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Sadly the reign of Simon Sweeney did not last long - less than a year to be precise. Urged on by out of date reports we turned up one evening having made a booking with what, on reflection, seemed to be impressive ease, only to find that he had put 12,500 miles between himself and Bay View for warmer climes.

Rendered supine by a grey, dank evening well laced with torrential rain, the sight of London Pride on draught and the previous evening's appalling skewered prawns that really should have gone back, we decided to take the easy option. Starters of sautéed chicken livers and a terrine of pigeon's breast suggested cautious approval of what was to come, the lobster mornay. Sadly the impetus was lost. The lobsters had certainly not succumbed to obesity and what modest flesh there was had been deprived of its moisture and flavour by overcooking which had also hardened the mornay into a resistant crust.

A somewhat austere menu yielded one pudding worthy of attention, whilst I chose to test the capabilities of the kitchen in the area of savouries. It duly arrived in fine fettle and I found myself regretting the same skills could not have been applied to the mornayed lobsters.

My Chilean Merlot - yes, I know you may regard this as a strange accompaniment - was good, and in the circumstances not so inappropriate as some might wish to suggest. But the star of the event was our waitress, a typical young student earning some pin money, who looked after us in a way which transformed a less than auspicious evening into a cheerful meeting of three people. Between us we made an otherwise empty restaurant a place of friendship and good will.

Little evidence remains of the Michelin star that Simon brought to Bay View, but the potential remains for the sort of operation he created, proving yet again that to give people what they want at prices they can afford is an unbeatable formula. Celebrity chefs please note.

Reeling from what might best be described as a salutary culinary experience the previous evening, we poled up at the New Inn for lunch after a tip-off from a friendly sympathiser. Despite the fact that it was the 1st of April and one of the red-tops carried a picture of Her Majesty piloting the corgis towards the door of the Knightsbridge branch of a well-known bookmakers, we ignored the possibility of a set up, and went for it.

If ever faith was justified this was the occasion. After some initial fun and games parking the car (tip: for trouble-free access both before and after, take a cab) we entered this simple, no-nonsense, simply decorated, honest pub, awash with decent beer (always four distinguished guests in residence) and excellent wines, and populated by cheerful persons of all ages and - I should hazard a guess - callings.

The place is lined with blackboards, all clearly written in white chalk only, announcing a wide array of dishes with a heavy influence towards seafood. Notwithstanding I decided to give the local venison a canter and served smoked with green fig chutney it more than lived up to expectations. The shell on prawns with a garlic dip were plump, and the taste of the sea clung to them.

My feelings about crab are well chronicled within the family but it took me until this occasion to meet the daddy of them all. He frowned at me from the plate, astride an interesting salad and surrounded by the necessary implements to bring about his dismememberment. Ample soft brown, nutty bread came in a basket, outside the sun shone, everything was as it should be, and the stage was set for twenty minutes of unalloyed joy.

Opposite me a seabass, clearly closely associated with the sea until very recently, was being eyed with delight, and so we fell to. Both of us enjoyed that satisfaction that comes with knowing there really is no better way to offer what graces the plate before you. A pint of Pedigree provided the ideal robust foil for my late crustacean friend and the Chablis which accompanied the seabass on its last voyage was recorded as perfect.

In one corner a large family party enjoyed their tucker, their dog beneath the table giving the lie to those timid souls who ban our canine friends from their premises on spurious grounds of health and safety. Next time - and may it be soon - our Jack Russell will not sit outside in the car. The whole place smacked of genuine enjoyment created by total competence.