Topping meal at family hotel before cuppa woe

There were several tiny moving dots on the summit, a few more upwardly mobile figures intent on joining them from the lower slopes.

We don't know whether you can still take tea on top of the Topping which, as somebody once remarked, sounds like something you put on a dessert.

But having lunched so fully at the King's Head in Newton under Roseberry, on the A173 between Guisborough and Great Ayton, we decided to slope off in search of a leisurely cuppa at Staithes, where there hangs a much less satisfactory sequel.

The King's Head, deep in Captain Cook country, has been run by the Dickinson family - originally parents John and Iris, now two sons Stuart and Michael - for at least 30 years, which must constitute some sort of record for licensed longevity.

It means that the King's Head has managed to build up a loyal customer base. Michael said: "A lot of regular customers stay with us throughout the year. The Sunday lunch catchment area is quite widespread, with people travelling quite a distance as well as from the local area."

The only Cleveland restaurant recognised by the Which? guide, the King's Head was built in 1796 for a local landowner as his manor house and only a few weeks ago eight new bedrooms were opened in adjoining seventeenth century cottages.

The development has meant that the Dickinsons have a much clearer picture of where people are coming from in this popular tourist area relentlessly cashing in on the exploits of the sea captain with the apposite name.

Michael said: "We've had people from Finland, Scotland and America."

Under a roof said to be supported by stout timbers just as they were hewn, with the bark still on them, we found a busy but organised atmosphere of low ceilings, dark wood and ornamental artefacts including old decanters containing whisky of such vintage, at least 40 years, that Michael doubted whether it would be drinkable any longer.

We were slightly disappointed to be squeezed into a corner table, apparently designed for a couple of hobbits, where we learned that it was mysteriously illegal to buy, sell, use or detain a 1948 earthenware bottle on the windowsill belonging to P Bruce and Sons, of Stockton, who described themselves as botanical brewers.

"That must be the ginger beer bottle," Michael said.

The King's Head has a large kitchen brigade including five chefs working with local produce. Local beef, lamb and pork are the mainstays on a Sunday lunch menu which otherwise changes every week.

From six possible starters which included a fruity confection and field mushrooms with various accompaniments centred on Stilton, my companion chose a home-made French onion soup garnished with a cheese crouton and served with an onion baguette. The quality was rich, the quantity generous, the crouton said to impart a special texture compared with the nondescript, flavourless floating bits normally encountered elsewhere.

I homed in on Whitby breaded creel prawns, served with a chilli mayonnaise dip, a salad and buttered brown bread. The prawns were well prepared and presented, the salad crisp, the chilli mayonnaise so hot it had to be treated with caution.

My main course of a pork and kidney pie was discovered to be crammed with lean and flavoursome meat, topped with one of those nicely solid middle brown crusts rather than that anaemic, flaky stuff, although my palate could detect little of the advertised sage flavour. Either they had not put enough in or the lingering effects of the chilli mayonnaise were masking it.

My companion's roast lamb was very acceptably free from gristle, freely sprinkled with the mint sauce which was already on the table along with other necessary condiments.

Among a carefully prepared medley of vegetables which included Savoy cabbage and green beans it was refreshing to find roast, boiled and minted potatoes from Lincolnshire, which many people now consider preferable to Jerseys for flavour.

We wrapped up with a smooth home-made cream brulee, a delicate meringue pie unexpectedly containing cherries and freshly brewed coffee served in a cafetiere.

If any tweaks are needed, we thought that butter could have been in small covered dishes rather than those all-purpose catering things which can be a devil to open. And while the general service could hardly be faulted, we reckoned there was room for some staff to learn that brisk efficiency can be combined with a friendly smile.

And what was wrong with Staithes? Just about everything, based on this grim performance. While the King's Head had offered pretty good Sunday lunch value at £14.50 a head excluding drinks, it was mutually agreed that tea in grotty Staithes constituted seaside robbery.

Miraculously stumbling upon the only place that seemed to be open, and even then they were discreetly preparing to shut the door, we stumped up seven quid for two tiny cups of dismally indifferent coffee and a couple of slices of flaccid chocolate cake resting resignedly on a lake of supermarket cream tasting vaguely of vegetable oil.

Between 4pm and 5pm on Sundays in Staithes the cafes, the gift shops and even the ice-cream van appear sulkily to turn away what summer custom there might be. All except one bistro, bravely persevering in an obscure corner, but we spotted it too late on the way out.

We may stand accused of kicking the place when it's down, but we now know why Staithes is such a backwater.

And lest it be thought that we are unfairly singling out Staithes, we note that Robin Hood's Bay did little better for the convenient availability of good Sunday grub a month earlier, prompting a hasty retreat to Whitby.

There's a point to this grumpy little postscript. The King's Head clearly stands on its own merits, but anyone using it as a starting point for a wider gastronomic tour of Captain Cook territory stands to be disappointed in at least two of the smaller resorts.

Short of trying your luck in the overcrowded Whitby, it's better to seek proper sustenance in the coastal hinterland.