George W. Bush may have favoured the nearby Dun Cow for lunch, but the Nag's Head, in Sedgefield, has plenty of characters of its own.

MEANWHILE back in the Nags Head, the boys in the bar were discussing the imminent VIP visit to the pub at the other end of the green.

"I know Fishburn's a bit rough," someone said, "but helicopter gunships..."

Another acquaintance approached, a member of Sedgefield Cricket Club, inquiring (as in those parts, they do) if we'd getten an invite.

"Oh aye," we said.

"What, been through all that vetting carry-on?"

"What for, the Cricket Club dinner?"

That, perchance, was also last Friday, though by seven o'clock, the travelling circus had left town.

This was last Wednesday evening. Though no one knew for certain where the presidential lunch party was to be - Nags Head must not be considered synonymous with horse's mouth - the Bush telegraph had long supposed that the local favourite would be the Dun Cow, where we'd begun the evening with a pint of Carlisle State Bitter.

Very old Labour, it's now brewed to the original recipe by Darwin, in Sunderland.

The Dun Cow is a very pleasant pub, latterly taken to calling itself a restaurant, with rooms and with happy emphasis on real ale and carefully cooked food - a view, it should be said, with which the Telegraph's acerbic critic spectacularly disagreed on Saturday.

There was also a board headed "Coming shortly", which listed Rudgate Viking and Cameron's Bitter but said nothing about George W Bush and friends.

Though all seemed normal, you could tell the couple in the bay window were special branch because the feller was drinking orange juice. There's not much call for orange juice in Sedgefield.

The journalists, once recognisable by a trilby hat with a "Press" ticket in the band, were the ones with the lager and the laptops.

Our friend Mully, who lives and breathes thereabouts, said there'd been "furore" in Sedgefield over all the police intrusion. "They've no business," he said, but probably, they had.

Mully also reckoned that, when a humble back bencher, Tony Blair liked nothing better than a quiet pint on letter draw night in the Golden Lion. He couldn't do it now; they'd want him to play darts as well.

The Nags seemed no more greatly fevered, talk of the presidential visit having given way to the deflowering of Scotland on the television.

There were lads, indeed, who probably thought Air Force One was a freedom campaign for someone who'd snipped the barbed wire at Brize Norton.

Real ales included Bedlington Terrier from the Northumberland Brewery and Angel Hill from what they called Boggart's. We thought they'd said Doggart's, thus briefly rekindling memories of that much-missed department store in Bishop Auckland.

There was also a large and indolent dog called Murphy, which had he been a police dog, might have lost his buttons for spending much of the evening asleep by the back of the bandit.

A meeting in the little room at the back was occasionally enlivened by a weak whisper of applause. It was probably the Conservative Association. In the lounge where we ate - the restaurant wasn't open - the music machine played The Minstrel Boy to the War Has Gone.

Old George W would probably have signed the papers.

Murphy ambled in later. "He's not got much of a bite on him," someone said, "but if he sits on you, you're dead."

The chef, known as Antonio, was in his first week. He'd worked earlier at the Famiglia, near Darlington Civic Theatre, and still kept a menu among his souvenirs.

So far his impact is minimal, of course, but there were four Italian specials on the board - two starters, two main courses - and an English translation on a card for those who'd not been back to Sorrento for a while. Antonio hopes much to extend the Italian influence.

Mully had the deep friend pieces of chicken breast wrapped in bacon with a tomato and chilli sauce, followed by fresh cod poached in garlic with a tomato and white wine sauce.

Both were from the specials board. Both, he thought, couldn't be faulted.

From a widely varied original menu, The Boss began with deep fried camembert with gooseberry sauce ("lovely sauce") then had fish and chips, which were cracking in both respects.

We'd started with another of the Italian specials, which translated, was slices of the previous Sunday's roasts topped with a "hot" horseradish sauce - hot as in spicy. It worked pretty well.

The "Balmoral chicken" which followed had seen but a whiff of the advertised Scotch whisky but was otherwise fine.

The quantities were enormous and since none of the puddings was home made, we declined. Two courses for three were around £35 - excellent value, even on one of Gordon Brown's budgets.

Next time perhaps, Mr President.

* The Nags Head, West End, Sedgefield (01740) 620234. Food Tuesday-Sunday, lunchtime and evening. Beware of being sat on by the dog.

THE cricket club do was at Hardwick Hall, where the natal star still shines but the blue plaque remains conspicuous only by its absence.

Several dinner guests had lunched earlier with the president, fish chips and mushy peas. "I thought I'd want to slap his face but he was absolutely charming," someone said, "not at all like you imagine from the television."

Margaret Horn MBE, cricket club committee member and doyenne of the Conservative Association, had taken an altogether different view when interviewed in the street by the BBC.

They didn't use it. "They couldn't," said Margaret. "I told the truth."

OWNED for 24 years by William Fuller, the Drum and Monkey - that celebrated and strictly seafood restaurant in Harrogate - has been sold to Jan Fletcher OBE, who owns Bryan's, celebrated but a bit more fish and chippy, in Headingley, Leeds. The Drum has waiting lists up to a year. It'll be business as usual, says Jan.

A PUB trawl of the most extraordinary proportions has produced a 240-page volume called "A Directory of York Pubs, 1455-2003."

It's precisely that, details of 1,350 licensed premises in the city from the Crystal Palace to the Putrid Arms, and with 243 often evocative photographs. Many reflect York's equine associations.

Over the centuries, there's been a Flying Horse, an Old Grey Mare and two Saddles. There've been two Sea Horses, four Horse and Jockeys, four Grey Mares, five Horses Shoes and five Grey Horses. Six White Horses and six Nags Heads, seven Black Horses, seven Horses and Grooms, 12 Coach and Horses, 13 Blacksmiths and 24, yes 24, Bay Horses. Thirst for more? Published by Voyager, the book's £12.95, from York bookshops.

LAST week's column didn't go far enough in describing peripatetic chef Didier de Ville, now at the Black Horse in Kirkby Fleetham, near Northallerton, as resembling "a Breton Billy Connolly."

He's from Carcasonne, which as retired teacher Chris Eddowes in Hartlepool points out, is much further south.

A Breton colleague of Chris's used to dine at Didier's old place in Hartlepool, where attempts at conversation floundered because neither claimed to be able to understand the other.

Chris sympathises. It was like a Cornishman talking to a Geordie, she says.

...and finally, Richard Eddowes offers a little joke for classicists - the bairns being unaccountably hard to track down.

Bloke goes into a bar and orders a Martinus."Surely you mean Martini," says the barman. "No," says the feller, "I only want one."