I don’t often get out to the Wychwoods and for some reason I always seem to take a daft route.

Heading for the Swan, I made a wrong turning in Charlbury and ended up on a tour of West Oxfordshire that would have been pretty had it been light. Fortunately, we had time in hand, so we arrived for our 8pm reservation with a few minutes in hand.

I had wondered about the need to make a reservation on a Wednesday night, but it was as well I did as all the other tables were full, or displayed signs saying they were destined to be. (There is also a separate restaurant, but this is brought into service only at the busiest times.) Talking after dinner to the pub’s owner, Richard Lait, we gathered this is pretty much par for the course here; indeed, if anything, this night was less busy than usual. As ever, it would seem, nothing succeeds like success. The Swan has certainly proved a success since the former Cotswold builder’s takeover of a rather run-down business 18 months ago and its subsequent stylish renovation (which, of course, he was able to accomplish himself).

Richard had some previous experience of the pub trade, having been one of a group who worked to ensure the survival of the village local in Gloucestershire’s Coln St Aldwyns (‘Aga Saga’ novelist Joanna Trollope played some part in this too). Back in the 1970s, he ran a wine bar in London’s Old Brompton Road which I feel pretty sure I must have visited, there being very few wine bars I didn’t visit in that area in those days.

He clearly loves the pub life and has that easy rapport with customers which is the good landlord’s most necessary gift. We felt almost like old friends by the time we left. I see why his bars are full and hope that this may long continue.

The work of Alex Turner and his kitchen team also plays a vital part, of course. He prepared a delicious dinner about which my only complaint — and I will make it now — was that much of the food was a tad on the rich side for me. Instances: the oak-smoked salmon that I might have gone for as a starter was accompanied by both a poached egg and crème fraiche; parma ham was paired with black pudding, as was the pork belly. The tomato soup was laced with cream (or so said barman Eli, pictured bottom).

The night’s menu, however, featured some interesting things. There were, for instance, a tart of baby artichoke, spinach, walnut and goat’s cheese, and a salad of warm pigeon and chorizo among the starters. Main courses included calves’ liver with potato and parsnip purée, salmon fillet with horseradish crushed potatoes and roast beetroot, roasted vegetable cannelloni with a mushroom gratin, and warm chicken, mango, bacon and asparagus salad. Rhubarb crème brûlée, pineapple cake with coconut ice cream, and dark chocolate cheesecake — all properly home-made — were appealing-sounding puds.

My choice of starter was crab and leek tart with a mustard vinaigrette. When it appeared, however, it was instantly apparent that it would not be suitable for my low (ish) fat diet, as the pastry was of a very greasy flaky variety and there were quantities of cream in the topping. Rosemarie agreed a substitution and ate the tart very happily, while I had her pan-fried scallops (very high cholesterol, I know, but I do take a statin) with pea purée and a herb risotto, which had a good flavour of coriander and just the right ‘bite’ to the big-grained rice.

My main course was grilled fillets of plaice – two of them, perfectly cooked – served with nutty-flavoured Anya potatoes and peas with fried mussels and tarragon butter. All was very much enjoyed, and nicely teamed with the Steenbok sauvignon blanc from South Africa’s Paarl region. This was selected from a modestly priced list on which most wines were well under £20 and a good few under £15.

Rosemarie ordered omelette Arnold Bennett, the cheesy smoked haddock delight specially created for the great writer by the chefs at the Savoy Hotel. Ironically, in view of the richness of other dishes, this rather lacked for my companion the sloppy naughtiness of some of the best examples. I offered to cook her one myself but when I looked up the recipe on line (you can easily find the one from the Savoy’s archive), it looked a bit of a fiddle-faddle.

The hand-made chips with the dish did not look ‘hand-made’ — unless a hand operating the chipping machine could be said to qualify. Still, this did not bother my friend for the evening, an engaging black Labrador called Bella who gravitated to our table in the hope of scraps. I regret to say she was not disappointed. She had to do without a taste of Rosemarie’s banana tarte Tatin. There are limits to generosity, even when, as here, the bananas are far from ripe.