An old-fashioned village pub within the city of Oxford. That is what you will find in Iffley in the solid red brick Edwardian shape of the Prince of Wales.

It is a lovely place for fogies young and old to frequent and eat winter comfort fodder, such as home-made pies or nourishing soup, in surroundings that made me — a fogey in his late middle years — feel comfortably at home: complete with swirly patterned carpet clashing wonderfully with differently patterned chairs in true 1950s style.

No fancy interior decor here to make you feel threatened by the modern world.

When the business desk took it into its collective head to have its Christmas lunch here — at the suggestion of Maggie Hartford, who first came here on a detour from a walk along the Thames towpath in 1970 — we did wonder what sort of business anyone would discuss in such a place.

That question was answered when we overheard one customer, who had evidently arrived by bicycle and was sitting high on a bar stool, patiently telling another similarly-seated patron about how he had discovered the wonders of the Internet, and had even succeeded in using his computer to finding cheaper insurance.

His narrative was interrupted, though, by a stranger asking the address of a friend living in Iffley. The two at the bar knew the address and the stranger departed to deliver a Christmas card. It’s that sort of place.

As for the food, I played safe and went for the good old scampi and chips, like I always do in pubs — and I was not disappointed, either: crisp batter, tasty shellfish, not fried to a frazzle; chips likewise to match. And a small salad arrived too, to keep me from worrying about the lack of Vitamin C and the possible onset of scurvy.

I need not have played so safe. Andrew Smith had the pork fillet with fresh broccoli and carrots plus potatoes which looked wholesome, I thought; not that I eat much in the way of meat.

He reported: “Good pub fare.”

Maggie Hartford opted for the beef and ale pie, made with beef from a local butcher, the menu proclaimed: solid fare, it looked too. She left the pie crust, though, I couldn’t help noticing. She said the pie was “really good”, but the crust a little rich for her taste.

Best pleased with her choice was property writer Gill Oliver. She went for the veggie sausages which, as it turned out, was a wise choice (she reported).

It was while we discussed the vegetables with the cheerful landlady — who clearly knew most of the customers well — that I realised something was missing at this pub, the lack of which was actually improving the place. Then the penny dropped. What was absent was the smell of overcooked cabbage.

A truly authentic pub of this type in the old days would have contained an all-pervading gaseous atmosphere of that vegetable, stewed so long that it resembled a damp dishcloth — the source of much mirth for foreigners, some of whom thought it the authentic hallmark of English cuisine in the 1950s and 60s.

Otherwise, everything you would expect in a traditional pub serving food was there: lovely solid table to eat at, a fire in the grate; comfortable armchairs. Did I just imagine newspapers on sticks hanging on a rack? Perhaps I did.

The assortment of games such as Scrabble, though, were real; not a figment of my imagination. Would it not be lovely to live in this part of Oxford and have time enough to meet up with neighbours here from time to time for a game or two?

Or perhaps, in summer, to aim a wicket or six at a dolly on the Aunt Sally pitch outside? Fond memories of the book England, Their England — set in the 1920s and written, ironically, by the Scottish writer A G Macdonell — spring to mind.

Seriously, though, for people working in the more humdrum parts of Oxford, turning off the main road and into Iffley village (with the former home of Mrs Graham Greene on your left), is like entering a different, more leisured world.

Bring a foreigner here, show them the Norman church, take a walk by Iffley lock, and then repair to the Prince of Wales, and your business with that person will prosper.

Nor will the coffee let you down, as it would have done years ago in an English pub like this, when the khaki liquid served up at the end of a meal resembled nothing so much as washing-up water. Here, in the 21st century, you get top quality espresso.

As for cabbage, I did see a leaf or two — and in a surprising and surreal place.

Peering through a window in the top half of a door adjacent to the entrances to the loos, marked with a notice saying: ‘Beware of the Rabbit,’ I did indeed see an enormous example of that species eating cabbage.

So that’s where it went . . .

Menu: Fillet of pork; vegetarian sausages; beef and ale pie; scampi and chips Drinks: Three glasses of white wine and half a pint of cider.

Four coffees

Total: £68

Contact: 01865 778554