O'er moorland and brae: Lobster and smoked roe

The north coast of the West Country is not nearly as pretty as the south and much of it seems to be reinventing itself as a surfing destination, so shabbily built ice-cream vending huts and thinly veneered surfboard stores sprawl back from what once were quite lovely unspoilt beaches. Progress.

Padstow is surprisingly small and teeters around a fairly ugly harbour sprawling along the waterfront. Uglier, even, when the tide is out. Most of waterfront is a massive car park, but the rest is heaped with untidy mounds of leftover fishing nets, ropes, old tyres and containers which look as though all sorts of creepy crawlies live beneath.

The village buildings, heavy on the grim slate siding, lean and wobble up and around winding little lanes which should make the place charming, but it is all just a little incoherent, old against young, slate against red brick and painted rock, and the whole doesn't quite hang together. But the mood of the place, particularly around the harbour, where a number of seating benches have been placed, is delightfully relaxing, and tourists hang out there, like seagulls.

Which is good, as thousands of people trawl the town, and load after bus load of tourists are dropped off at the harbour park from early in the morning. Luckily, there are places for them to relax and eat.

We remembered Rick Stein had a seafood restaurant here, but we had no idea until we walked the village that his company also owns most of the town: a fish and chip shop, a fresh seafood store, a delicatessen, a patisserie, a seafood cooking school, a bistro, a hotel, a gift shop, and dozens upon dozens of bed and breakfast rooms, along with cottages to let. And that's just in this village. The Stein brand is plastered over so much of the town that one of the locals informed us that Padstow has, cleverly, been renamed, Padstein.

We lost count of the Cornish Pasty shops in the village: in one lane there were three, one after the other, their windows laden with heavily crusted pasties, filled with anything from beef and stilton to chicken tikka masala. Some were double barrelled: with meat filling one end along with apple and blackcurrant pudding at the other. A traditional Cornish miner's treat: two courses under the one crust. We chatted to a Polish fellow running one of these pasty shops, and he said they typically close down in a few weeks when the season tails off, and reopen just before Easter. A bit like the Greek islands. So Padstow gets a wee break from the constant throng of tourists and has time to restock before another season starts.

We tried the Stein Seafood Restaurant for a meal. The interior is heavily modern: all shiny wood, hard-edged glass and big fake flowers. Which surprised us. We'd imagined harbour views, oil cloth, wooden trenchers and battered copper pots given Rick Stein's casual cooking approach. But no, rustic is not on the agenda here: bling is. Which took a little realigning of our thinking. The service, though, was top notch, from a goodly number of Polish staff who were charming, unpretentious, and on the ball. We had nine different dishes between us, though none of these was terribly difficult or terribly complex to prepare. Most, on a good day, we could make ourselves. In my case, a lobster risotto topped with fennel for starters; a broiled fillet of plaice for mains, and a chocolate tart, with a superb pastry base, for dessert. All of mine were delicious, but also expensive. 'Gilt edged corporate prices', one summer visitor complained to us, later, down on the harbour. Dearer than London, he said, where he worked as an economist.

Side dishes of vegetables had to be bought as extras, a trend that really irks me in restaurants. Fine dining dishes, I believe, unlike Sunday roasts, should have their own integrity. These dishes should be served with the appropriate accompaniments that complement that specific dish. Not a bowl of lumpen generic vegetable that covers any dish served at any table. Small rant. A pavlova one of us ordered was a disappointment. Even visually it was unappealing. It was just one of those rock hard lumps of dried heavy meringue that the French often make and leave solidifying in a sun-dried window of their patisserie for days on end until its taste and texture resembles caked concrete. However else could one get egg white and sugar to taste so solid and unappetising. Good crumbled in an Eton Mess mayhap, but not what pavlova is about. Pavlovas as we know and love them in Oz, come from the slowest of ovens: they stand tall and even and firm, but are soft and moist all through.

We stayed an extra day in Padstow solely on advice from another local we were chatting with who strongly recommended we try Paul Ainsworth @ No 6. We really have her to thank for what turned out to be one of our favourite meals this trip.

We have followed Paul, too, as a TV chef, so were delighted to try his fare. A basket of warmed breads arrived from the kitchen as we sat down: small loaves of roast onion sourdough, and long sticks of green olive bread, with whipped house-made butter, and a pot of delicious smoked roe for slathering. Topped, with, of all things, little crumbs of pork crackling. Already we were drooling, pulling everything apart to see how it was made.

The starter was a single good-sized salmon ravioli in a beautiful white bowl resting on a bed of fresh apple and fennel immaculately cut into matchstick lengths. A sea green puree, probably apple and fennel, dotted the base of the white bowl, and two waiters served the dish: one placing the ravioli bowl in front of you, the other pouring a hot sea bass bouillon from another white pouring vessel around the base of the ravioli until it marbled and merged as green as the sea, with the ravioli floating on the surface. This dish was pure entertainment. And the flavours had us moaning in delight. I cannot wait to try it at home.

The main course was lamb: a fillet of pink moorland lamb, topped with charred ends of spring onions, arranged over a brandade of oyster, spring onion and potato pieces moulded into a rosti the middle of the plate. A smallish portion, but melt-in-the mouth delicious.

Dessert was nougatine: a circle of semifreddo mixed with pellets of praline for texture, then frozen, and topped with drenched halves of blackberries, and surrounded by micro leaves of chicory, all decorated with blackberry puree swirls. It looked like a work of art, almost criminal to eat, but the little pops of flavour, made you want to beg for more. So good.

Though one thing surprised us: the mains and dessert were served on stoneware, not china, and how this clangs and grates and jars as you eat. The noise of utensils even lightly touching the surface of the dishes is like chalk screeching on a chalkboard: not the greatest when you are dining.

Still and all, a near perfect feast, for all of us. And, at nearly, half the price of the day before, a meal of skill and style, elegance and effort, that is one of our favourites, ever.