Pubs which are chains, soulless, spineless, generic, mostly Irish or the family type pubs with world-class play areas but kitchens which dole out microwaved, warmed up, plastic excuses for meals – stuff that even my dog would think twice about. (They have big shiny menus, with carefully shot photos of the food you want, but know you'll never get.)

And then... then... you get the old English pubs which are so fantastic, so picture perfect, you dare not tell a single soul about them because they are your best secret.

I found one of these on Sunday by chance. It was in a little village not far from the A605. The pub was brick, built centuries ago (1600s), with wooden floors and beams, and more charm than you could shake a stick at. The regulars were cheery, the bar staff more so, and the specials chalked up on a blackboard looked like they were done by a chef who took pride in what he did.

Then a rock band plugged themselves in and started to play Rolling Stones, Radiohead and Commitments classics. The lead singer had a potbelly and a killer voice. I think they were called Grounded. Kids and adults alike all sat or stood singing along, and as pub bands go, I would describe them as exceptional.

We ventured outside and found by far the best beer garden we have ever laid eyes on – and we have seen a fair few over the years. Its chairs and tables were modern and clean. Its grass was vast and well manicured, with badminton and football nets in permanent position. Conker trees hung like giant beanstalks dangling just waiting to drop their treasure.

And behind all this as you lifted your gaze, miles and miles of rolling countryside. I even found myself admiring the colourful flowers, so content was I to be with my family in this place on a late August Sunday evening.

And even though it began raining, quite heavily, it didn't matter a jot. We, and everyone else, continued to enjoy the atmosphere that is so hard to find these days – that of the perfect olde English pub.