SHE'S been bad; pretty dreadful, in truth. Once the convalescent would have been fed boiley - whatever happened to boiley? - or Sanatogen and sweet tea. Now it was haddock and chips.

Feeling better for that? Like a comic cuts character in conical cap, still not over clever.

We dined at the Village Inn in Brompton, near Northallerton, not to be confused with sundry other North-East Bromptons - on Swale, by Sawdon - or the occasionally misplaced Brampton.

The most memorable thing about Brompton had hitherto been the night in 1977 when we spoke to the Women's Institute and learned about Edgar Hoare's geese, though there was also a jolly little story involving a feud between two of the other village pubs - Alan's and Minnie's.

Time dims details, but a telephone box was somehow at the centre of things. It rings a bell, anyway.

The problem with Edgar Hoare's geese, as with most others, was that they lacked what might discreetly be termed toilet training. Brompton folk having properly objected to what was happening to their village green, Edgar had fitted them all with nappies. The photographs went worldwide, some syndicator's golden egg.

Though geese no longer gaggle, the village green remains expansive and attractive. It's the rest of Brompton, edging remorselessly towards the tentacled county town, which has been the worry.

Once there was a mile between town and village, now there's barely the width of a cabbage patch. Someone in the planning department needs a green belt around the ear.

The Village Inn seems perfectly to reflect this uncertain identity, having gained a well illuminated motel out the back and itself expanded apace.

It essays a certain rusticity for all that, beams crowded with Toby jugs and cow tail creamers, blackboards chalked up with specials, wines and puddings. (The "blackcurrent cheesecake" sounded particularly electrifying.)

The Boss approached with care. The hardest part about going out again, she said, was having to get properly dressed and (as it were) to put a brave face on it.

She ordered mussels, followed by poached salmon from the specials board. There wasn't any salmon; that's how the haddock got caught up.

We ordered the oriental prawns with a spicy dip followed by steak and kidney pudding from the specials. There wasn't any steak and kidney pudding. That's how the lamb shank kicked in.

The inexpensive menu seemed particularly strong on steaks, each offered with sauces like Rossini, Parisienne, Diane and fromage, made with blue cheese.

The Boss would probably have gone for something cheesy herself but, inexplicably, has given it up for Lent, wandering desperately like some Welsh Ben Gunn in the hope of a tasty morsel.

It could even explain the illness. Can you get pneumonia from cheese deprivation?

Among the problems with her mussels fixation is that it's damn near impossible to think of anything new to say about them, there being plenty more in the sea. These were fine. Among the problems with the haddock was that the attendant vegetables seemed to have been swimming rather more recently than it had - they were thoroughly soggy - and that the chips, blanched and bland, did nothing to rescue the situation.

The menu insisted that products were locally sourced where possible, but failed to make it clear if this meant the local freezer shop.

The prawns were pale and predictable, vaguely spicy. The lamb, though tender enough, appeared not to be a spring chicken, either. It was served above a pile of vegetables - was that the "julienne", I forget? - and with what was described as minted gravy, perhaps as in monosodium glutamint.

Why on earth can't folk serve the poor thing with a light gravy and fresh mint sauce, instead of black shrouded in that stuff? Two courses for two, around £20.

The menu having been taken away, we decided against puddings, the lady's afterthoughts turning with alacrity to her bed. Size notwithstanding, the Village needs to think bigger.

THE need to be in Scotland - today's Backtrack column - meant that for the first time in years, we missed the Friday lunchtime session of Darlington CAMRA's "Spring Thing" beer festival. We also missed Amos Ale - a handsome, clear headed, distinguished pint. And yes it is named after who you think...

A CAF for all seasons, the tea hut on platform five at Newcastle Central station offers everything from Bovril to ice lollies. The Bovril was £1, but most welcome as the wind whistled off the Tyne. It was possible to resist the ice lollies.

STILL in Newcastle, a Korean BBQ restaurant has opened in Cross Street - "an exclusive insight," they say, "into Korean food and culture". What this apparently means is that diners cook their own food on a grill in the centre of the table and that parties of four or more spending at least £25 a head on food and drink have access for three hours to one of four "karaoke rooms". They're said to be exclusive, an' all.

As a Korea move, some of us would rather go where it's quiet.

AFTER the column's early doors enthusiasm for breakfast at Fortnum and Mason in London (Eating Owt, February 26) a gentleman from Gainford followed the recommendation but, a bit like the Big Bad Wolf in the apple orchard, discovered that breakfast isn't served after 11.30am. He writes graciously: "We'll have to catch an earlier train next time, but the black pudding wouldn't have been as good as Godfrey's in Shildon, anyway."

...and finally, the bairns wondered if we knew what Eskimos get for sitting too long on the ice.

Polaroids.

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