It turns out that this place isn't really a restaurant; more like a bar that offers a limited selection of food. From the outside it looks a little tired and rundown, and these first impressions are only reinforced once you step inside. It's very dark and the place stunk of cigarettes. If you were being polite you could describe the decor as 'eccentric'. If you were being honest, though, you'd say it was a sad looking collection of British tourist souvenirs, royal family memorabilia and general tat circa the early 1980's.
I had what appeared to be some kind of beef stew. The meat was tasty, but that's about as good as it got. The vegetables tasted like they came fresh out of a tin and folks, speaking as a Yorkshireman, let me tell you that Yorkshire puddings should neither look nor taste like that. They reminded me of school dinners back when I was a kid, and I don't mean that in a good way; thick, stodgy, soggy, indifferent to the phrase 'freshly prepared' and bereft of any redeeming quality.
In summary, as a dining experience, forget it. Maybe this place functions better as a bar. I'm afraid I can't comment on that, having resisted the rapidly diminishing urge to sample the beer on account of the fact that I figured I'd suffered enough disappointment for one night.
I'd hate for people to think that, even as a bar, this establishment offers some sort of authentic British pub experience. Trust me, it doesn't. I've spent a significant proportion of my life in British pubs of varying quality and I can confidently say that I can only think of maybe two others that were as poor as The Bayview Duck, and I'm talking as a man who's vacationed in Benidorm!
Imagine discovering that you had a long lost great aunt over in England who'd recently passed away, and she'd left you her entire estate in her will. You jet over to England in eager anticipation, pull up to her tumble-down house and, upon entering, discover several important facts; your aunt was a forty a day smoker who, circa 1983, had bought the liquidated stock of a recently bankrupt souvenir shop, she hadn't updated the decor since purchase of these items and, finally, round about the same time she'd made some Yorkshire puddings, plated them up, wrapped them in cling-film and left them on the dresser in case her distant relatives from America might come and visit at some point in the future. You could stay and go through her possessions on the off chance that you might find something of value, but far safer to just get back on the plane and head home rather than face further disappointment.