TO those who have seen much water under the bridge, the brewery tap will be familiar. Traditionally, it was the pub closest to the fountain-head; usually it was a turn-on.

Despite fierce opposition, Vaux's in Sunderland closed last year. The White Bear in Masham, long the Theakston's tap, was abandoned for 15 months - and by all accounts looking a little mangy - before re-opening at Christmas.

Though most of the ale is now from Newcastle, or Carlisle, or somewhere, we went first footing, nonetheless. Source for the gander, as it were.

Masham's in North Yorkshire, a pleasant little market town with a cornucopia of good food shops. Beaver's offers up to 40 different "award winning" sausages like pork with baked bean, white pudding and boudin blanc, which may be white pudding with garlic.

They also sell sticky toffee pudding from Cumbria in four different sizes and in competition with Reah's delicatessen, a couple of doors down, which makes its own. Since the column is an adherent, a resolution of the great sticky toffee pudding war suggested a just dessert.

Since last we were there, Masham also seems to have gained a fish shop, grandly called the Cafe Royal, with a menu that includes cod, jumbo cod, haddock, jumbo haddock and scampi ("not your re-formed rubbish".)

It was to the tap that we turned, however, and with a debate in progress about how the White Bear came by its name.

If it were a royal crest - Richard III's perhaps? - then why does the sign of the White Bear in Bedale portray a ship in full sail?

The re-invigorated pub was empty, fire blazing, today's column will prove even more incandescent than usual, Peggy Lee or someone similar digitally re-mastered on the music machine. It's been taken over from Scottish and Newcastle by Michael Theakston and four of his sons - once the brewery family - and is managed by Sue Thomas, formerly at the Farmers Arms in Helperby, near Boroughbridge.

The cosy little bar, immaculately polished, had domino box and crib board impatiently awaiting action, framed accounts of the day that Masham was bombed and a list of the offences for which long-gone locals could be hauled before the Peculier's court.

Drunkeness, debauchery and one or two other of life's occupational hazards were joined by telling the churchwarden to do his infernal worst on being requested to attend Sunday worship. There are several churchwardens of our present acquaintance who would welcome similar enactments.

Behind the bar the familiar white bear sat, stuffed, in its glass case; on top of the bar were copies of The Dalesman and the Daily Telegraph, the latter carrying a piece claiming that the after-lunch stroll has been replaced by a line of cocaine.

Not in this house it hasn't. The after-lunch stroll has been replaced by a kip in the chair.

Until things are fully operational, food comprises soup and sandwiches. Since both are very good, the decision is prudent. Carrot, coriander and parsnip soup came with hot croutons and proper bread and butter. abundantly offered. Sandwiches: egg mayonnaise, bacon, lettuce and tomato or Wensleydale cheese and pickle, perhaps, were solid, well dressed and attractively presented with a side salad. The lot for two cost a straight £10.

Since in the public perception it remains the brewery tap, however, an opening offer on beer prices - Theakston's bitter presently £1.75, Old Peculier £2 20 - would be appreciated.

Though resolving the sticky toffee pudding war will have to wait for another day, Reah's were still baking, it was good once again to see the White Bear showing its teeth.

LONG run by former estate agent Chris Close, the Helme Park Hotel on the A68 west of Crook has changed hands. John and Caroline Wheeler took over just before Christmas; Chris, recovering from heart surgery, still lives nearby.

We lunched heartily with a Canon of Newcastle Cathedral, an upright man who'd been reminded by a friend in America of one of Nostramadus's less well known predictions - that at the end of the 20th Century the village idiot (or words very adjacent) would assume the greatest power on earth.

Few would now argue; not about when the 20th Century ended, anyway.

At the Helme Park, the fire remains munificent, the views magnificent, the only real ale Theakston's (aforesaid).

Little else has yet changed - huge bar meals from around £7 which necessitated thereafter a stroll around Thornley, a hamlet a mile out the back which must not be confused with the larger and less scenic Thornley, near Peterlee.

That it frequently is, explains why the Durham County Tidy Village people made a right mess of last year's presentation, erecting the triumphal sign more than 20 miles from the little community which had cleaned up.

The western Thornley, probably fewer than 100 people, retains a church dedicated to St Bartholomew - who was flayed alive and remains the patron saint of tanners - a war memorial to eight gallant villagers, a horse trough, an inevitable litter bin and a village hall vibrant enough to stage a Thai banquet on New Year's Eve.

The tidy village trophy now stands in its rightful place, too.

All we could remember of it was that it was the home a decade or so ago of the chap who'd had about two proper nights sleep in 25 years and become the centre of much nocturnal attention at the Sleep Laboratory at Loughborough University. Poor restless soul, whatever happened to him?

ANOTHER common confusion, no doubt, is between the Black Horse and the Black Horse Tavern, different stables but just a matter of a few furlongs apart in Willington.

The Black Horse not saddled with a suffix is Wear Valley CAMRA's pub of the year. For easier identification it might be re-named the Oasis, for all the decent beer in those benighted parts.

We enjoyed a couple of pints of Adnam's Broadside, a friendly pub made more hospitable yet when the landlord presented a bottle of Charles Wells' Bombardier with which to salute the season. More power to his elbow.

CAULDRON Snout is a fair drop, too, named after a waterfall in upper Teesdale and for three successive years the North-East's champion beer. It's brewed at the back of the High Force Hotel, strongest and darkest of a trio that embraces the full flavoured Forest XB and Teesdale, in CAMRA parlance a session bitter.

How many pints make a session? If eight, say, are two a quarter session and three gills a petty sessional division?

Around a Janus among log fires at the High Force we tried one of each, forewent lunch despite something called triple-tailed scampi - apart from (strictly speaking) a scampo, what on earth is one of those? - and headed down dale to the Chatterbox, next to the Co-op in Middleton-in-Teesdale.

Lunch had passed, a pity since the board of home-made pork, sage and apple pie, perhaps, looked tempting. Sandwiches are interesting, too - cottage cheese, celery and walnut and chicken, lettuce and coleslaw both enjoyed with very good coffee and a couple of slices of moist sticky toffee pudding to follow.

In culinary terms Middleton has long under-achieved. Chatterbox - friendly, cosy, good old fashioned - may be a talking point at last.

....and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what's orange and sleeps five.

A council road repair van.