Stoke Row, about five kilometres west of Henley and ten north of Reading it is, as an hour lost on country roads and being stuck in forest track mud attests, remote. When you finally find it however, in all its secret gardened, trinket strewn glory, you realise that is all part of the charm.

The building itself is old, dating back to 1642 and later serving as the hideout of notorious highwayman Dick Turpin. In 1989 it was taken over by Paul Clerehugh who aimed to retain as much of the simplicity present in its former, long life as a small holding.

In terms of food he realised his ambitions superbly. For the three of us, eating at the somewhat anti-social time of 4pm, a board of home baked breads, chickpea hummus, hazelnut and roquette pesto arrived first. The hummus and pesto were fine and the bread deliciously fresh from the Billet’s onsite bakery and as airy as you’d expect. The very moment the last dollop was wiped up the mains arrived.

Gallantly taking up the meat baton in the presence of my veganism and my dad’s vegetarianism, my mum had spiced pork belly with soy glazed bok choi, tender stem, crushed peanuts and roasted sweet potato, topped with a handful of crispy noodles. The uncanny silence that befell a woman otherwise garrulous to the extreme, is praise enough. In front of Father Boyd landed cheese from a local goat, red onion polenta cake, mascarpone parfait and chargrilled vegetables, underneath a drizzle of green herb dressing. Much as my mother, he offers it his highest standard of praise. “Umm scrummy.” For my picky self, the chef kindly agreed to put together a dish of roasted Mediterranean vegetables and light tomato sauce, in absence of an animal free option. I cannot and did not complain.

As a sticky toffee pudding with toffee sauce and sorbet arrived then quickly went, the sun decided to spend shorter and shorter breaks behind the clouds and the charming pub garden came to life.

At the end of our table a jumble of colourful flowers tumbled out of a gutted piano, one of four or five placed across the lawn. Rhubarb grew in wheelbarrows on the road’s edge and a long dead Morris Minor stood back in the shade, near a doorframe cut into the hedge that led to another section of secret garden.

There we remained for the next five hours, slowly drinking our way through several pints of Breakspears Best Bitter and catching up on lives normally separated by two home counties. Throughout our stay the waiters were funny and knowledgeable, making light of the small wasp invasion that arrived with the coffee. The only fair criticisms that can be aimed at the Crooked Billet are its location - requiring an expensive taxi or designated driver - and its price.

£15 to £20 a main is not overly cheap, but then good things often aren’t.

Go to www.thecrookedbillet.co.uk