The Prince of Wales, Cleaver Square

Cleaver Square - named, presumably, for its shape, being similar to a meat cleaver. A great, wodging bit of steel, forged in Sheffield, designed to chop through bones. Good, solid, stripey-aproned, meaty-limbed British stuff.

The pub itself - tucked away, peaceful, a solid range of draught ales, and some great scotch on the back bar. On a sunny, warm autumn Saturday afternoon - temptation, surely, for the craven hordes to descend on a pub with outside seating - there were only a few contented locals to be seen, ever happy to stay inside, and the odd youngurbanprofessional sprawled out with the weekend papers on the tables under the small awning.

Some foppish young types mixing their cultural metaphors with a bit of boules n' ale.

'A country pub in the city', so goes the marketing spiel, and you'd be hard pushed to argue. A great, cosy, charming, Betjeman-y pub experience, nestled in between those classic south London siren-seared drags, Kennington Lane and Kennington Park Road. England, my England, all that malarkey.

Which is why it is faintly galling to report that the PoW's trump card is the fact that you can wile away the afternoon in the beech-lined gravel square itself, playing BOULES. Drinking their delicious, well-priced, minerally Cotes de Provence rosé. And a whole load of fun it is, too.