Why the country pub is part of the walk

On a moorland day, the pub is not an afterthought. It is the final mile. After six hours on peat and heather, with the light going and your boots heavy with bog, a low slate roof with smoke coming out of the chimney is as welcome as any summit cairn. A good remote inn does three things well: it feeds you properly, it gives you somewhere to sit that isn't a car, and it belongs to the landscape it stands in. Find one of those and the day ends right.

Reading the signs before you commit

You can usually tell within thirty seconds of pushing the door whether a pub is worth your remaining energy. The best ones smell of wood smoke, wet wool and yesterday's ale. Look for a few reliable clues:

• A chalkboard rather than a laminated menu. It changes with what the kitchen has, which means someone is cooking rather than reheating.
• A mix of vehicles and boots outside. A couple of muddy 4x4s, walking sticks propped by the door and no coach parties is the right balance.
• Hand pumps that are actually working. Two or three local ales on the go is a better sign than twelve badges with nothing on.
• A genuine fire in winter. Not a gas effect, and not a log burner left to die at four in the afternoon.
• A dog bowl by the door and a walkers welcome sign. Small courtesies, but they tell you a lot about the people running the place.

Be wary of anywhere advertising itself as a hidden gem on a roadside board, or whose car park is bigger than the village. Neither is fatal, but both suggest the food is aimed at passing trade rather than people who have just crossed a watershed.

What a moorland menu should look like

After a long day you want calories, salt and something you could eat with a spoon if necessary. The classics exist for a reason: a proper shortcrust pie, not a ramekin of stew with a puff pastry lid perched on top. Steak and ale, cheese and onion, chicken and ham, and in season, game — venison, pheasant, rabbit — often from within a few miles. Look for local cheeses on a board, chutney made by someone in the village, and chips that were potatoes that morning.

• A pie with its sides included. If the mash, peas and gravy each cost extra, you are in the wrong room.
• A session ale around 3.8 to 4.2 per cent. You have a walk or a drive ahead; you do not need an eight per cent hop bomb.
• The specials board. That is where the kitchen puts the thing it is proud of.
• Sticky toffee pudding, crumble or a cheese plate rather than anything described as deconstructed.

Portions should be generous but not ridiculous. If the plate is enormous and tasteless, you are paying for volume, and you will be sluggish on the last climb.

Timing catches out more walkers than weather

Rural kitchens keep rural hours, and they are not city hours. This is the practical bit that saves days.

• Lunch is usually noon to 2pm or 2.30pm. On Sundays, roasts can sell out by one o'clock. If you are still on the tops at noon, you are gambling.
• There is often a dead zone from 2.30pm to 5.30pm when the kitchen closes but the bar stays open. Crisps and pork scratchings will not rebuild you for a six-mile return.
• Evening food tends to run 6pm to 8.45pm, earlier in winter and earlier still in remote valleys.
• Many pubs shut on Monday or Tuesday, and some close entirely for a few weeks in January.
• Signal is patchy, so ring from the last high point where you had two bars. If that fails, check the village noticeboard.

If you can book, book. A table for four at seven o'clock in a pub with nine tables is worth a phone call at three.

Etiquette, dogs and the quiet rules of rural life

Rural pubs are workplaces and living rooms as much as businesses, and a little care goes a long way. Take muddy boots off at the door if there is a rack or mat, or carry a bag for them. Keep dogs on a lead, ask before letting them near the fire, and never let them on the seats. Do not crowd the bar if locals are waiting to be served; they may have driven twenty minutes for a pint and a chat, and they are the reason the place stays open through February. Say hello, ask what is good, and take the recommendation. Carry some cash, as a surprising number of remote pubs still prefer it and card machines falter when the line drops. If the food was honest and the service warm, tip.

The walk back and the fallback plan

One pint with a pie is a fine thing; three pints followed by a headtorch descent across pathless moor is not. Know your route back, carry a torch even in summer, and pack a spare layer for the stop. If the pub is full, shut or disappointing, have a fallback: a village shop with pasties, a farm shop cafe, or something in the pack — a flask, sandwiches, a pork pie. The best moorland days are resilient ones. Plan the meal as carefully as the route, and the last mile will always be the best one.