When I first reviewed the Five Horseshoes at Maidensgrove, I found the regulars drinking 'Russell's Water', the local nickname for Brakspear's special bitter, which was borrowed the name, not the beer from the next village (the weaker bitter was 'Maiden's Water'). In between sips, they were singing the praises of the landlady's steak and kidney pies, which had just won her a place in the finals of a national catering contest. Twenty years later, this lovely old pub remains a place for puns and pies.

With one of high society's big occasions of the year about to begin a few miles down and I do mean down the road, one of the handpumps is dispensing Hooray Henley, a name which this time comes with the imprimatur of the brewery. And if you fancy a pie to go with your pint, you could hardly do better than a slice of one of the hand-raised pork jobs that are the latest speciality of the house.

Actually, 'slice' is rather a refined word for the vast chunk I saw on the plate of one of the customers as I passed through the bar on the way to the loo. Later, after our own delicious dinner, we found ourselves chatting to its consumer while Rosemarie enjoyed a post-prandial pint. George pronounced it one of the finest pies he'd eaten actually, not entirely eaten, for before him on the table was a bulging paper napkin containing a piece that was going home with him.

If such treats were not forbidden to me these days, I would like to have ordered a takeaway chunk, too. Aussie pastry chef Greg, to whom George introduced us, said we could if we wanted just as he also invited Rosemarie to ring in advance if we would like to see that day's special pudding, a wonderful caramel flan full of almonds, walnuts, peanuts and pistachios, served if we came again (as I'm sure we shall).

You'll gather they are a very friendly bunch here. Barely had we crossed the threshold than we found ourselves in lively conversation with the only other occupants of the bar. They had seen me photographing their car, as I got out of ours which was parked next to it. Well, could you resist snapping anything as beautiful as the gleaming green Aston Martin in which they had sped up from Henley? The 120mph DB2/4, the company's (indeed, the motoring world's) first hatchback model, dates from as long ago as 1953 and was, until recently, stored away in pieces.

Soon my Boots disposable was in action again to capture more beauty by which I mean not only Rosemarie but the glorious scenery spread out for miles behind her. I had asked for a table with this view when I booked earlier in the day. The staff gladly obliged in this as in so much else.

I was mightily impressed that someone telephoned to tell us that the day's special wasn't the swordfish they first mentioned, but bass instead. Rosemarie, for her part, was mightily surprised at being addressed in the fictitious name I use for making restaurant bookings. At the start of our meal, I commended more good practice when the waitress noticed that the wine glasses were still warm from the dishwasher, and placed them in the ice-bucket beside our bottle of herby Aussie sauvignon blanc (Heywood).

When I later learned that this place is part of a small company determined to bring back the best standards to the British pub, it struck me as a telling fact that it should turn out to be owned by a Finnish lady who appears to rely heavily on antipodean staff.

So what of the food? It was, with one small reservation, uniformly excellent, with dishes fashioned from the freshest ingredients and attractively presented. My reservation comes over the amount of seasoning course-ground pepper particularly being applied to the finished dishes before they leave the kitchen.

This was certainly the case with the day's special salad, which consisted of spinach leaves, rocket, pine nuts, parmesan shavings, cherry tomatoes, al dente green beans and asparagus. The balsamic vinegar dressing was really all that was needed for flavour enhancement.

On the basis that you can't have too much English asparagus in the brief period it's with us, I ordered a dish the day's special vegetable to supplement my salad. Shrimp butter came in a little jug to be applied in the quantity I wished. I should like to have been allowed to use my judgment, too, over the pepper, which was available a French import in mills on the tables. Instead, there was a heavy dusting on all the spears. Of course, it was easy enough to remove, as it was again from my succulent fillets of bass. These had been cooked on the equivalent of a griddle, to judge by the criss-crossing on the crispy skin, and served on crostini spread with black olive paste, and a salad of rocket, fennel and orange segments.

Rosemarie also had a main course of fish baked cod, beautifully white and moist, but marred slightly by the bright-green manufactured-looking (and highly seasoned) herb crust. It came with Jersey potatoes and 'summer vegetable minestrone' consisting of tiny cubes of chopped vegetables, mainly carrots 'macedoine' as we called this sort of thing in the days when it came in tins. She began her meal with a splendid chilled tomato consomm, which was served in a bowl nearly half-full of white crab meat and garnished with strips of fresh basil.

Most puddings were rather too sweet and/or creamy for my taste, so I asked if it would be possible to have fresh fruit. Once more, the staff obliged, with a big bowl of strawberries and raspberries. Sugar was served separately, to be added at my discretion; likewise, two scoops of vanilla ice cream. The latter proved irresistible, as, I am afraid, did a taste of the aforementioned nut and caramel flan. It was superb.