The Swan at the Vineyard, Lamberhurst

The pub’s large garden was busy, so that was a good sign, surely? First mistake – quantity doesn’t equal quality. Second mistake was not to turn on my heels the moment the landlord lifted a perfunctory eyebrow instead of asking me what I'd like to order, as any civilised publican would. This is a service business, mate. If you can’t even pretend to be pleased to see me, you’re in the wrong job. Third mistake was to order food. The Harvey’s bitter was fine and I should have gulped my half and left instead of waiting an hour – an hour! – for my son’s medium rib-eye steak with salad and my cod and chips. The steak was over-cooked, tough and little bigger than a beer coaster. The less said about his drab leaves strewn on the plate the better. My chips had the texture of deep-fried wood pulp, while the battered fish was squashed and dry and looked as if someone had sat on it. At least the woman apologised for the delay when finally she arrived at our garden table with the food, though it didn’t seem to be part of her job to bring us cutlery as well. Cars slowed as we chewed morosely through our lunch. I wanted to signal to them: don't stop - just because it’s busy doesn’t mean it’s any good.

The Swan at the Vineyard, Lamberhurst Down, 01892 890171

The George Inn, Frant

I stood aside at the entrance of this handsome pub in the gorgeous centre of Frant, tucked away from the too-busy road to Tunbridge Wells, to let a couple of active pensioners in stout shoes continue with their Sunday walk, having no doubt just fortified themselves inside with a half each of tasty Harvey's bitter. The George is that kind of pub, attracting hikers and other passers-by who will have heard about its low beams, friendly atmosphere and air of slightly faded elegance, but it’s definitely a locals’ hang-out too. At the bar a waffle of elderly gents in sensible slacks harrumph good-naturedly while at a nearby table, decorated with a fresh flower, a family of four leaf through the Sunday supplements as they wait for lunch, served here in the saloon or in the separate restaurant. The food looks good – I fancied fish soup (£5.95) followed by red mullet with tomato and fennel beurre blanc sauce (£12.95) – but not the wine (Gregory, the landlord, slightly harassed-looking but happy to stop a moment to chat, is about to give it a much-needed overhaul). Outside in a large, secure garden, which actually looks like someone’s garden, with trees and shrubs and other plants, kids run around and no one tuts. It’s that kind of pub.

George Inn, Frant, 01892 750350, www.thegeorgefrant.co.uk

Catt's Inn, Rotherfield

‘Hello, my darling,’ says the world’s friendliest landlady when you walk into the Catts. ‘What can I get you?’ which makes a change from the enquiring eyebrow lift and perfunctory greeting you usually get, and having become jaded by such indifference elsewhere you assume at first this must be an act – for surely no one is that friendly, nor indeed does anyone really look and act quite so much like the landlady of your dreams, with blonde locks, buxom figure and a juicy kiss for each of her regulars. By the time you find out she is actually called Annie Darling you’re convinced this is all a con. Or you would except by now you’re on your second pint of deliciously nutty Harvey’s Best and chatting like an old mate with Craig, her partner, and officially the world’s friendliest landlord. The beer in the Catts is great, the wine not great. Food is basic pub grub. And the décor frankly is appalling. But none of that matters for by the time you leave you’re already a local and darling Annie is leaning over the bar to plant a smacker on your lips.

Catt's Inn, High Street, Rotherfield, East Sussex, 01892 852546