After a search, I find a tiny one, on the edge of a retractable canopy at the side of the building. It's hardly bigger than a notice in the entrance: "No muddy boots beyond this point please." In case you miss that first time, it's pinned up again a couple of feet to the right. So that's muddy boots kicked into touch, then – a signal for former regulars that this early 19th century coaching inn has had a makeover. Muddy boots used to be part of its appeal. Ringinglow is a few hundred yards from Peak District walking country, with high, wild moors and a turnpike road one way and rolling pastureland the other – all very surprising when, as an old milepost near the entrance points out, you're just five miles from Sheffield Town Hall. The distant city spreads over interlocking hills and valleys – great sparkling necklaces of lights at night – and, on a clear day, if you're feeling at a bit of a loose end, you can spot six power stations up to 40 miles away. It's unassailably West-Riding and wuthering.

Until recently, the Norfolk Arms played up to all that. Stern, stone, foursquare and battlemented, it looked like a pub fortified against the elements. Inside, it was "characterful" in a brooding North Country way: dark panels, mullioned windows, rather dim, a bit workaday, a bit the worse for wear, with an atmosphere of damp beer mats: the sort of place you might have found Branwell Brontë slouched in a corner moaning about his sisters ("And another pint of your best Old Heathcliff, landlord!").

I took my London-based brother-in-law for lunch there one weekend. He downed a pint of strong bitter, worked his way through a swimming-pool-sized Yorkshire pudding lapping with onion gravy, and reflected: "I suppose this is what they mean by The North."

My wife and I used to go in after walks and tread mud into the carpets and no-one seemed to mind very much. But now, as we know twice over: "No muddy boots beyond this point please."

I don't think they need worry. New owners took over in 2004 and launched an upmarket renovation that has transformed the Norfolk Arms into a place no humble boot would dare enter (with a website, incidentally, that sometimes confusingly calls it the Norfolk Hotel).

As well as extra bedrooms, the changes include a restyled terrace, with railings that mask the panoramic view as soon as you sit down, no front door where you expect one, and a car park big enough to run the St Leger in. That's presumably to cater for wedding parties, which have prompted complaints from locals about noise levels. Inside, the aim has been to change the character, but the effect has been to eliminate it. The bar area is bright and suburban, but could be any bar anywhere; it's quite full, but subdued, over the course of this sunny evening.

The panelled reception area is a survivor of the old days, with a Laughing Cavalier and some clip-framed photos of Victorian Ringinglow. Beyond, the new restaurant is a smart reworking of what, if memory serves, used to be a family functions room (or family malfunctions room) with the atmosphere of a 1940s' church hall.

Now it's an essay in all-purpose, slightly anonymous, chic, with pale grey-tinged-with-lilac walls, black leather chairs and black and white tablecloths, curtains and African pictures. It leaves plenty of scope for colourful food. Lonely diners could ask for the table by the outside door, which offers two wall-hung fire extinguishers for company.

At 7.30pm, it isn't busy. One couple are just finishing their meal and a party of four business people are starting theirs. The three women and one man are having water-cooler conversations about people they fancy in the office. Roy Orbison sings about a pretty woman over the PA. I ask the waitress to turn him down. "Not a problem," she says.

The menu runs to five starters and 12 mains, taking in steaks, herb-crusted rack of lamb, a game and Black Sheep Bitter pie, and, for nostalgists, chicken supreme. The smoked salmon roulade starter (£6.50) is perhaps the highlight of our pleasant but unmemorable meal – light, bright with cucumber dressing and nicely presented. More Parmesan would perk up the roast red pepper and spinach risotto (£5.50). My wife leaves half of it. "Not a problem," says the waitress.

The stuffed aubergine and courgette (£10.95) is less bland, with the accompanying cous-cous rescued from inherent dryness by a provençale sauce. And the fish pie (£12.95) is notable more for its creamy parsley sauce and zeppelin-shaped topping of saffron-tinged mash than for its tough prawns; it's more of a potato-topped casserole than a pie. A shared bowl of green-themed chunky-chopped vegetables (courgette, cauliflower, leek and broccoli) confirms this as the sort of decent homely fare you'd enjoy for dinner
with a friend who loves cooking and does it well.

It's a well-paced meal, the staff are friendly, with a welcome lack of airs and graces, and the wine list is compact and cosmopolitan (£9.95 to £18.95 a bottle), though I stick to beer to honour muddy-boots days.

We have an agreeable couple of hours, but it isn't special. "I do like inns of character," says one of the business people across the room and an understandable pause follows.

As we leave, the youngest of the women is telling the man about the joys of anti-perspirants rather than deodorants. "They're wonderful," she says, and lifts her arm so he can have a sniff.

You snatch your pleasure where you can round here. Not a problem.

Norfolk Arms Hotel, 2 Ringinglow Village, Sheffield 11. Tel 0114 230 2197 (www.norfolkarms.com). Restaurant open daily from 7pm to about 11pm, but worth checking first whether it will be closed for a wedding or other function.