Unearthing a hidden treasure

Before the snows came and on a day of bright sun and fleecy clouds, with the Chiltern Hills dusted with frost, I drove to Buckinghamshire with my...

Before the snows came and on a day of bright sun and fleecy clouds, with the Chiltern Hills dusted with frost, I drove to Buckinghamshire with my wife and ancient pooch. We had a small piece of family business to sort out and then repaired to a pub called the Lions of Bledlow for a late lunch.

It was a well-timed trip, on the eve of Camra's community pubs week and dispiriting news about the number of pub closures in both town and country. So it was heartening to find a inn almost lost down narrow, winding country roads doing a roaring trade and clearly popular with locals and visitors.

The village of Bledlow, near Aylesbury and Princes Risborough, is ancient. It was built on the site of an Anglo-Saxon burial mound and later was the private fiefdom of the local lord of the manor. As you arrive in the village, you turn left into Church End and pass an imposing church with a high tower and a door big enough to get horses and riders through - it may have been designed for just that purpose.

The pub is perched at the far end of the road. Beyond are fields and tracks leading to the hills. One bridle path runs for some 200 miles all the way to Stockport in Cheshire. As neither the ancient pooch nor its male owner are up to a hike to visit Robinson's brewery, we settled for a quick stroll before returning to the pub.

Signs in the windows warn that muddy boots are not welcome but muddy paws are. This was good news for the pooch, which doesn't enjoy being left in the car when crisps and other goodies are available in the pub.

The Lions is a Grade II-listed building that dates from the 16th century. As the low-slung exterior suggests, it was originally three shepherds' cottages that were knocked through to provide the village with an ale house. Inside there are beamed ceilings and wooden posts, wooden settles, log fires and a vast inglenook. Steps take you from room to room, recalling the origins of the place.

It was Wednesday and the lunch session was nearing an end but the pub was busy. Diana and I, with pooch in tow, entered from the rear car park and had to make way for a group of cyclists.

They were of the serious variety, riding speedy roadsters and wearing shiny tights and those curious pointed safety helmets that make them look like monsters from Doctor Who. At the entrance, two muddy walkers were adhering to the house rules and were leaving their boots outside to steam quietly in the winter sunshine.

The pub had clearly been busy. The friendly bar man, with a pronounced South African accent, apologised that most of the dishes on the chalkboards on the wall had run out. We both settled for vegetable chilli while I surveyed the pump clips on the bar.

Wadworth's 6X is a regular. As I had had more Waddies than was good for me at the MA awards bash the previous week, I settled for another old chum, Burton Bridge XL. It had made a lengthy journey from the Midlands, but was cool, foaming, bursting with biscuity

malt and spicy hops and with that lurking hint of sulphur that is the hallmark of Burton-brewed beers.

Diana, meanwhile, had chosen a glass of red wine from South Africa, much to the approval of the young barman. She has had so many disappointments on the wine front in pubs that I waited nervously while she took her first sip. She declared it to be excellent.

She was similarly pleased with the food and declared her chilli, served in a generous portion, to be one of the best meals she had ever had in a pub. The ancient pooch agreed, tucking into the tortilla chips that somehow fell off our plates and landed before her.

Suddenly from other rooms in the pub a large number of elderly people emerged to pay their bills at the bar. Clearly there had been a convivial pensioners' lunchtime.

Satisfied cyclists, walkers, pensioners, locals - a true community pub. Long may it thrive.