THERE have been massive changes at what used to be known simply as Motel Leeming.

The late Stanislaw Les, the Polish expatriate who founded the place in 1961 to reap the benefits of the then new Leeming bypass, would have recognised his original bit, but would probably have been taken aback at the ultimate extent of the makeover undertaken by his son, Carl.

It's been rebranded as The Lodge at Leeming Bar and the red motel neon sign, which always reminded me of Norman Bates and Psycho when seen from behind windscreen wipers on a dark night with rain lashing down, has been removed from the roof.

Where the shop was once a poky little affair sharing space with the cafe, it's now accommodated separately in a building the size of an average barn, called the Yorkshire Maid and incorporating just about everything from tourist information to toys.

One of the biggest changes, remarked on by those who haven't been there in ages, has been in the bar. The original, which survived until about four years ago, was in true sixties style, a dark red leathery look, recessed shelves trimmed in black holding bottles of exotic liqueurs that seemed to have stood guard for an eternity.

In truth, though, it had scarcely enough room for bar persons, let alone customers, to bend their elbows while working the pumps. And so the feature that could have been in a 1961 film set, or become one in its retirement, was ripped out in a huge facelift.

There are now three serving points for busy periods, plus one for bar meals, staff no longer have to scrape past each other and the area is separated from the lounge by a glazed panel and a door.

It's just a pity that the traditional deep sofas and armchairs had to go as well in favour of what might be called minimalist cane furniture, chosen to match the more modern atmosphere but hard on the back and bottom.

In most other respects, however, The Lodge remains a fixed point in a constantly shifting world for many people on Sundays. Whether it's a unique survivor as a family-owned business for many miles either side on the A1 we don't know and daren't say, but there can't be many more.

Like McDonalds, whose obtrusive shack-like building now tends to spoil the southern view from The Lodge restaurant, all the other establishments we have visited on this busy road, albeit only in passing, have been owned by chains which grab your money while not being too bothered about quality or service.

Returning to The Lodge after leading a nomadic Sunday existence for a few years, it was reassuring to find familiar faces. Stalwart managers Suzanne and Leslie were still there, dispensing menus and taking orders with smiles and friendly chat.

The ranks of regular customers I remembered had become depleted, probably through age and infirmity, but I did bump into Ernie, on whose recommendation I began visiting The Lodge on Sundays in 1989. Such was the weekly continuity that lunch there was invariably followed by reading the Sunday papers and listening to Sing Something Simple on Radio 2, or a drive out if the weather was fine.

It's now called the Market Square Restaurant, acres of room for arms and legs, turned into a fascinating art gallery through the spectacular talents of Lynne Ward, of Leyburn, already known to the D&S Times for its original coverage of her work in 2000.

Doors, windows and shop fronts which look deceptively realistic at a distance were painted on the restaurant walls by Mrs Ward in hard-wearing household emulsion to reflect periods in the history of Carl Les's family.

Businesses represented in this virtual reality world include Benedict's bakery, grocery and general store, Bruno's tailoring, Stan's hardware, Forest Lodge Motors and Walter Gee's taxis. They were the first commissions accepted from The Lodge by Mrs Ward, who has since done similar work in the remodelled foyer and cafe.

We dropped in for a Sunday lunch celebrating St George's Day 48 hours after the event and, despite the presence of a disconcertingly large church party marking the occasion, service involving preliminary drinks, menu delivery and order taking was pretty smart.

Starters included home made vegetable soup, chicken Coronation salad, egg and prawn salad and melon boat with citrus slices, but an inexplicable clash of choice on our part resulted in an identical order for deep-fried soft cheese fritters with Yorkshire sauce.

The fritters, fashioned from Old York cheese produced by Shepherd's Purse, proved a tasty treat but my companion would willingly have foregone much of the salad accompaniment, considering it an unnecessary distraction in such miniature quantities, for a bit more of the advertised sauce.

Between starters and main course The Lodge has traditionally served separate Yorkshire puddings with onion gravy, and these proved to be the real disappointment of the day. It was mutually agreed that the puddings were heavy and chewy, my companion taking one apart and likening its texture to that of a sponge cake, and I thought the gravy could have had more bite about it.

Every Sunday menu includes a vegetarian choice, but my companion chose a home-made steak and mushroom pie while, this being a celebration of our patron saint, I settled for the roast beef of old England.

By now the restaurant was buzzing, with staff ceaselessly shuttling to and from the kitchen, and we were conscious that we had arrived after the large church party.

Hard pressed staff took time to inform us courteously that there might be a delay while main courses were delivered to the crowded tables, but the wait proved shorter than expected. In some other places you just have to sit and fume, denied all such communication, while staff visibly become overwhelmed. By such a yardstick is service under fire judged.

The pie was declared a real hit, being generously filled with digestible steak under a well-baked crust. The beef slices were markedly thinner and rather blander than before, seeming to lack any real texture, but lean and easily cut. Vegetables, which included sliced potatoes in a dish alongside broccoli, carrots and courgettes, were adequate.

For dessert my companion's sherry trifle was considered dry and stiff, although the drink bearing the name could just about be tasted. My peach and almond gateau was abundant in the former, a little reticent in the latter, but acceptable.

The final coffee stage, when our cups could be refilled as often as we wanted, was disappointingly accompanied not by the promised mints but by two wrapped proprietary sweets from a selection box, one of which was left on the plate.

The memory can play tricks, but the quality of some parts of the menu did not appear to be as I remembered it and a few tweaks in the upward direction may be needed. The standard of service, however, remained undimmed. Bang on, as some breezy character at Stan's hardware store or Forest Lodge Motors might have said back in 1961.