Our guide to the best of British pubs. This week, Adam Edwards follows the rambler's trail

The rambler is, by and large, an unloved figure in the country pub. He leaves his boots outside for the tired and emotional to trip over and bursts into the bar mob-handed, ordering half-pints of weak beer and mixed squashes. His anorak is noisy, his aluminium trekking pole is always in the way and - OK, I accept I am ramblerly prejudiced - the swing of his blue nylon rucksack changes the dynamics of a bar.

However, if the irregular rambling corps were to single out a pub in which its patrols could mess without discrimination, then I suggest it choose Rose Cottage Inn.

These vexatious strollers are meat (or should that be nut cutlet) and drink to the landlord of the picturesque South Downs refreshment stop.

The pub, as its name suggests, is a pair of linked, hanging-tile stone cottages that sit discreetly in the pretty village of Alciston, a Sunday constitutional from the coast. Inside, there are three small front rooms, with a clutter of tables and Windsor chairs with cushions attached. A tiny bar is squashed into the middle room, yet the whole feels more like a bohemian afternoon tea room than a tavern, despite the tin notice for Murphy's Extra Stout. Above the neat Edwardian fireplace is a reproduction Edwardian painted sign trumpeting the pub.

There are trays of free-range eggs on offer, home-made honey for sale and handwritten notices for bicycle repair kits at 90p.

Real ales and hearty grub is advertised on a selection of blackboards. But I skipped the Harvey's Best and parsnip, leek and ginger soup and went straight for mains - a pint of Guinness and a fine mature Sussex cheese ploughman's of Desperate Dan proportions.

Yet it was the lashings of pudding where Rose Cottage excelled. Raspberry and apple crumble and steamed ginger and chocolate pudding were on offer in addition to the eight tubby dishes on the laminated menu.

But most importantly, mine hosts seem totally unfazed by the fact that a stroll on the Downs is now a team sport, with specialised kit. They are happy to embrace the platoons of grazing perambulators, while I, on the other hand, looked vainly for the solitary Wainwright figure, with stout brogues and a wooden walking-stick, supping his quiet pint in a quiet corner.