The combination of lashing rain and knackered windscreen wipers on a pitch-black night ensure frayed nerves by the time I reach the village green and its pub at Chiddingfold.
If I were a hound, right now I'd really appreciate one of those dog biscuits from a jar thoughtfully placed at the inn's entrance, but I'll settle for calm reassurance at reception.
How was my journey, Marcus the manager inquires. Don't worry, he says, soothingly, mentioning local garages and auto-spares for the morning. Now, would I like a glass of wine?
He shows me upstairs to a centuries-old pale, beamed room furnished with solid pieces. It's a pity the four-poster dominates the room. Moments later Marcus has nipped back with a jug of fresh milk.
The curtains hang awkwardly – made for a track, I'd say, instead of that pole. The bathroom almost matches the bedroom in size, with comfy chair, roll-top bath and Ren toiletries. No time to waste trying to tune the digital radio, friends – who live nearby – text to say they are all in the bar, starving.
The fire's lit, there's start-of-the-weekend babble, and staff are pulling pints of Hammerpot Brewery Red Hunter and Langham Hip Hop. "Can we sit over there?" asks Catherine, pointing towards the dining room with its massive stone fireplace and stained-glass windows. When we reach a big round table, she nudges her husband into place. "Men should always sit with their back to the room."
Plenty of staff waiting on tables, no messing, and a menu of classics with additions such as lamb tagine and Thai green curry. "Is the pinot noir Romanian?" someone wants to know, as another observes, "It's a lovely room."
"Mention the preponderance of patés posing as terrines," says Catherine's husband to me, cutting in to his duck, chestnut and cranberry terrine. "Not in this case – not at all."
Pan-fried scallops are perfect, tiger prawns "delicious if messy", and oven-baked cambozola with caramelised apple and rocket a delight.
"Was one of your legs a little drier than the other?" someone asks, as two enormous plates of roast duck reach their conclusion. Coq au vin is moist and satisfying, game pie pleasant but suffering from too much gravy. "What's interesting is the age range," says Catherine, surveying the busy tables as we share stem ginger and damson ice-cream from a dairy called Jude's, then asks for a snoop at my room.
The Crown is no ordinary pub. Cistercian monks founded a hall here, in the 13th century, for religious men travelling between Salisbury and Canterbury. Parts of today's inn date from the 15th century, and it is thought that Queen Elizabeth I stayed in 1591. It has a crown post roof, typical of medieval Wealden buildings, and Renaissance decoration has been uncovered on the upper floor.
We dash off to find that – but in so doing, I have run out of space before telling you about homemade Seville marmalade, fresh bread and Loxwood sausages at breakfast.
I think you get the picture. A traditional inn, with modern comforts, good food, ale and wine. An all-round good bet for a winter weekend.
