The squat stone church of All Hallows, in the tiny village of Goodmanham on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds, is more important than it seems. It was at this spot that, in AD 627, Edwin, the King of Northumbria, was converted to Christianity. The church itself doesn’t date back that far. It was built in 1130 to replace an earlier wooden Saxon church. But it marks the spot of one of the key turning points in British history.

Stand in the church’s raised graveyard, and you have a good view across the road to the village’s other great institution: the pub.

The Goodmanham Arms has long been one of former Press beer writer Gavin Aitchison’s favourite pubs -- he wrote about it in glowing terms in this newspaper back in 2013. It has its own micro-brewery, and has three times since 2011 been named CAMRA’S East Yorkshire Village Pub of the Year. Just last month, it got a glowing write-up in the Daily Telegraph.

So we had high expectations. Which is why our first view of the pub was a distinct disappointment. It is a plain, red-brick building which looks like – well, like a perfectly ordinary, slightly dull house.

Then we pushed open the front door... and fell in love.

It is hard to describe the impact this absolutely brilliant, magical little pub has on you when you first walk through the door. It’s dim, for a start - so dim you can hardly see anything until your eyes adjust. There’s the whiff of woodsmoke in the air. Then, as your eyes get used to the gloom, you begin to take in the rest – a tiny, wood-panelled hallway, leading to a wood-panelled bar; walls lined with old photos, paintings and bits of brass and pewter; ceilings hung with pots and pans; an old gas-lamp casting a dim pool of light on anyone at the bar.

Off this tiny inner sanctum larger, brighter rooms open. They’re furnished with big, generous wooden tables. Large windows look out over the village. There are more paintings and posters and old photos and plates on the walls, a careless jumble of stuff that seems genuine rather than artful.

We’d come for Sunday lunch and been warned the pub would be busy. I rang up to book a table, to be told – in the friendliest manner possible – that I couldn’t, as there were only two of us. You’ll just have to turn up, and wait until a table is available, I was told.

So we did. Every table, as predicted, was occupied when we arrived, and there was a short list of people waiting. We asked for our names to be added to the list. You’d expect such a system to lead to bad-tempered customers. Not a bit of it. The pub’s brilliant staff managed the waiting list with the same effortless calm they did everything else; fairly, and with no fuss or hurry. They couldn’t say how long we’d have to wait: it would depend how long customers took over their meals, we were told. Quite right, too. This pub doesn’t rush things.

We bought drinks – a half of Goodmanham-brewed Peg Fyfe mild for me (well, I was driving) -– and settled on a bench in the hallway to savour the surroundings. It was half an hour before a table was free. We didn’t mind one bit.

The table, when we got it, was a corner one, tucked against a window and with cushioned benches against the wall. The kind of table to make you sigh with comfort.

There’s no printed menu, just a board chalked up fresh each day. Vito Logozzi, who runs the pub with his wife Abbie, says they use whatever they have in each day.

There were nine mains to choose from when we visited: among them roast sirloin of beef with homemade Yorkshire pud, and slow-cooked Gypsy-pot savoury mince.

Lili plumped for the ‘succulent roast pork with homemade stuffing’ at £9.95. There wasn’t much of a choice for vegetarians, which would be my only criticism: just one option, in fact, when we visited: fresh pasta and olives cooked in an Italian tomato sauce (£8.95).

The meals didn’t disappoint. Lili’s three thick slices of beautifully-cooked pork were juicy and came with a rind of crackly fat. There were roast potatoes with crispy edges and fluffy insides; crunchy cauliflower smothered in cheese; smooth, buttery mashed potato; and crisp broccoli florets. It was, Lili said, one of the best pub meals she’d had.

My fusili pasta was equally good: the pasta spirals light and cooked just right, the tomato sauce wonderfully herby and filled with plump, salty olives, which complemented the sauce’s tartness.

There were only two puddings on offer - profiteroles, or apple crumble. We had one of each. The crumble was tarter than Lili would have liked, but my profiteroles were light and crispy, filled with meltingly indulgent mouthfuls of cream, the whole drizzled with chocolate sauce. The prefect end to a fantastic Sunday lunch.

The bill, including drinks, came to just £34. Great value, in my book, for lunch in what is one of the best country pubs I’ve been to.