It felt like a game of two halves. Walking into The Smuggler’s Rest the first impression I got was of a well-ordered old folks’ home.

The entrance hall and the orderly nature, added to the fact it felt like a bungalow fitted with H&S measures, just made it feel a bit institutional.

However, as we’d approached the bar and headed left I realised we were in the section which could be considered more restaurant than pub.

Fortunately, being worldly wise, when I spotted the iPad at the bar I immediately realised it was linked to the car park and dutifully entered my registration number.

I certainly wasn’t prompted to do so by anyone but am reliably assured that if you don’t fall in line you will be fined, even if you are drinking at the bar.

There were a couple of ales on offer, both with a Cornish connection, I selected the 4.2 per cent Tribute over the slightly heavier and fruitier Doom Bar option.

Mrs P played it safe with a G&T and headed straight for a seat by an open fire – not a straightforward choice as there were three roaring fires.

The barman chucked the first glass on the floor and the second one simply fell apart in his hands.

He explained that after passing through a red-hot glass washing machine the pint glasses become so weakened the bottoms just fall out of them whenever you pick them up – first time I’ve heard this.

With my third time lucky pint I took a seat next to a blazing fire that opened up on both sides – crikey, it was as warm as an old person’s place too.

It was at this point I noticed the reason my glass hadn’t broken was because it hadn’t gone through the washer.

I couldn’t face another change, and another wait so decided I could put up with a dirty glass.

However, the place wasn’t just attracting pensioners – at the other end of the scale was a babe-in-arms just a few weeks old, wow it had a pair of lungs on it.

So, now more of a creche than an old folks’ place.

I felt a bit sorry for the first-time parents who did lots of shushing and obviously felt a tad self-conscious, though they shouldn’t have done. After a short while the solution was found when a boobie was whipped out and peace and quiet was restored. I'm a strong supporter of the right to breastfeed in public.

Even the decoration, tasteful tartan, cushions, an old pop bottle with flowers, imitation horse brasses, reminded me of an institution rather than a boozer.

Despite looking like a bungalow from the outside, the toilets are upstairs and I can report they were clean, fresh-smelling and completely ungraffitied.

It was on my way back from the gents I realised the right- hand side of the pub is very non-restaurant and was besieged by a large number of groups of blokes.

Then the penny dropped – Chelsea were playing Man U. Mrs P who’s a good sport, not to mention a dreaded Red Devil, agreed to switch sides and make a very small dent in the gender balance in the section of the boozer equipped with several screens.

I felt a lot more at home on this side of the pub with an Estrella in my hand.

It was obviously dark when I was in, but I got the distinct impression there must be some great daytime views available from certain windows overlooking the sea.

Through one I spied a number of chairs stacked up and sitting outside must be great in the summer.

I also spotted something called a doggie hydration station, though I assume it’s a tap and a bowl.

A bit surprising as there were already four dog bowls among a collection of logs in the entrance hall.

For those wondering, dogs are very welcome among the babes and pensioners.

The place certainly isn’t a disaster, but it could easily be so much better.

The best I can say is that it’s OK with sad touches and the staff look as if the world might end at any time.

The glass pot on our table had a tatty paper sticker showing the number, in fact, all the tables had the same.

The barmaid pushed the pudding platter, costing a little under £9, just a little too hard, particularly as we weren’t eating.

And, they’ve failed to resist putting fairy lights around the bar.

There’s even a pair of green wellies left by the door that clearly weren’t left by a punter.

The second half was better than the first and it’s certainly trying hard.

However, it fell more than a little short and while I wasn’t quite as sick as a parrot, there really isn’t anything that would

attract me back to the Smuggler’s Rest.

A pity, as this part of the world isn’t awash with decent pubs.