I wanted to go to the Brocket Arms in Ayot St Lawrence in Hertfordshire. The Princess (aka Paola Lombard) fancied the White Horse in nearby Harpenden, latest location for Jean-Christophe Novelli, a man I’ve avoided following my visit nine years ago to his restaurant in Clerkenwell.

This was so awful I was photographed outside with both thumbs turned down. Since then that place, and various other Novelli restaurants, closed for lack of public support. Recently he was fired from Brocket Hall, according to the owners, for not being in the kitchen enough. Novelli disputes this.

Being a gent I bowed to Paola’s wishes. I arrived at the White Horse to find a depressed Princess sitting on a ghastly paved area facing a busy road and a car park.

“It looks like a Little Chef,” she said plaintively.

“You’re being kind,” I replied. I wandered into the restaurant. It was Ikea on a bad day.

“This is going to be worse than I imagined,” I thought.

But God was on my side. He rescued me! A highly embarrassed restaurant manager said Novelli did not wish to serve me. It was all a set-up.

As I left a photographer had been called to record my departure. Novelli issued a press release saying nine years earlier I’d insulted his staff! I’ve met him a number of times since, even sat at the same dinner table. He never mentioned this. It was just a desperate attempt to drum up publicity. Novelli should get a life.

A local journalist, who rang me for comment, had been to the White Horse. She and her friends hated it. Sunday Times readers Malcolm Jacobs and Janice Lawson e-mailed, “We’d like to agree with your opinion of Novelli’s restaurants. They’ve all been rubbish.”

Now liberated, I drove the short distance to the 14th-century Brocket Arms. Ayot St Lawrence is where Paola walks when she has problems. And she’s had a few. Even before meeting me.

A nice girl behind the bar said, “You can only have baguettes. The kitchen’s overstretched.”

I strolled into the kitchen. Two men were working and a very pretty girl, who looked 10 years old, was taking plates out.

“Good morning,” I said, “I’m Michael Winner.” With these magic words Toby Wingfield-Digby, the boss, agreed to let me have proper food.

On a counter were two stews with filo pastry on top.

“I’ll have one of those,” I said. Toby advised one was venison, one steak and kidney. The “waitress”, Bethany, was the daughter of Colin who was helping Toby.

We went into a lovely garden and sat in the sun on a bench near a flowering cherry tree. My pie or stew (whichever) arrived with boiled potatoes and peas.

“Is it venison?” I asked Ben who brought it.

“I just deliver the food,” he replied.

Bethany moved like lightning carrying five plates at a time.

“They keep the staff numbers down,” observed Princess.

“If I employed her I could fire six people,” I mused. The venison was delicious. Tender with a lovely sauce. Very good vegetables. Princess declared her salad excellent.

I returned to the kitchen where Toby recommended home-made apple crumble with ice cream.

“What make?” I asked.

“Wall’s,” advised Toby. I like Wall’s.

A lady with a turban, Sandra, was helping out. It was a delightfully unpretentious family atmosphere. The crumble was terrific.

Afterwards Princess and I walked in the village. There were lovely old houses. A sign read, “Private, no admittance”. I walked in. A lady was cutting a bush.

“We’ve just been to the Brocket Arms,” I explained. “It wasn’t historic was it?” said the lady, obviously a reader. “Delightful and pleasant,” I said.

Then we found a fantastic 18th-century house. The sort I see in Country Life, decide to buy, and then don’t.

An elderly couple were washing up. The woman observed, “I suppose because you’re Michael Winner you think you can walk in here as you like.”

“More or less,” I replied cheerfully. Her husband had been a colonel in the Coldstream Guards. They were Jacqueline and Andrew Duncan. “I met you when you were skinny,” Jacqueline said.

“I am skinny. I’ve lost two and a half stone,” I responded.

“No, really skinny. You made a film in my house in Chelsea,” said Jacqueline. This was true. Oliver Reed, Michael Crawford, Rachel Kempson and Edward Fox sat at her dining table.

The Duncans kindly asked us for coffee on the paved terrace. Jacqueline had spent 30 years perfecting her garden, which was delightfully understated and very English. She runs a school for garden design in Pimlico.

Thus I was not only saved, but had a lovely time. Proof that virtuous people get what they deserve.

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