THERE are few squares anywhere that match the majesty of that in Tremadog, a fine early example of a planned town that never quite grew to the proportions envisaged by its wealthy creator William Maddocks.

That a small village such as this should boast its own town hall with its own quintet of arches as a façade – now a fashion shop – seems quite preposterous.

It’s just one of a number of impressive stone buildings that form the perimeter of the square, lying in the shadow of the sheer cliff face hovering menacingly above.

Three of them to the delight of the weary traveller passing this way on the tortuous A470, or just the committed pub crawler, are public houses-cum-eateries. Another is a restaurant of some reputation.

The Golden Fleece is an inn that has long been a favourite among locals and those just passing through, a famous old coaching house that reeks of history and atmosphere as I push open the front door.

Turning to the left, I pass an intriguing head-height wooden partition behind which I hear female giggling and the clinking of plates, an early evening meal evidently forming the basis of an opportunity to catch up on local chit-chat. If not even downright scandals.

Sadly, I can’t quite catch what’s being said in this snuggest of snugs, which seems to be using an open door to the servery area as a means of getting its drinks. Meanwhile the bar proper is known as the Cave Bar.

The reason for this soon becomes clear as mine host – if indeed it was him – expertly makes his way around the arched one-time wine cellar that’s his domain without once banging his head as he pulls his pints.

The real ale offering is interesting enough, featuring the local Purple Moose Brewery’s Snowdonia Ale, Dylan’s Choice from the Ffos y Ffin Brewery, and that old favourite, Draught Bass.

I wimpishly opt for a fruit juice, drawing some strange looks from a man at the bar. who’s excitedly explaining about some brush with officialdom in very industrial language with another patron. The latter eventually makes his escape as his meal turns up.

Two other men grin sagely, nursing their pints like hot mugs of tea, as they sit in comfortable armchairs either side of a blazingly hot fire.

This black-beamed room is quaintly old fashioned, with many of the bench seats sagging contentedly as they think of the thousands of back-sides they’ve uncomplainingly accommodated down the years.

Every Tuesday night folk music aficionados make their way here for a jamming session that’s long been part of the weekly entertainment in these parts.

The bar menu features pub favourites such as chicken Kiev (£7.50) or scampi (£7.95), while the Little Ivy restaurant in the old stable block across the cosy and fully-covered courtyard features a more extensive menu.