The Travel Critic

Yes yes yes. A great pub. Everything a pub should be. None of your distressed brick and faux industrial nonsense, no ironic lighting or Shoreditch wankery masquerading as “authenticity”. The King’s Arms is the real thing, the sort of pub that’s been around since God was a boy and still smells faintly of ale, wood smoke and academia.

We went for Saturday lunch, as a family, and the place was absolutely heaving. Every table taken, the bar lined with students pretending to revise and grown-ups pretending not to be jealous of them. The hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the general low-level chaos of a proper busy pub in full weekend swing. It’s glorious.

The menu is classic but confident, British fare done right, with just enough flair to make you nod approvingly rather than roll your eyes. The sausage and mash (which I maintain is one of the great culinary tests of a pub kitchen) was spot on. The mash was creamy without being smug, the gravy thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, and the sausages properly meaty. But it was the pork crackling crumb, yes, really, that took it from “ah, nice” to “oh, you clever bastards”. Salty, crunchy, savoury genius.

Beer? Excellent. None of your triple hopped yuzu saison nonsense. Just good, cold pints of things with names like Brakspear and Hooky that taste the way beer ought to taste, slightly bitter, slightly warm, and entirely moreish.

And the decor? It looks like… a pub. Wooden tables that have seen things. Pictures of old Oxford. A proper bar. Not a bloody filament bulb or faux velvet pouffe in sight. You could close your eyes and still know exactly where you are, a centuries old boozer serving people who actually came for a pint, not a post for Instagram.

So yes, yes, yes. A great pub. If you want a beer, go here. If you want food, go here. If you want to remember what pubs used to feel like before someone decided they needed to be “conceptualised”, then for God’s sake, go here. Top notch.