THE illuminated scroll in the bar, the one which recounts the legend of King John and the wolf, has been abbreviated somewhat since we first ate here.

On that occasion, the narrative seemed so long and rambling that I had visions of skeletons seated on bar stools, their empty eye sockets fixed on the latter passages of the interminable saga.

Now it doesn't seem quite so long, or maybe it wasn't really that long in the first place. Mind you, if you have a folkloric tale of this calibre you'd be mad not to milk it for all it was worth.

Here are the bones of the yarn: In 1200, the hated King John was deer hunting hereabouts when a ferocious wolf sprang on him and would have ripped out his throat if a plucky local, name of Lawton, hadn't intervened, stabbing the beast to death with his hunting knife.

The fact that most of England would have rejoiced had the wolf prevailed did not prevent Lawton being lavishly rewarded for his heroism.

Still, we have Lawton's valiant deed to thank for what I always think is one of the most alluringly photogenic pubs in the area. Few others defy you to pass by in quite the same way.

I once said The Bleeding Wolf could be the love child of an amorous chateau in the Loire and a flighty Cotswolds cottage. There's something French about the architecture, but the thatched roof is emphatically English (her father's features, but her mother's hair).

Inside, it has a warm, mellow feel that make its seem older than it is. The natives are friendly, and the food on offer is varied, interesting and not particularly expensive.

Mind you, it helps if you choose wisely, which I didn't.

Outside a bitterly cold wind was blowing and it was snizzling – a verb I've invented which refers to drizzle falling as snow.

In such conditions I find that a juicy slab of prime beef never fails to warm the cockles and defrost the extremities.

So I ordered the 10oz chargrilled ribeye steak (£14.95), which arrived slightly overdone, conspicuously bloodless and unappetisingly deficient in thickness and form.

The jacket potato, juicy mushrooms and onion rings the size of bicycle tyres failed to ease the pain of disappointment.

Herself, meanwhile, was getting on the outside of three unfeasibly thick and beautifully pink lamb chops (£8.50), with a port and cranberry sauce and a dish of dark and crispy roast potatoes.

Why is it that whenever I make a bad decision, she makes a brilliant one? And since when did lamb chops this thick cost £8.50 for three, and not £8.50 apiece?

To be fair, I'd enjoyed my starter of pesto and smoked salmon on ciabatta (£4.50), with a crisp salad, featuring some delicious cherry tomatoes and drizzled (by me) with balsamic vinegar, although Herself positively raved about her port and Stilton mushrooms with toasted ciabatta (£4.75).

I didn't really have room for pudding, but I can never resist a tangy lemon meringue (all desserts are £3.50), and this one was tangy enough for me.

Herself chose the strawberry cheesecake, which evidently had a kind of strawberry puree on the bottom and strawberry-flavoured cheesecake on top. It was "all right," but she was glad it came with ice-cream to offset the sweetness.

I think maybe I made the better choice this time.

As we left, Herself asked me if I believed the story of King John and the wolf.

"Of course I do," I said. "You only have to read Little Red Riding Hood to know what wolves are capable of."