THOSE thin, hesitant first rays of sunshine that carry a hint of spring always bring out the Mr Mole in me. I pop my furry little head out of the door, sniff the air, and decide it's time for a ramble along the Severn.

An expedition such as this obviously requires a Mr Rat. So I contact an old hack acquaintance who perfectly answers the description of Kenneth Grahame's immortal character.

Then, a time and a place to meet is arranged - and so it's down to stout boots, binoculars, penknife, plus a fair wind at our backs.

However, I've missed out the main ingredient of this day devoted to blissful abandon. And that's the pub that must mark the halfway point in the day's expedition. In my case it's the Camp Inn at Grimley, near Worcester, a hostelry that receives far too little attention from me.

I hadn't called for quite a time, but was heartened to find it still retains a unique charm that seems lost somewhere between 1938 and 1962. I don't deny that there are pubs up and down the land that lay on the log fires with shiny horse brasses glinting in the firelight - but so much of this is product and marketing.

The joy of The Camp is the authenticity of its welcome. There are no pretensions - everything about it says relax and make yourself at home. It's like walking into your own front room or slipping into a warm bath.

I'm so glad that there are still places where you can still take your dogs and talk to total strangers with no one taking offence and regarding you with suspicion. Such simple pleasures are fast vanishing from Britain. So - long live the Camp and Old England forever!