A sign outside The Royal Oak at Ramsden asked the question: “Are Volvo drivers boring?” It certainly gave me pause for thought as I drew up beside it . . . at the wheel of our Volvo. If I hadn’t used an assumed name when I booked for lunch, I would have felt sure that landlord Jon Oldham had known I was coming. It seemed, though, that it was a complete coincidence; the notice was intended as a gentle dig at a local who had bought a new Volvo and then gone on to talk rather a lot about it.

Strangely, it was as a consequence of that same signboard that Rosemarie and I were paying a visit to the pub. A few weeks ago it looked as it does in the inset picture on the right, carrying the words: “I must commend the landlord on his shepherds pie, his ’95 Margaux and his rapier wit. Chris Gray.”

Since I hadn’t written about the place for more than 20 years, ‘my’ enthusiasm came as a bit of a surprise when a photograph of the sign was sent to me by a reader. But remembering that Jon has something of a name as a prankster, I was more amused than annoyed by his misrepresentation – and decided to reward him with another, long-overdue, review.

Lunch, let me say straightaway, was a delightful, civilised affair, with excellent food and drink, cheerful service, and courteous fellow customers with whom we could interact. Two of the nicest were sitting outside the pub with drinks, enjoying the sunshine and the sight – a truly glorious one – of their gleaming green 1930s MG roadster. They certainly weren’t boring. We had neither shepherds pie nor Margaux (on expenses!) but did savour Jon’s wit, though this was perhaps more penknife than rapier.

Sunday lunch offered a choice between a two- or three-course set Sunday lunch menu, which Rosemarie went for, and the à la carte menu available daily from noon until 2pm and from 7-10pm (9.30pm Sundays). The first featured soup, chicken liver parfait, moules and mushrooms with goat’s cheese; then roast pork or beef, Scottish salmon with a tomato salsa sauce, and pennoni pasta with mushroom and truffle sauce; with a selection of home-made puds (pancake with butterscotch and tiramisu looked popular) to finish. Highlights of the carte included starters of fresh oysters, baked avocado with cheese and prawns, and oven-baked baby brie, and main courses of half-shoulder of saltmarsh lamb, roast partridge, seafood pot au feu and chargrilled vegetable lasagne.

Our orders having been made, we were amused to find everything we had selected being ‘previewed’ for us as the same dishes were served to members of the four-strong family party seated at the table in front of us in the lovely old bar, with its log fire and antique settles. Fortunately, by then our hunger pangs were being kept at bay with a complimentary dish of olives, sun-dried tomatoes and slices of chevre.

Feeling in a somewhat reckless mood in respect of my low-cholesterol diet I chose to begin with devilled kidneys, a dish so good that it was worth being sinful over. The kidneys were juicy and tender, with no trace of rubberiness, and served on toast in a creamy Dijon mustard sauce with chopped shallot, enlivened with a hint of orange zest.

I continued with a grilled lemon sole, one of two blackboard fish specials (the other was monkfish with lobster and cognac sauce). This was a very large fish, perfectly cooked and served on the bone with lashings of lemony butter. It came with a well-dressed salad and a few chips as a garnish, and I also helped myself to a few of the vegetables – green beans, baby carrots, Anya potatoes, red cabbage and Brussels sprouts – that came (in a side dish) with Rosemarie’s roast rib of beef. She thought this excellent; the Yorkshire pudding and gravy, too, though she was less keen on the roast potatoes which had a slightly antique taste about them. There arrived, when asked for, steam-out-of-the-ears hot horseradish.

She had begun with classic creamy moules marinière, with Hebridean mussels so large that they took some manoeuvring to extract through the narrow opening in the shells. She ended with a slice of almond and treacle tart with ice cream, in the enjoyment of which – diet-busting to the last today – I gleefully shared.