It was around 1974. "That's the first time I have had wine served by someone wearing Wellingtons", said the diner, who was better dressed than most I had the pleasure of serving. I explained that the gumboots, proper rubber ones, gave a good grip when the bottle was placed between one's feet to get a good pull on the cork.

He never mentioned the boil-in-the-bag duckling a l'orange that the kitchen dispensed to a hungry clientele. Why should he? It was very good quality, just made somewhere else.

I am still a big fan of Wellingtons. In those days I wore them a lot, particularly at the Hill Inn, where the wet conditions behind the bar at frenzied rush hours encouraged beer-resistant footwear.

Back then, the Hill Inn had been bought, almost on a whim, by a red-haired brewery heiress from the Midlands, accompanied by her flaxen-haired boyfriend from Ilkley. I was among various friends who lent an unpaid hand. The Friday night crowds included dare-devil potholers, gallant lads and lasses. A few would demonstrate their agility, if not their sobriety, by snaking through the spokes of the wooden wagon wheel which formed a partition. "If I can get through that, I'll be alreet for Thinman's Pot tomorrow."

They drank long and hard then departed around midnight for a tent, van, whatever. Often we'd carry on, as it were, until the early summer dawn, almost impervious to the effects of glorious Theakstons beer.

Well, that Masham brewer has had a few changes in the last 30 years but their product is still on the bar, the same bar, at the Hill Inn, alongside its sibling Black Sheep from Masham, Taylors Landlord from Keighley, and Dent Brewery's Aviator. I'd ditch the Landlord in favour of Taylor's regular bitter.

The bottle shelves also carry an old favourite of those 1970s, Glenmorangie, and wine bottles standing upright, plain as you like.

There's a similar, down home, cosy chummery to the welcome. A spaniel cross collie, who we soon learn is called Maurice, yaps a welcome, one which gets a bit resonant as the night progresses. Eventually there are four dogs in the bar and about 10 customers. It's a Wednesday, the night before St Valentine's Day.

The cartwheel is still in place. Apparently old-time potholers have a go when they return to the inn, and many get stuck, reports Sabena Martin, who is dressed for warmth and has a ruddy glow. Imagine a younger version of Hannah Hauxwell.

Sabena and her husband, Colin, have been at the inn since the late 20th century: oh, well, 2000 if you must. There are a couple of letting bedrooms, magnificent views, and the proximity of dozens of potholes and caves. The Ribblehead railway viaduct is just up the road. The skylines are dominated by Ingleborough and Whernside, two of The Three Peaks, which pass as big hills in Yorkshire and make a reasonably challenging ramble or a more vigorous race on foot or a cyclo-cross bike.

So, there's lots of ambience and history. It dates from 1615 and, adds a synopsis on the menu, Winston Churchill used to stay here for hunting, shooting and fishing. Well I never.

Nor do we catch sight of Colin. He is busy in the kitchen. His CV includes work as an award-winning pastry chef and sugar sculptor for several gaming clubs in London in the 1980s. Some of his sculptures are in display cases in the dining room. They look as precise and as colourful as fine porcelain and contrast with farming and rural bygones in the inglenook. He judges at the big competitions.

The room is pleasant and unpretentious. Tables have calming green cloths. The walls are a shade of taupe. Ceilings are beam-supported and low.

Our meal gets off to a dull start with two Thai spiced potato cakes (served with chopped salad and a chilli sauce). The potato is soft in the centre and crisp outside, perfectly cooked and a hint at what comes later. The salad dressing is sharp but the potato scones are not the sort of thing I would order a second time. The salad of warm duck breast with tomato, olive and beans must have been more exciting. Or the salmon and prawn fishcakes, or the butternut squash risotto, which is also offered as a vegetarian main course.

On, then to the bigger plates. A red pimento stuffed with ratatouille and melting goat cheese is exquisite. The red pepper is soft, succulent, sweet, tender, all those things. The ratatouille: ditto. Two fried fillets of seabass are exemplary. They lie between al dente beans (haricot?) and the tomato and olive mixture. Very nice, indeed.

Main courses are accompanied by generous plates of vegetables: baby new potatoes, deep green broccoli, and Vichy (lemon) carrots. Once again, as near perfect as you might hope.

Alternative main courses included salmon and mussel chowder or beef and ale casserole, lamb shank on Dauphinoise potatoes or Seville orange glazed duck breast with parsley rosti and a port and orange sauce. Needless to say, it is all made at the inn.

Those with a sweet tooth may just as well go straight to puddings. Colin Martin makes all this too, from sticky toffee with his own vanilla ice cream, crème brûlée with orange and yoghurt ice cream, and some dazzling tarts, which display his skill with pastry. It is thin and crisp and tantalisingly brilliant.

Lemon tart is served with raspberry coulis and lemon and mascarpone ice cream; bilberry tart has a sauce of fresh berries, fruity coulis and Drambuie ice cream: now that's delicious. No wonder those ageing pot-holers get stuck.

Prices: starters £3.95 to £5.95. Mains £9.95 to £14.95, Desserts all at £5.65. Access: level throughout.

Provenance: Food is sourced to suit their needs. For example, the lamb shanks are from a supplier near Accrington who can supply uniformly- sized joints.

The Old Hill Inn, Chapel-le-Dale, Ingleton LA6 3AR. Tel: 015242 41256. Open for lunch and dinner every day except Monday when the inn is closed (excepting Bank Holidays).