The problem with Chewton Glen, a deservedly famous hotel in Hampshire, can be summed up in two words: Peter Crome. He haunts the place. Peter was in charge for nine years. When he left six years ago I stopped going. He was the best hotel manager ever. Amazingly efficient, great charm and sense of humour, unique. Irreplaceable. Now replaced. So are the old owners, a lovely couple called Brigitte and Martin Skan.

New proprietor is Ian Livingstone who has a brother, both real estate developers. If they’d been there I’d have said, “Dr Livingstone, I presume. Dr Livingstone, I presume.” Tedious for them, but would have amused me.

Andrew Stembridge, Crome’s successor, is very pleasant. In my elegant suite he’d put water and ice, but no lemon slices. They were waiting on the dinner table. Why not also in the suite? At breakfast we got coffee, but no sugar.

The restaurant had a Michelin star under Crome. That’s gone. It’s not as good as it was. Chef is Luke Matthews. The bread was horrific, cold, clammy, tough; the menu unexciting. I missed the historic double-baked emmenthal soufflé. Nothing on offer said to me, “Ooops.”

The set dinner, including coffee, petits fours and service, was £65. That’s £5.88 less than the ludicrous Devonshire Arms in Yorkshire. Chewton Glen’s food is far better. The freebie pea and mint soup was brilliant, my lobster cocktail clumsy with strange mayonnaise. I left most of it.

The back of the menu listed extra courses. Nobody directed us to them, or to desserts that took 20 minutes. Normally they’re pointed out early on. I asked for more lemon. Never got it. Geraldine thought her crab starter was great. “Not in my book,” I said, having tasted it.

“It’s too refined for you,” was her response.

“The crab seemed old,” I continued. “Hope it got a birthday card from the Queen before it died.”

My main course fish was a bit overcooked. Not terrible, but far from great. The panettone bread and butter pudding, crème anglaise and sultana purée was too moist. English bread and butter pud is better.

On the way out we passed a lonely grand piano. “You had a pianist before,” I observed to Andrew.

“He got past his best,” was the reply.

“Why not get another one? It’s better than piped music,” I advised.

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