Its hard to get to the Huntsman past the dozens of cars parked around it, just next to Eridge station. The rail companies have just improved the service to London, but no-one uses the car park because it costs £2 and it is perfectly legal to park on the surrounding roads.

The Huntsman has had a patchy history – the previous owners were notorious and the present incumbents have done much to restore the pub’s reputation. It’s a real locals pub and many of the barflys look like they are part of the furniture and, consequently some of the overheard conversations are quite hilarious. Two old gents with plummy voices debating the benefit of speed cameras in Kent, one middle-aged lady complaining about the hard skin on her feet emphasising the benefits of her husbands skills with a sanding machine, and so forth. Despite the cosy settlement of locals, the place has a slightly eerie Straw Dogs feel to it. Initially you feel all cheery and settled, only to let a worry rash creep all over you.

Food is proudly chalked on a blackboard with grand titles and even grander prices. Q settled on a Med Salad. To say it was odd would be an understatement. An admittedly lavish cluster of crunchy leaves heavily bedecked with – wait for it - various pickles and – wait for it again – salami, gave it a slightly Germanic feel. A small bout of Bavarian face-slapping would not have gone amiss. My rack of lamb was very very tasty with a heavy red wine jus, but it could have been done for a bit longer. I like it falling away from the bone and this one, although cooked, could have benefited from a period of resting. The dauphinoise potatoes were hard and inedible.

Since I’d only eaten half of my meal I drifted towards the pud section and settled on a chocolate and cherry “stack”. I had asked quite what that meant and was assured it was “kind of like a Black Forest Gateaux”. I am not proud of this appalling weakness in myself and went for it without any thought of what this action might do to my already plummeting reputation. He shouted up the stairs, “One Black Forest Gateaux please”. “What?” “A Black Forest Gateux”. “Do you mean a chocolate and cherry stack?” “Yes, you know what I bloody mean”. It was fantastic – a pud highpoint of my many dessert-less years.

It was ten past two – time to get back to work and being the only people left started to get a bit uncomfortable about the growing stares and over-tidying-up around us. The door shut and locked quickly behind us at 2.12p.m. even although they were supposed to be open (and serving food) till 2.30. I’ll put it down to experience. M