The column finds plenty to be hopeful about in the stirring community of The Cornforths.

A Band of Hope was started at Holy Trinity, West Cornforth, in 1888 and folded just two years later. The village, even then, might have been considered a Hope less case.

Even at the church's consecration, September 21 1868, the vicar had bemoaned the fact that so few former Sunday School boys still attended services - either because of Sunday working at ironworks or colliery or because they'd taken to the demon drink.

Drink, the vicar added, was a great evil in Cornforth.

Getting on 140 years later and problems, recently much publicised, remain. These days it's called anti-social behaviour, confined neither to West Cornforth nor to alcohol abuse.

At Holy Trinity, for all that, they walk with hope - real hope - in their heart.

West Cornforth's near Ferryhill in Co Durham, immediately next to Old Cornforth and, since few know where one ends and t'other begins, known for convenience as The Cornforths.

More familiarly, however, the village is simply - almost universally - Doggy. "How West Cornforth came to be called Doggy has puzzled people for many years," writes Robin Walton in his admirable 1991 history of the locality, adding with commendable but rather unhelpful candour that he doesn't know, either.

The most popular theory, he says, concerns the large number of dogs, chiefly whippets, said once to have roamed round the place - though parish council vice-chairman Andy Denholm is pretty sure they're barking up the wrong tree.

It's a reference, he thinks, to an industrial by-product called a dog in the mid-Victorian days when hammer and tongs ironworks turned the Cornforths briefly into a bibulous, league of nations boomtown. Whatever the etymology, reckons Andy, few in West Cornforth are in the least bit offended by the nickname. They're Doggy folk and proud of it.

The community was served by six churches: Anglican, Roman Catholic, Welsh Chapel - services in Welsh, too - Primitive Methodist, Methodist New Connexion and Salvation Army, the Army's first windowless headquarters known as the Old Glory Shop and as wick with fervour as with rats.

When West Cornforth Co-op had a similar rodent problem - boomtown rats - they hired a mongoose. It quickly paid dividends.

Now only Holy Trinity and Salvation Army remain, recently brought together for a tsunami appeal coffee morning which raised £1,177 - "an incredible result," the Rev David Garratt tells Sunday's congregation, and a probable precursor of greater co-operation between the two.

About 40 or the villages' 3,000 population are in church, the six member choir including 90-year-old Tom Robinson who - with Tony Potts and Dave Hudspeth - still sings in Trimdon Male Voice Choir, too.

Six youngsters, preparing for confirmation in the summer, are also there to make what might be called provisional vows in a three minute exercise called "Commissioning of catechumens".

Most of us might hitherto have supposed that Catechumens was a Premiership footballer, probably with Bolton Wanderers. It seemed inappropriate, at any rate, to remind them of the last Bishop of Durham's favourite joke, which was about how to stop bats coming into your church.

Confirm them, said the bishop, though the young folk of West Cornforth are doubtless less fly by night entirely.

Ecclesiastically it's Candlemas, a high day known sometimes as the Presentation, one of the hymns reflecting the upbeat mood of a sun blessed morning:

When candles are lighted on Candelmas Day

The dark is behind us and Spring's on the way.

Mr Garratt, who left parish ministry for 14 years to work for Sunderland social services, returned six months ago - officially as part time associate priest. Keith Lumbson, vicar of Ferryhill, is also priest-in-charge of West Cornforth. Word of the column's intended visit having tom-tommed down from Ferryhill, they're preparing coffee and things afterwards.

For some reason, we are irreligiously reminded of the old song about if I'd known you were coming I'd have baked a cake. "West Cornforth is being Ofstedded," Mr Lumsdon tells his flock the same morning.

Back at Holy Trinity, Mr Garratt hands out dark chocolate digestives at the start of his sermon. "Have you noticed that when you start a packet of biscuits, it's very difficult to stop?" he asks, by way of introduction to thoughts on the word "Amen". Oh aye.

The service is carefully user friendly, the congregation warmly welcoming. Pages and youthful hymn numbers are always explained.

Before the last hymn - inevitably, perhaps ineluctably, Shine Jesus Shine - Mt Lumsdon has crept in at the back of the church, taken over at the organ - given to Holy Trinity when the Primitive Methodist church closed in 1967 - and gives it the most remarkable what fettle. (Keith's a Jarrow lad; he'll understand the expression perfectly.)

Afterwards there's spring in West Cornforth's step, too. "There've been some naughty boys, but I think they're getting it sorted out," says Dave Hudspeth. "You rarely see any trouble along the street now," says Tony Potts, "the police seem to have done very well."

Andy Denholm, also assiduously researching the life history of every hero on the village war memorial, - "keeps me out of the pub" he says - is also confident of better times. "It's being turned around, a lot of good things are happening in this village, a lot of people working together and the church playing a part, too."

David Garratt says the "smashing folk" of Holy Trinity have become accustomed to battling on their own. "It's very exciting and interesting to be here, a lot of effort is being made and I'm really enjoying parish ministry again."

Church numbers are already increasing. As someone may have remarked before, every Doggy has its day.

* Sunday service at Holy Trinity is at 10.45am. The Rev David Garratt is on 0191-371 1695.