THERE are few things more quintessentially English than afternoon tea – and few places more suitable to take it than that Grande Dame of Oxford hotels, The Randolph.

A bastion of traditionalism, this gothic-turreted landmark has been serving fine teas, sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and dainty pastries since it opened its doors in 1866.

The dear old place has looked a little dowdy of late. Following that incident involving an over- flambéed beef stroganoff (how very Oxford), a year ago, the fire-damaged hotel has been wreathed in scaffolding – its beautiful entrance embellished with a rusty old skip, piles of timber and plastic barriers to protect pedestrians forced onto the road while restoration takes place.

While the work has seemed interminable, much has happened behind the scenes at the Randolph and the scaffolding is about to come down. This will not only delight staff, guests and tourists, it will be appreciated by those motorists forced to crawl along Beaumont Street. It also gives local people a reason to go where few locals have trod, and inside the five-star hotel to sample its delights. After all, why should the tourists have all the fun?

With that in mind, me and two young Oxfordians – sons Eddie and Danny, who had also never before ventured inside the Victorian edifice to celebrate the former’s 11th birthday with Darjeeling and cucumber sandwiches.

To mangle the travelling adage, it was as good to get there as to arrive. The Randolph exudes a classy sophistication which seems locked into its 19th century roots. This is no trendy boutique hotel or hipster hangout, it is old money – hushed, subdued and just a little chintzy.

In the mid-afternoon, its bar was full of guests drinking gin and tonics and reading newspapers, gazing out at the sun-lit frontage of the Ashmolean (ignoring the trappings of construction partially obscuring the view).

Around the corner, past display cases of teddy bears and souvenirs, and adjacent to a corridor lined with autographed portraits of the great and good who have all stayed here, tea is served in the Drawing Room.

This is the heart of the Randolph and it is full – though still reverently hushed.

We are shown to a table by the window – with fabulous views of the stone portico of the museum opposite, and a badly-dented industrial skip (soon to be taken away, thankfully).

Then, to the delight of the boys, the pianist starts up – with some spirited, and virtuosic, background music. It’s like being in a costume drama or Agatha Christie novel. I indulge my inner Noel Coward.

It being a special day, we pushed the boat with a glass of Champagne (for me, naturally) and fresh orange juice (them). The bubbly was dry, biscuity and, like the pianist, had just the right amount of fizz.

But the only real accompaniment needed is, of course, tea – with a full menu of varieties to choose from. We went for Darjeeling and English breakfast. I find anything more perfumed detracts from the food.

The tea was served loose leaf in a white china pot with an extra pot of hot water each. It was poured with a flourish through strainers, which were placed in their own little stands.

It wasn’t just the children’s faces that lit up when the cake stand arrived. Even as a veteran of afternoon teas, I was impressed. Bite-sized cakes, little fruit desserts in shot glasses, lurid macaroons, strawberry tarts and juicy chunks of fruitcake graced the top, with tidy little homemade scones on the middle shelf and bread and butter (which we ordered specially), below. Sandwiches came on a separate board; an array of refined treats.

While 13 year-old Eddie loved the scones, digging into the pots of strawberry jam, lemon curd and clotted cream with reckless abandon, the highlight for me was the sandwiches – with cucumber (of course), egg, tuna, chicken, ham and mustard and smoked salmon. And when my dining companions turned their nose up at the whole grain mustard on the ham, a round of plain ham on white arrived within minutes. Now that’s knowing your audience.

In fact, despite the stately-home trappings, the whole place was unstuffy. The staff were friendly but discrete and other tables were a mix of students with parents, elderly tourists and a family with a baby – who played along with the whispered hush.

At £29.50 per person (£36.50 with Champagne), it doesn’t come particularly cheap, but still matches what one might spend on a forgettable meal with drinks in somewhere generic. And there is a lot of food – so much so, that we trundled out with neat little boxes containing all the delights we couldn’t finish.

And, as a birthday tea for three boys on the town, it was priceless.

The Macdonald Randolph Hotel, Beaumont Street, Oxford

macdonaldhotels.co.uk