AT Bondgate Methodist Church in Darlington, just across the street from the Britannia, Amy Kilfeather’s funeral was held last Monday afternoon.

Amy and her husband Pat had run the Brit for exactly 25 years until 1994 – the sort of pub which folk felt better for visiting even without the pleasure of a pint and in which just about the only three-point plug was to work the electric fire.

There was no juke box, no television, no one-armed bandit and (for that matter) none of the two-armed sort, either. Heat and light were provided by Pat and Amy – bright beaming, ever-welcoming, wonderful Amy.

There was conversation, superlative Strongarm, lunchtime ham and pease pudding or cheese and onion sandwiches – five bob, always five bob – and a couth, courteous and classless clientele.

That it remained that way, as both minister and eulogist recalled, was partly because of Pat’s propensity for barring those he didn’t like the look of. Sometimes no reason would be given – “I do not wish to serve you,” sufficient unto the day – sometimes it was for chewing gum. Chewing gum was a capital offence.

Amy’s mother was born at the Wheatsheaf in Staindrop, though she herself never lived more than 500 yards from the Brit. She’d been a bus conductress, he a driver.

The Brit, birthplace of the Everyman Library founder J M Dent, had been a pub since1859. Being offered its tenancy, Amy once said, was a dream come true. “There are so many pubs with themes these days and I suppose that we have a theme, too. Our theme is no music, no television, no darts. We believe in conversation.”

Save for the price of a pint – 1/10d when they arrived, £1.36 when they left – it didn’t change a bit.

Pat died in 2009, not long after their golden wedding. Last week we didn’t just mourn Amy, we mourned the death of the quiet pub.

THERE will have been four funerals in a fortnight, unusually all female. Mary Lowes’s was held at Barnard Castle Methodist church last Thursday.

Mary – “authentic and consistent in all that she did,” said the Rev Richard Hunter, her eulogist – had a lifelong love affair with Teesdale, but particularly with Newbiggin Methodist Church, the oldest in continuous use.

Born in a gamekeeper’s cottage near Barney, she travelled to Bishop Auckland Girls’ Grammar School by train, became head of Corporation Road School in Darlington, but moved up to the tiny Forest-in-Teesdale school, where her nature walks are still affectionately remembered.

She wrote many books on Teesdale places and people, was a Methodist local preacher for more than 50 years – initially travelling the dale on a motor scooter – and a formidable organiser.

A veritable manse of ministers helped swell the congregation, all aware that after almost 260 years, Newbiggin chapel will hold its closing service next May. The final carols and mince pies service – Tuesday, December 13, 10.45am – appears unmissable.

Mary was 93. “She’ll still be organising things, you can be sure of that,” said Mr Hunter, “though I don’t know what she’d make of Mr Trump.”

JUDITH HOWE, one of the Timothy Hackworth class of '58, died 11 days ago. There were 50 of us, taught by Tom Coates. All but three passed the 11-plus.

Though numbers begin inexorably to dwindle, Mr Coates survives to tell the improbable story of scholarship and may yet outlive the lot of us.

Judith Thompson, as then she was, had shifted south when she met Gareth Howe and, as good sense dictated, moved with him back to Shildon.

Gareth became secretary of both Elm Road Workmen’s Club and of Shildon AFC - ideal home, their house adjoined the football ground – and served two terms as Shildon’s mayor, Judith his ever-supportive consort.

Her funeral is at St John’s church, Shildon, at 12.30pm on Thursday.

WE also say a fond farewell to the lovely Rita Everett, once described as “loquacious” in a licensed trade magazine and chuffed to bits until someone told her what it meant. Much teased hereabouts, she was the matriarch of Darlington Snooker Club where Peter, one of her three grand lads, is licensee. Rita, who was 74 and had been unwell for some time, still talked the talk even when unable to walk the walk. Her funeral’s at the crematorium at 11.45am next Monday. We may not have heard the last of her.

AGAIN in Barnard Castle, we marked another birthday at Blagraves House restaurant, venue of the last-ever Eating Owt column in 2011.

Without regret, we’d left that particular journalistic table after 26 years. “The requirement to write 1,200 words about it is not a good accompaniment to a meal,” the final column noted. “Much rather HP sauce, or possibly a pint of Strongarm.”

Ken and Elizabeth Marley have had Blagraves, reckoned the town’s oldest house, for 28 years – the setting uniquely relaxing, the food outstanding (three course table d’hote £27.95), the service seamless.

Now they, too, are retiring – an invitation, if ever there was, to toast sharpish by their magnificent fires.

Several interested parties have already visited. Some contemplate restaurant use, others residential. Whatever happens, the Marleys’ ghost will be around Blagraves for an awfully long time yet.

BIRTHDAY celebrations extended a few days later to a £25-a-head gin evening – gin and memorable canapes – at Middleton Lodge, near Scotch Corner.

Gin’s the thing right now, the number of British distilleries doubled from 116 to 233 in the past five years and more than half of it knocked back by the under-35s. Waitrose alone sells 43 varieties.

At Middleton Lodge, four-fifths of those attending female under-35s, they offered gins from Plymouth, London and Bedale (honest). Karl and Catherine Mason operate with a still called Steve from an industrial unit at Aiskew.

Gin growth was exponential, said the lady who talked us through it – probably something to do with what they put on the juniper bushes.

In with the gin crowd? It has to be said that, while the birthday girl greatly enjoyed the occasion, some of us stuck to a couple of pints of Old Incorrigible, instead.

...AND finally, the column a couple of weeks back recalled a lengthy pupil's poem, surreptitiously produced at Bishop Auckland Grammar School in protest at the 1950s stick-with-it regime of Edward Deans, the headmaster.

It reminded John Brennan of his 1960s days at St Aidan’s in Sunderland, run with a similar rod of iron – or tawse, at any rate – by the Irish Christian Brothers.

St Aidan’s “underground” magazine included John’s somewhat unorthodox piece on the school football team, which he captained – “it didn’t go down well at all,” he remembers.

Himself a retired head teacher though of an altogether less corporal calling, he also included a photograph of wrestlers Jackie Pallo and Mick McManus rolling round in their swimming trunks.

The caption was “Spot the ball”. Whatever can it have meant?