Sic transit glorious munchies

This is Ross-on-Wye, the classic view, St Mary's drawing the eye up from the river and the meadows. I'm sitting in the churchyard now, perched on the Plague Cross (315 people buried together one dark night in 1637), using the happily-named free Ross-on-WiFi.

Everything is pretty, and pretty much the same: red stone market house untouched, row of little almshouses ditto, postcard view from The Prospect, same family-firm shops, same pubs... with a new one-way system to ease the horrendous bottle-neck in the market place, the narrowest part of the entire A40. It's all very pleasing.

Because last night we stayed at the Green Man in Fownhope, a Friday-night ritual pub, where the steak sandwich was legend, the cheese quiche a dream, and the chips the best in England. We thought about the Green Man chips often, mouths watering, how they made them from actual potatoes, and served them crisp and crunchy, but hot and floury inside.

The printed menu was the first warning, the sauce sachets on the table the second, and the absence of quiche the third. So it was no surprise that the chips were pale, flabby and clearly out of a freezer bag.

Good God, it's only been 15 years - is nothing sacred?!