My wife and I recently had occasion to pay a flying visit to the south of England, including meeting up with friends in Bournemouth, Southampton and Brockenhurst, a picturesque village deep in the New Forest. Looking for a base for our trip we visited laterooms.com, and after surveying the options it gave us we chose The Potter's Heron at Ampfield near Romsey, close to the bottom of the M3, at a room rate reduced to £60 (including breakfast) from the usual £100.

First impressions of the hotel were very promising - a fine old building with a thatched roof, half hotel and half pub. Checking in was pleasant and swift, but since it was already getting late (Friday night traffic on the motorways hereabouts is always treacherous in summer), we decided to have dinner before visiting our room.

We have an understanding, my good lady and I, that until we hit 40 we won't eat in hotel restaurants. They alway seem to be filled with retired couples, she in pearls and he in a blazer bearing a bowls club logo and a guards tie, eating in virtual silence because they've run out of things to say to one another. They're also pitched at a price range where, if your employer isn't paying, you want food of a sublime quality they don't usually attain. A friend who had worked at IBM's Hursley site just up the road had recommended the food in the pub, so we headed in there heedless of the receptionist's comment - or was it a warning? - that 'they have a new menu'.

The 'new' menu was disappointingly like every other pub's - burger, lasagne, ploughman's lunch - and I still wasn't sure of what I'd have as I approached the bar to order.

'What's on the Mexican Pizza?' I enquired

'That's all the spicy stuff' the barmaid replied, circumspectly.

'I really meant what sort of meat?'

'I don't know, all sorts really. You know, little balls.'

I assumed that she was still describing the pizza topping and not addressing me over-familiarly. Against my better judgement I went with it, out of curiosity more than gastronomic conviction, and added the missus' selection of the Fish Pie special.

A disappointing twenty-five minutes later, the same young lady approached our table bearing a plate.

'Mexican pizza?'

'Yes, and a Fish Pie.'

'Ah. Yes, I remember. There's a little button I have to press for the special...' and with that she was gone. Ten minutes later she returned with two plates. One contained a pizza now brown and dry - though the crust had miraculously remained unpleasantly doughy - but at least they'd refreshed the salad garnish. The topping appeared to consist mainly of thickly sliced chillies, and the only visible meat was some slices of that well-known Mexican sausage, salami. The second plate bore a Fish Pie so fresh out of the microwave that some parts were steaming while others were at room temperature. Being by now too tired after a day's driving to complain, and knowing the kitchens had closed, we simply ate what was edible and retired to our room.

The first thing that struck me about the room was how long it was, and how narrow the bed. Perhaps I've been spoiled by travelling in the States, but I do believe now that a four-foot-six bed is not enough for a double room in a hotel of this alleged standard. The lack of space in it was compounded by the area nearest the edge being unusable because the mattress resembled an oversized car-washing sponge and gave no support at the sides.

On entering the bathroom, disgruntlement turned to disgust. There was mould growing on the shower curtain, but an upward glance revealed that this was simply a minor outcrop of the harvest on the ceiling. I can only assume that the bath in the room above leaked copiously to support a fungal growth so virulent the paint was coming off in flakes the size of tortilla chips. The underside of the toilet lid was stained an off-putting brown. This was the kind of plumbing I had thought was condemned to remote history and National Lampoon's European Vacation. I've seen more salubrious bathrooms in student digs.

Retiring, cursing under our breath, we attempted to sleep. For a while we were kept awake by the excessive luminosity of the LED clock built into the television, which was so bright that it was actually casting shadows. Unplugging the TV solved that one. To sleep, perchance to dream of being somewhere else.

The next morning we went off with trepidation towards our included breakfast. Could things get much worse? No they couldn't - in fact they got a lot better. There was a fair selection of cereals, a complimentary Daily Telegraph, and a buffet fry-up where the judicious could stock up well enough to save on lunch. The fry itself was of perfectly respectable quality, the only major flaw being the eggs which had been cooked and left warming for a couple of hours. Afterwards, our contented stomachs lacked the fire to launch a tirade at the harassed receptionist, so we meekly and in true British fashion paid our bill and left, muttering.

Overall, this was one of the most disappointing hotel experiences we've had outside Paris. If I'd paid the full hundred pounds for that room - even in London, let alone a provincial village - I would have been livid, rather than simply glum. There are much better rooms to be had for half the money nearby, and I can only assume that the place survives on business custom from visitors to IBM. It's a real shame, because the building has potential, and the surrounding countryside is delightful, but cleanliness and comfort from the most basic of fittings has to be an absolute minimum, and the current management have failed in that.

On the insistence of my wife, I am obliged to point out that there was a wedding reception in the hotel on the night we visited, so they may have been under more than usual pressure. Also, she has previously stayed in this hotel (on a business visit to the nearby IBM establishment) and had a much happier experience, in a far better room. However, this was our experience of the one room we occupied in July 2000. That's all I can really comment on.