When about to write this piece I thought it might be appropriate to commence something like, "should anybody out there be about to start writing a book on eccentric pubs, they might do a lot worse than to list The Angel at Larling". Quick reference to our googling friends reveals, of course, that several trillion people have already had the same idea, but this does not remove the validity of my judgement.

It's a real peach, in the middle of a singularly bleak bit of Norfolk countryside, with a fiercely parochial customer base that is supplemented at the weekends by a far more widely spread congregation who regard The Angel as their personal Shangri-la.

Not unnaturally the ales on offer are of a specialist nature - well maybe you had heard of Crouch Vale Amarillo from Essex - and class distinction is alive and well and works to the advantage of all except the seriously prickly who have mainly gone elsewhere. So scooter-owners in the public bar meet the odd cravat from the saloon and exchange amiable banter in the loos/toilets.

There are some fifty or so dishes from which to choose at prices that would bring crocodile tears to the eyes of the average company accountant, but one of the advantages of being sturdily independent is that the owner can project dust and derision in his/her direction. And no, that is not code for 'croc steaks on the menu'.

For a fun time call in at The Angel - you might just form a weekend habit in the process.