Hamish Champ: Finding the pub equivalent of the Crown Jewels

There is considerable pleasure to be had from crossing the threshold of a familiar pub.

For a start, one knows how the door opens - in or out - thus avoiding that slightly embarrassing moment when one pushes when one should pull. And vice versa.

Then there is knowing which way to head to the bar, allowing one to stride confidently, manfully even, to a good spot where one knows the service will be more… forthcoming. And there is the chance that one will encounter a familiar face with whom one can swap an amusing anecdote or observation concerning the inequities of the world.

Ah yes, the 'local'. A fine institution in anyone's book.

That said, one of the things I love about entering a 'new' pub for the first time is precisely its unfamiliarity. Not knowing what lies beyond a pub's front door sends a shiver of anticipation up my spine and back again as I push at it for the first time.

Aside from man's usual array of 'pleasures' there is nothing on earth that can compare with the thrill of unearthing a gem of a pub, a hostelry possessed of such qualities - environment, licensee, beer, etc - that it sears itself onto one's consciousness, never to be forgotten.

Such experiences are not all that common, but when encountered, well, they're almost priceless. It can go horribly wrong of course, but let's face it, that's part of the fun.

Part of what I love about my job is that with perfect legitimacy I can arrange to meet someone for a professional get-together in a boozer. I'm not averse to lunch in a nice restaurant, but nothing - and I mean nothing - beats eats and a pint or two in a well-kept pub, especially if one is visiting it for the first time.

For a work-related chinwag in the Square Mile last week I chose just such a 'new' pub. The Ship has been on Hart Street for donkey's years, but I'd managed to miss it, despite starting my working life in the City more than 30 years ago.

The exterior gave few clues as to what lay inside and the frosted glass-paned door was certainly giving nothing away. Once inside it was like stepping back to in time; a small, clean and quite brightly-lit City pub, packed to the rafters with beer-necking blokes in suits - at one stage the only women in the place were the landlady and her barmaid - all talking shop.

It was anything but a pub in the open, spacious and egalitarian mould that the market has in many instances come to expect, demand even. It wasn't decorated in fashionable browns and khakis; it wasn't replete with trendy lighting, 'smart art' adorning the walls and groovy (if slightly unfamiliar) tunes filtering across the conversational hub-bub.

But for a couple of hours it was nice to be in a small, clean boozer where the carpets were heavily patterned, where the landlady was friendly, where the beers were in excellent nick and where, crucially perhaps, I wasn't at least 15 years older than everyone around me.

Some will regard such a middle-aged male-dominated establishment as a bit of a dinosaur and my appreciation of it the sign of someone who rejects modernity. But much as I can warm to the modern take on a boozer I knew I would be adding the Ship to my list of regular haunts for the months to come.

I'm sure there are lots of pubs out there like this, pubs where the unknown and the unfamiliar quickly become the very much known and well-liked in a matter of minutes. They do so because frankly they are bloody good pubs.

If you run such an establishment good on you - and do let me know where you are…