MAUNDERING along the military road between Downholme and Hudswell, in North Yorkshire, the column a couple of weeks back recalled being stopped on the same stretch a few years earlier by a driver seeking Bellerby Ranges, about four miles away.

Though an Ordnance Survey map was open on the passenger seat, he was headed in diametrically the wrong direction – and the lost soul was an Army major.

It reminded Robin Rutherford in Darlington of an incident during his time with Swaledale Mountain Rescue Team – and prompts something much more up to date.

Called early one Sunday morning to search for a group of soldiers missing on an overnight exercise near Reeth, Robin and his colleagues gathered in the field opposite Reeth police station for a briefing from the commanding officer.

“He seemed fairly relaxed about the possible loss of some of the country’s finest young men, reasoning that they were so well trained they’d find their way home, probably via the nearest pub."

The search teams – and the air/sea rescue helicopter – were just about to take off when a message came through. They’d been found in Wensleydale: in the pub.

THE Weardale Gazette, serendipitously stumbled upon, carries a paragraph on Teesdale and Weardale Search and Mountain Rescue Team’s involvement in another incident linked to a pub – the Tan Hill, England’s highest.

“After spending the evening in the Tan Hill Inn, the (missing) man decided to wander off across the moor,” says the Gazette, perhaps disingenuously.

In the early hours he rang the police to say that he was lost. By daybreak, the searchers included 21 members of the Swaledale team, 11 from Kirkby Stephen, seven from Teesdale and Weardale, several search dogs from across the North-East, the police helicopter and a number of police officers and vehicles.

Steve Clough, the Swaledale team’s rescue co-ordinator, confirms the story, but is reluctant to pass judgement. “He had had a good night in the pub and about half past midnight he thought it would be a good idea to walk the Pennine Way. It’s possible his own judgment was slightly impaired,” says Steve, magnificently.

It was early on January 8, temperature about three degrees and thick fog over the dark and desolate moor. The man, aged under 30, had been camping at the Tan Hill with friends. The rescuers’ main problem, says Steve, was that they’d no idea which way he’d gone.

He’d probably lost the Pennine Way within 400m, stumbling about thereafter for almost 12 hours, advised by the police to follow a fence line.

They found him – “almost literally bumped into one another” – at about 12.30pm, about 8km south of the pub. Fortunately he’d been well wrapped up; yet more fortunately there’d been a mobile phone signal atop the moor. “God knows what would have happened if there hadn’t been,” says Steve.

The wanderer was both embarrassed and apologetic. “He made a mistake, but we all do. He was genuinely scared and genuinely sorry,” says Steve.

“He could have lost his life up there. It was a mistake which cost a lot of public money, but I’d rather he came back with a red face and a hangover than in a body bag. He won’t make the mistake again.”

LAST week’s column on Burns Night and associated rituals resisted the only known joke about such capers.

Bob Jones, former president of the sadly defunct Darlington Gaelic Society, is unable to. “Perhaps you need treatment in the serious Burns unit at the Memorial Hospital,” he suggests.

Bob, still much in demand to propose the Immortal Memory, raises an eyebrow at the suggestion that Burns’ poem Parcel of Rogues referred to the English.

It was a jibe at the Scottish Parliamentarians who’d done a deal on the Treaties of Union in 1707 – “bought and sold for English gold,” as old Robbie put it.

“The parallels to the political situation of today are startling,” says Bob.

Such ignorance paradoxically confirms the wisdom, several years ago, of my turning down an invitation to propose the Immortal Memory at Durham University’s Burns Society’s dinner. Bob Jones says he agrees entirely.

The night before that column appeared, we happened to be playing 5s and 3s at The Burns, antecedents unknown, in Darlington. On Burns Night the Sassenachs had had haggis, neeps, a wee dram and even a Scottish quiz. Five days later, the Doms Night nosh was pretty good, as well.

IT was at Darlington Gaelic Society’s Burns Night bash in 2004 that the Rev Val Towler proposed so memorable an address – supposing it to be the Darlington Garlic Society – that the column asked for a copy. Sadly the internet service provider declined to transmit it, citing “rude words”. It meant “cockaleekie.”

As last week’s column noted, old Robbie was himself a bit of a rascal, fathering a large and indeterminate number of illegitimate children. That dubious claim to fame is confirmed by Bill Bartle in Barnard Castle.

Bill was once the only English worker among a decent Scots, mostly from Ayr, and thus learned much about Burns. “I hope that their one-word description of him survives your service provider,” he writes. “It was whoremeister”.

The Northern Echo: A medal, presented by Stan Laurel's dad in 1901 to rower James McKenna, and owned by Durham man Peter Jeffries

A medal, presented by Stan Laurel's dad in 1901 to rower James McKenna, and owned by Durham man Peter Jeffries

RATHER less serious Burns, the column also touched upon Stan Laurel’s Scottish connections, and inadvertently again underlined what a wonderfully small world it is.

Arthur Jefferson, Stan’s dad, was manager of the Metropole Theatre in Glasgow, where young Stan worked in the box office after a more formal education at Bishop Auckland Grammar School.

Peter Jeffries in Durham owns a sterling silver medal, presented by Jefferson in 1901 to James McKenna, a member of the Young Dumbarton pairs rowing team.

News of its existence crossed the Atlantic and reached the ears of another James McKenna – who for many years has earned a worldwide living as an Oliver Hardy double act.

Would Peter be prepared to sell, he asks? No, says Peter, he darn tootin wouldn’t.

The Northern Echo: Shanaya and family and friend

Shanaya with family and friends

ON November 29 we told the story of Shanaya Atkinson-Jones, a young lady from School Aycliffe, near Darlington, who’d won area and regional finals of the UK Open Mic competition and was in the national final at the NEC in Birmingham.

Last week, four years after winning Young Aycliffe’s Got Talent, the 19-year-old triumphed in her age category and was second overall with the Jennifer Hudson song I Am Telling You. There’d been 30,000 potential entrants.

“The place was absolutely ram-packed, u was amazing,” says Belinda, her mum. “We were going ballistic, Shanaya was amazingly calm.”

Floyd and Belinda Atkinson-Jones – he from Jamaica, she from Shildon – adopted Shanaya when she was three. Her former foster parents, from Swindon, were among the group of 33 in the NEC to support her.

All talk freely about the emotional and mental health issues which came with adoption. Singing’s her way of handling them. “Shanaya’s a totally different person when she sings,” says Belinda.

“She’s a proper diva. I’ve never seen anyone take so much luggage for just three days away.”

The shop worker now hopes to be fast-tracked through the early stages of X-Factor, to find an agent and to become a full-time singer. “It’s changing her life,” says her mum. “She’ll do it.”